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 Six:
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 Six

As Gúthwyn's heart mourned for the departure of her brother, Hasufel moved in front of her. Glancing up, she found herself looking into Aragorn's frowning face.

"The lies you sow are not helping your position," he said. "Why you would give a false name to Éomer is beyond me."

"Yet did you not, yourself, when you were in these very lands?" Gúthwyn retorted, mounting Heorot as she did so. She would rather speak with the Ranger from the top of a horse, rather than on foot.

He smiled grimly. "Where, might I ask, did Chalibeth come from?"

Memories of her dear friend, lying spread-eagled on the ground as the Wargs devoured her, raced through her mind. "It is none of your business," she snapped, then turned Heorot away from him.

Pushing the scent of blood and the ravenous growls of the Wargs out of her thoughts, she took a moment to glance at Legolas and Gimli. The two of them were upon Arod, the Dwarf clutching Legolas tightly by the waist and apparently afraid to look at the ground.

She nudged Heorot, and her horse moved forward to come up alongside them. "Do not worry, Gimli," she said, though her heart was not in the jest. "We will make a rider of you yet."

He did not respond, but she thought his face softened the slightest bit.

Aragorn led them to the pile of Uruks. The journey was not long, and before much time had passed the stench of burning corpses met their nostrils. Aragorn dismounted, landing next to a spear upon which the head of the captain had been stuck, and Legolas and Gimli swiftly followed. Gúthwyn lingered for a moment, as she had enjoyed the all-too brief ride. Her eyes moved over the grim outline of Fangorn Forest, symbol of the northernmost reach of Théoden's realm, and she shuddered.

At length her feet hit the ground, and holding her nose she began helping the others search for Merry and Pippin's bodies. The smell was overwhelming, and more than once she had to step away for fresh air. A familiar nauseous feeling was rising within her, and she struggled to keep it down as she pushed aside Uruk after Uruk.

Suddenly, Gimli gave a shout. From the pile he held up a blackened belt; Gúthwyn's heart stopped as she realized it to be Merry's.

"It is one of their wee belts," the Dwarf whispered, clutching it tightly. A heavy dismay fell upon the group. Legolas murmured something in Elvish.

With a great cry, Aragorn kicked at one of the helmets lying on the ground. As it flew nearly forty feet, he sank to his knees, burying his face in his hands. Gúthwyn had to clamp her hand over her mouth to keep from vomiting. Then she remembered that the same hand had touched the corpses, and nearly choked.

"We failed them." Gimli's soft voice resonated in her ears, but her eyes were focused on Aragorn. The Ranger was examining something on the ground.

"A Hobbit lay here," he muttered, "and the other."

Legolas came up behind him as he crouched on the balls of his feet, looking around more carefully. Then, to her confusion, the Man started moving on some kind of path, one that only he could see.

"They crawled. Their hands were bound."

Now Gimli had joined Legolas, and the Three Hunters were staring at the trampled grass. Gúthwyn did not see what had captured their interest, but she imagined it to be some sort of tracks.

"Their bonds were cut," Aragorn breathed. Then his hand reached out, and when he held it up, a frayed rope was clutched in his fingers.

She did not understand why the Ranger was doing this. Did he want them to relive the last moments of the Halflings' lives? Was it not enough that they had perished?

Now Aragorn stood up, and started walking away from the heap of Uruks. His eyes were sweeping the ground intently; his feet pressed into the grass as he followed the trail. "They ran over here!"

He was getting excited, though Gúthwyn knew not why. Yet she felt something in her heart shift, and soon she was jogging after them. "They were followed," Aragorn was saying. His strides were longer and faster now; she saw, with an uneasy sensation in her stomach, that he was making his way to the borders of the Fangorn Forest, which marked the end of the Riddermark.

"Aragorn," she tried to warn him, but he, Legolas, and Gimli kept going. They stopped when they reached the first few trees, peering past them into the gloominess beyond. Half fearful of what might be lurking within the woods, Gúthwyn came up behind the Hunters and glanced in. What she saw did not lighten her spirit: The dark, murky foliage; enormous trees, old and gnarled, their limbs reaching in every direction; the blackness that seemed to extend from the tenth line of trees to the ends of the world.

"We cannot abandon them now, not that there is a chance that they survived," Aragorn said, turning back to them. Legolas and Gimli nodded their heads in agreement, but a sudden misgiving came upon her.

"Aragorn," she began, "have you heard nothing of the tales of this forest? That what goes in never comes out?"

"I seem to recall Gimli uttering similar words when we entered Lothlórien," the Ranger replied evenly, "yet here we are, safe and sound."

She could say nothing to that, except: "What of the horses? Shall you lead them through this place as well?"

Aragorn shook his head. "I will send them back to Edoras," he answered. "They know where the stables lie. Théoden will be relieved to have them safely returned home."

Gúthwyn repressed the urge to protest. She did not want to part with Heorot, especially as their reunion had been so brief. But when Aragorn showed signs of waiting for her to respond, she remained silent, and at length he said, "Then it is decided."

She turned away from the forest, and went back to Heorot. Legolas and Aragorn strode after her, going to say goodbye to their own horses.

"Make for Edoras," she whispered to Heorot when she was close enough to touch him. He looked at her reproachfully. "This is not my fault," she said, running her fingers through his mane and absent-mindedly smoothing out a few tangles. "I have no power to override Aragorn's decisions."

Heorot's wet nose pushed itself into her face, and she allowed him a few playful nudges before half-heartedly moving back. "Go on," she murmured, and then turned to the others so she would not have to watch her childhood horse ride away.

They were waiting for her; Heorot had trotted off after Hasufel and Arod. She sighed, and walked towards them.

"Well, let us go," Aragorn said.

The only sound Gúthwyn could hear in the entire forest was their feet, falling with a soft thump onto the foliage. Everything else was deathly quiet, as if they were in a tomb. For nearly an hour Aragorn had been leading them, following the path of a small stream that they had found upon entering Fangorn. It was his thought that the Halflings would remain close to it, and he was right: Not too long ago, the Ranger had discovered their trail, though the marks were two days old.

As they went deeper into the forest, Gúthwyn found herself concentrating on breathing, rather than the hunt. It was an odd sensation, but the air seemed old, like that in a dusty room that has not been opened for hundreds of years. The very trees appeared to be closing in on them, increasing tenfold the feeling of suffocation. When Aragorn started up a gradually sloping hill, she felt her breath coming in short gasps. The climb itself was not taxing, yet she could hardly do it with what felt like an enormous lack of air.

Gimli also had been bothered by the atmosphere, and was not nearly as at ease in the woods than the rest of them. As she marched up the hill behind him, she saw the Dwarf stick his hand out and touch a leaf. The green was marred by a foul-looking black substance. She watched as Gimli tasted it; then he winced, spitting it right back out. "Orc blood," he muttered.

So Merry and Pippin were not the only ones who had escaped her brother's éored. Gúthwyn wondered if the Orc had caught up with the Halflings, or if they had managed to evade him. She sincerely hoped it was the latter.

"These are strange tracks," Aragorn said soon, staring intently at the ground. As usual, she could not see what he was talking about. A soft sigh escaped her. Her heart was not in this chase. It was with the éored, now miles away from them. She could hardly believe that Éomer was alive, but she had spoken with him, seen him! Her hands trembled; all these years, she had thought him dead, yet to know that he still breathed and walked upon the lands of Middle-earth sent waves of exhilaration through her.

And if Éomer had survived… she clenched her fists in excitement. That would mean that it was not so inconceivable that Éowyn had, as well. Why had she forgotten to ask him? She should have found a way to slip it into the conversation… anything was better than this tortured wondering. Hope was rising so high within her that she had to sternly remind herself that nothing had been confirmed yet.

In spite of her caution, however, she was beginning to wonder what Éowyn looked like. Éomer had been extraordinarily handsome; Gúthwyn could not picture her sister being anything less than stunningly gorgeous, much like Arwen. Though, unlike Arwen, no feelings of envy washed over her as she imagined what Éowyn had grown up to be. She knew she would pale in comparison, but if only she could see her sister she would be happy…

You do not even know if she is alive! she told herself angrily. You are likely getting your hopes up for nothing!

But was it so impossible that her sister was perfectly fine, living in Meduseld? She had thought Éomer dead; Éomer had thought her dead; both of them, however, breathed and drank and ate as anyone else in Middle-earth did.

Suddenly, Gúthwyn became aware that Aragorn had stopped, some feet ahead of her. Legolas was with him, and the two of them were conversing in hushed Elvish. Their bodies were tense. She did not have to wait long to find out why: Glancing to her left, she saw a hooded and cloaked figure striding towards them, their motions swift despite the staff they carried and the bent shape of their back.

She did not have time to panic before Legolas whispered, "The White Wizard approaches."

His bow was already in his hands, nocked and ready to be fired. Gimli was clutching the handle of his axe, shifting back and forth nervously. They were not turned away from Saruman, but neither were they facing him.

"Do not let him speak," Aragorn cautioned in a low voice, his fingers curling about the hilt of his sword. "He will put a spell on us."

Gúthwyn knew all too well the power Saruman held over them, even if he were weaponless—as she was. Frantically, she realized that her own sword was still with Aragorn; a vulnerable feeling overwhelmed her, one that she did not like at all. I will have to use my fists, she thought disbelievingly. This had to be one of the greater jests in the history of Middle-earth.

Yet there was no time to dwell on this, for Saruman had arrived. The four of them whirled around to meet him, their weapons withdrawn. Legolas shot an arrow, but no sooner had it taken flight than the White Wizard lifted up his staff. The arrow smoldered and burned, crumbling uselessly to the ground. Gúthwyn leapt forward, attempting to have more success, though she had not taken two steps before she felt an invisible barrier bar her from going any further.

All other efforts were futile. Gimli's axe was knocked to the side a second after he threw it. Aragorn had barely raised his sword when it glowed a bright red, making him cry out in pain and drop it. She saw nothing else after that, for a brilliant white light filled her eyes, so that she was nearly blinded by it.

"You are tracking the footsteps of two young Hobbits." Saruman's voice, terrible and great, entered her ears. For a moment she trembled, then frowned. There was something about him that seemed different…

"Where are they?" Aragorn yelled, moving forward slightly. His hand was still covering his eyes.

"They passed this way the day before yesterday," Saruman replied. The white light was not growing any less in its radiance. "They met someone that they did not expect. Does that comfort you?"

Now, more than ever, Gúthwyn knew that this was not the Saruman she had faced the wrath of at Isengard. She could not explain what it was, but something was off.

Aragorn seemed to have equal doubt. "Who are you?" he yelled.

Slowly, the light began to fade. As it did, Gúthwyn felt the restraint on her starting to ebb away. The four of them stared as the light died, revealing a familiar face with fiery eyes that were gazing seriously back at them…

Gandalf the Grey had risen again.