The Rohan Pride Trilogy
Part Two: Reunions
Book One
By: WhiteLadyOfTroy
Summary:
Gúthwyn's mission has failed. Now that she is traveling with Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli to find the Hobbits, she finds herself being confronted with her past, as well as some painful experiences in the present.
About the Trilogy:
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. Reunions will be divided into two books.
About Chapter Five:
As always, I will be using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Just an advance warning: Lately, my chapters have been bouncing back and forth between extremely long or rather short.
Chapter Five
Tilting her head back, Gúthwyn drew in a deep breath of air. It filled her lungs, pushing away the ashes of Mordor. The sunlight played upon her eyelids, and a wonderful breeze ruffled the hem of her cloak. Before her the lands of her people lay, and such a feeling of bliss was running through her that she could scarcely contain it.
"There is something strange at work here," Aragorn said. Try as she might to ignore his voice, it still entered her ears. "Some evil gives speed to these creatures… sets its will against us."
There is no evil here, she thought, wanted so desperately to believe herself. It was Rohan, where no one had ever sought to do her harm, where she had been embraced by the people from the day of her birth. Yet even now her haven was no longer safe. Théoden still ruled. Éowyn and Éomer were dead. Théodred… who could say what had happened to him? If he knew she was in Rohan, he would not turn her away, not he who had taught her so much.
"Legolas!" Aragorn suddenly called, and she opened her eyes in resignation. The Elf had clambered to the foot of the wall. "What do your Elf eyes see?"
"The Uruks turn northeast!" Legolas shouted, gazing at the distant horizon. Gúthwyn squinted, but saw nothing. "They are taking the Hobbits to Isengard!"
Gúthwyn felt her heart clench. Though they had long suspected it, it was a grievous blow. After Saruman had tortured them for information, she wondered, would he enslave Merry and Pippin? Or would he feed them to the Wargs? No, she told herself firmly as nausea began to encroach upon the wild exultation that had been hers a moment ago. Do not think of such things.
Shaking her head, she glanced over to Aragorn. How was the Ranger taking the news?
"Saruman," he merely muttered, frowning at the west.
Gúthwyn began following Legolas down towards the open plains, Aragorn's worried tone no longer enough to quell the joyous sensation rising within her. All that she could think of right now was touching the grass, feeling its soft texture beneath her fingers, inhaling the scent of horses and warm summer days.
Her feet at last found purchase on the firm fields, landing some five yards away from Legolas. Even the Elf's presence could not deter her. "Home," she breathed softly to herself.
The cloak and scarves she had worn for so long suddenly felt too cumbersome. Without a second thought she removed them, casting the unwanted garments and her pack in a heap on the rocks. Spreading her arms wide open, she took several steps forward and then turned in a slow circle. Above her, the sky was a gorgeous blue, with not a cloud to obscure it.
"Gúthwyn!" she heard Aragorn calling; it seemed as if he was miles away. Ignoring him, she sank to the ground, lying flat on her back in the grass.
She had lain there for a minute, just breathing and rejoicing in her return, when she felt someone tap her hand.
"Gúthwyn, we must hurry."
It was Legolas. Wrenching her hand away and feeling it burn from his touch, she opened her eyes, feeling the smile slide from her face as she did so.
"Of course," she replied, her eyes cast downwards, inching away from him. Why had he been the one to bring her back?
There was no answer. When she finally dared to look up, he was staring at the Eye of Sauron branded onto her wrist, unable to conceal his disgust. Gúthwyn pulled her glove, which had slipped, back over it and stood up, her good mood evaporating instantly.
"I am sorry," Legolas apologized, getting to his feet as well. "I should not have stared—"
"Leave me alone," she cut him off shortly. For some reason, a hard lump was forming in her throat.
Storming over to where she had thrown her belongings, past Aragorn and Gimli, she picked the items up one by one. Within a minute, she had finished adorning herself. The sunny fields of Rohan darkened, but Haldor's face became clearer.
"We must move on," Aragorn said as she shouldered Borogor's pack. "Every second brings the Halflings closer to Isengard."
And so they began again. As the plains flew past them, Gúthwyn's mood steadily turned darker. She could not remove the sight of Legolas' repulsion as he looked upon her. She felt as dirty as a whore.
You are a whore, Haldor's voice echoed inside her head, and everything was brown as she begged him…
I know! she thought despairingly, cringing as she remembered her hands sliding down his back to the top of his leggings. A mighty urge to vomit swelled within her.
Aragorn kept them running all day and well into the night. Gúthwyn ran harder than she ever had in her life, propelled by a powerful combination of self-loathing and the knowledge that she traversed the lands of her people, her country. She was pulled back and forth between hatred and gleeful delight so much that she felt as if she would be torn in two from the strain.
What is wrong with me? she wondered as the night deepened. The only sounds she could hear were the constant falling of feet and the heavy breathing of the others. She was able to see naught but the stars and the silhouette of Legolas, black and threatening against the sky.
Slowly but surely, the sun dawned on the fourth day of their journey. Gúthwyn realized that, if she were to escape from the Three Hunters, she would be over a week behind Frodo and Sam. A week closer to Hammel and Haiweth's deaths, she thought, her heart twisting at the image of their bodies lying, broken, upon the ground. As if to augment her fears, the sky was stained a deep red. I swore to protect them and I have all but failed. The situation seemed so hopeless that she could have collapsed and wept. But Haldor was pressing her shoulders to the floor, so close that he could devour her, commanding her never to cry in his presence. Her eyes remained dry.
"A red sun rises," Haldor said from but a few yards away. Gúthwyn stopped in horror, and then shook her head. It was Legolas standing still, raising his head to the heavens above. "Blood as been spilt this night," he continued simply, speaking not to her, but to himself, sounding preoccupied.
A sudden chill wrapped itself her as the Elf began running once more. She followed suit, but could not stop wondering at his words. Whose blood had been spilt? The Uruks'? The Hobbits'? Or—her heart clenched—Hammel and Haiweth's?
No, she told herself firmly, fighting back a growing headache. The Dark Lord could not have found out so quickly.
The sun was high in the vast blue expanse before they stopped again. When they did, standing nigh to the crest of yet another slope, Gúthwyn was shocked to hear the thundering of hooves. So clear were they that she was at a loss as to how she had not heard them earlier. But one thing was certain: They were coming straight towards the four beings, standing in plain sight upon the hill.
No! Gúthwyn thought in a panic. Reaching up, she pulled the hood of her cloak down over her head, as far as she could do so and still retain her vision. Aragorn was swift on the uptake as well. Beckoning for the others to follow, he darted behind a large, nearby boulder. Legolas and Gimli went after him, though Gúthwyn lingered a second before moving. Her heart was beating as erratically as the multitude of the horses' hooves pounding against the earth. Surely, this could not be anything other than an éored…
She was right. As the mounted company gained the top of the hill and began sweeping down it, she could make out the golden hair spilling from underneath the riders' helmets. She did not recognize their leader, but she noted the skill with which he maneuvered his ebony steed; she thought he might even be a Marshal.
Astonishingly, none of the Rohirrim marked the presence of two Humans, an Elf, and a Dwarf. Almost to her disappointment, they rode right past them, seemingly having no glance to spare in their direction. It was as if they were invisible. Gúthwyn saw them thunder by, a sinking feeling in her stomach. She would have given anything to be in the company of her own people again, even if it was in disguise.
The last of the Riders were galloping past when Aragorn stood up. Leaving the others crouched behind him, he strode back out into the opening. With a clear, ringing voice he cried:
"Riders of Rohan! What news of the Mark?"
In a flash, Gúthwyn had leapt up and appeared at the Ranger's side. He looked at her, but said nothing. With a sense of rising excitement, she watched as the leader extended his right arm. He bore a black lance; this he pointed to his left, signaling for the others to turn. They did so, checking their horses and wheeling about with an astonishing display of skill.
Legolas and Gimli joined her and Aragorn as the Riders, swift as lightning, rode back to them. Soon Gúthwyn's nostrils were filled with the scent of horses—the éored was circling around her and the Three Hunters. Before long, they had formed a tight ring about them, from which none could escape. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli drew closer together, glancing back and forth from one hard face to the next, but Gúthwyn felt more at home than she had been in years.
The leader moved his horse just inside the circle, clutching his lance and looking at them suspiciously. Most of his face was covered by a helmet, which had a long metal plate in the shape of a horse protecting his nose, but she could see two dark narrowed eyes.
"What business does two Humans, an Elf, and a Dwarf have in the Riddermark?" he demanded. Gúthwyn thought his voice sounded familiar… too familiar. "Speak quickly!"
"Give me your name, Horse Master," Gimli said, planting his axe on the ground and settling into a solid stance, "and I shall give you mine."
There was a long pause, in which the Riders around them muttered angrily. At length the leader dismounted from his horse and started towards Gimli. As he did so, Gúthwyn observed his solid frame, the way he moved; but it could not be, it was not possible…
"I would cut off your head, Dwarf," he spat, and Gúthwyn's gaze moved from him to the horse. She knew it as well as she knew her own: Firefoot, the very steed that Éomer had ridden. Her breath caught in her throat. "If it stood but a little higher from the ground."
His voice sounded as though it came from far away, but then she was abruptly pulled from her thoughts as Legolas withdrew his bow. Before anyone had time to act against him, he had aimed it at the leader. "You would die before your stroke fell," he threatened.
Instantaneously, the ring about them tightened. The Riders held their spears, pointing them at Legolas and drawing closer. Yet Gúthwyn's eyes were not on them. They were on the leader, who had to be…
Her hand clamped down on Legolas' arm, forcing the bow downwards. "If you harm him, I shall kill you," she snarled, her furious face shooting daggers at his own. "Learn to be less eager with your bow!"
Legolas stared at her in shock, but she could care less. Her gaze now turned to the leader, who was looking at her with a mixture of surprise, confusion, and gratitude. Who had grown up with her for the first twelve years of her life…
"Who are you?" Éomer asked her.
She could not speak. She could barely breathe. He was supposed to be dead! The hunter's poisoned arrow had pierced him in the chest—she had seen him fall to the ground!
"I-I…" she stammered, unable to think. Her entire body was trembling.
Aragorn cast her a strange look. "Her name is—"
"My name is Chalibeth," she interrupted suddenly. A cold sense of resignation drew over her as she realized that she could never tell Éomer what she had done in Mordor, what she had allowed to be done to her. He would think her a whore; she would not be able to bear his shame and ridicule. And therefore, she could not even reveal herself to him.
"Where are you from?" Éomer's voice yanked her from her tortured thoughts.
She took a deep breath to compose herself, in which she hastily concocted a lie. Aragorn was glancing at her with narrowed eyes, but he had not said anything; Legolas and Gimli were following his example.
"I was born and raised in the Mark," she told her brother, "until the age of ten, when my parents took me and my siblings to Gondor."
Éomer's eyes were trying to see through the folds of her cloak and the scarves she had wrapped about herself, but she could see him being foiled time and again. "Whereabouts in Rohan?" he asked.
Another lie. "From the East Emnet, my lord," she replied. Hammel and Haiweth had been from that region.
"Chalibeth is not a name from Rohan," Éomer said bluntly, slipping into the tongue of the Riddermark. Gúthwyn knew she was being tested.
"My mother was from Gondor," she answered, speaking the Rohirric language fluently.
All around her, the Riders were listening intently as Éomer continued his interrogation. "Do I know you?" he inquired curiously, his eyebrows knitting in puzzlement. He had not yet reverted to the Common Tongue. "You cloak yourself in black, as I have only seen servants of the Enemy do; yet you speak our language effortlessly, and, in spite of being from the East Emnet, where I barely know the women and children, you seem familiar. Have we met before?"
"No, my lord," she lied, her heart racing. More than anything she longed to reach out and wrap her arms around him, but she knew she could not. Her tales were costing her every bit of self-restraint she had, though the consequences would be dire if she strayed from them.
Éomer frowned. "And who might your companions be?"
To this, Aragorn replied in the Common Tongue, "I am Aragorn, son Arathorn; this is Gimli, son of Glóin; and Legolas of the Woodland Realm."
There was even more muttering at this, and Gúthwyn gaped at the Ranger in complete shock. How did he know the Rohirric language?
"You have traveled in our country before?" Éomer demanded to know, turning his harsh gaze on the Man.
Aragorn nodded. "Aye," he said. "Indeed, it was I who rode with Thengel, from whom was sprung King Théoden, under the name of Thorongil."
Éomer's eyes widened, and Gúthwyn felt her mouth drop open. "You were Thorongil?" she asked.
She remembered the stories her uncle used to tell her about the mysterious fighter, who had spent some time in Rohan helping with the border wars. He had won much renown for his prowess and bravery, but when there was peace again, he had disappeared—some said to Gondor, others said to strange Elven countries. No one had known anything about him beyond his name.
"I was Thorongil," Aragorn confirmed, "though my real name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and you need not doubt that. Nor have I given you false names of my companions. We are friends of Rohan, and of Théoden your king."
Éomer's eyes grew darker. "Théoden no longer recognizes friend from foe," he said, and the Riders about them stirred. Éomer removed his helmet; the rest of the éored lifted their spears. "Not even his own kin."
Gúthwyn's gaze was fixed on him. Her brother had certainly grown to manhood well. She could tell that beneath the armor, his body was muscular and well toned from countless hours of practice and training. With his fine hair, handsome face, and status as the second heir to the king, she could only imagine the relentlessness by which he was pursued by the women. Then she wondered if he had already found someone to marry… He was twenty-eight at this point, and it was more than likely.
Yet there was something she had to know. "My lord," she began, and Éomer's eyes flicked over her. "In Gondor, the news I received of Rohan was faint and often jumbled, as I am keenly aware of now. For I thought that you had perished, nearly eight years ago, from an arrow wound."
His eyes flashed. "Do not speak to me of that day!" he cried. Around him, the Riders and their horses shifted uncomfortably. "For that was when my sister was taken captive from my family, and I cruelly survived in her stead."
"I-I am sorry, my lord," she stammered, inclining her head. "I had no idea. Forgive me."
Éomer looked at her, his body tense. "You would do well to not spread your limited knowledge. My sister was loved by the people, and you will not win any loyalty by bringing back memories of that day."
"I am sorry," Gúthwyn said again, her face flushing beneath the scarves. She could feel the eyes of everyone on her, and realized that in her eagerness to speak with her brother, she had overstepped her bounds.
"Perhaps she is still alive." Legolas spoke quietly, and his words were not meant to instill false hope. "If she is as strong-willed as the rest of your people, I do not doubt it."
Éomer sighed. "It is thought that she was taken to Isengard," he replied. "She may have survived the journey, but I fear she no longer walks this earth. Saruman will have seen to that."
His voice was growing angrier as he spoke, and she could see his hand curling tighter about his lance. When he next spoke, his words were bitter and tainted with years of hatred. "Saruman has poisoned the mind of the King and claimed lordship over his lands. My company are those loyal to Rohan, and for that, we are banished."
Gúthwyn felt her heart stop. Banished? Only criminals were exiled from the Mark—how could the King send his own nephew away? Her blood boiled in fury. First he had allowed her to be brought to Isengard, now he had kicked Éomer out of the land of his birth. What of Éowyn? Had she, too, conquered the arrow wound? What had her fate been?
Éomer was speaking once more, and she tried to focus her mind on his words. If her brother was, indeed, leaving Rohan, she had to savor these last moments with him. She tried to ignore the lump forming in her throat.
"The White Wizard is cunning," Éomer spat, looking back and forth between the four of them. "He walks here and there, they say, as an old man, hooded and cloaked; and everywhere his spies slip past our nets."
He sent a fierce glare to Legolas, who met the stare evenly.
"We are no spies," Aragorn said, a stern tint to his voice. "We track a party of Uruk-hai westward across the plain. They have taken two of our friends captive."
"The Uruks are destroyed," Éomer replied. "We slaughtered them during the night."
For a moment, all was silent. Gúthwyn's eyes darted amongst the Riders. With a sinking heart, she saw that none had any Halflings with them.
"But there were two Hobbits," Gimli protested, looking crestfallen. "Did you see two Hobbits?"
"They would be small," Aragorn explained. "Only children to your eyes."
Éomer's face was somber. "We left none alive," he said. "We piled the carcasses"—he gestured off in the distance, and peering between the horses' legs Gúthwyn could see a great column of rising smoke—"and burned them."
Gimli's entire body slumped. "Dead?" the Dwarf whispered.
Éomer nodded. "I am sorry."
Legolas put a comforting hand on Gimli's shoulder, but Gúthwyn wrapped her arms around her stomach and stared at the smoke. Her heart was pained at the thought of the poor Hobbits, meeting a terrible end alongside the Uruk-hai. They had not wanted any of this; a cruel fate, indeed, to be slain far from home and as one of the Enemy. Mistakenly, nonetheless.
Her brother looked at them again, as if mentally judging them. Then he straightened, put two fingers in his mouth, and gave a piercing whistle. "Hasufel! Arod! Heorot!" he called.
Three horses came forward. Gúthwyn's mouth opened as she saw her own, looking perfectly healthy, if a little on the thin side. He trotted immediately towards her.
"May these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters," Éomer said, then watched as Heorot licked Gúthwyn's face. She smiled, reaching up to stroke his mane, inhaling his scent and suddenly feeling much better than before.
"Good boy," she breathed. He whinnied happily.
"Take care of him," Éomer said, and she turned to her brother. A saddened expression was on his face, one that laid a mighty blow to her heart. "He was my sister's horse."
Gúthwyn nodded. Now, more than ever, she wished she could remove her scarves and tell him that she was alive—if only to reunite with him before he left Rohan forever. "I will," she promised instead, her spirit deflating. Beside her, Aragorn was taking the reins of dark-colored Hasufel, while Legolas was preparing to mount the pure white Arod.
Éomer gazed at her for a long time. "Farewell," he said at last. Something in his face hardened as he turned away; mounting Firefoot, he sat upon the saddle and glanced down at them. "Look for your friends, but do not trust to hope," he cautioned them, donning his helmet. "It has forsaken these lands."
Gúthwyn felt a twinge of foreboding as her brother lifted his lance. "Wait!" she called out, desperate to see his face one last time.
He glanced down at her. "Good luck," she said, swallowing that which she had longed to speak. Instead, her mind memorized every inch of his face; from the dark, narrowed eyes to the curve of his chin, to the way his lips pressed together when he was angered.
"Thank you," Éomer replied, and looked at her for nearly a minute before turning back to his men. "We ride north!" he yelled.
The Riders' horses kicked up a storm of dust clouds as they followed Éomer's dark steed, yet Gúthwyn did not move an inch as she watched her brother ride away. For a glorious moment, he had been with her. But now he was gone, never to return—all because of Théoden.
She bowed her head as the last of the éored disappeared behind a hill.