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 Eight:
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 Eight

It was night in Rohan. The five of them had taken shelter beneath a large expanse of rocks, tired and worn after a long, hard day of riding. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli had fallen asleep nearly as soon as they made camp, but Gúthwyn could not do so. Her position was such that she was facing the East, and there was an ominous red glow visible, even here, from Mordor. The sight of it chilled her.

Gandalf also remained awake; she could see him standing vigilantly over the rest of them, though his gaze was turned to the disturbances in the Black Land. She wondered what was going on there. For almost a year, she had been away from it—almost a year that Hammel and Haiweth had been on their own. Soon, they would perish, unless the Valar themselves intervened.

Her calmness at the revelation of such thoughts did not mean that she no longer cared for them. But even if she had wanted to, she could not cry: Crying was weak, and pathetic. Instead, she wrapped the despair around her like another cloak, though it was more like a noose. Every day, it grew tighter and tighter.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aragorn stirring from his pallet. Upon seeing Gandalf, he got to his feet and made his way over to the wizard. He did not notice that Gúthwyn was awake, for she had been lying down, and the scarves made it near impossible to tell whether her eyes were closed or not.

The two of them began speaking lowly, although she could hear every word of it. "Sauron fears you, Aragorn," Gandalf was saying. "He fears what you may become."

Aragorn was silent, and Gúthwyn did not understand how even the heir of Isildur could be cause of worry for the Dark Lord. Especially this Ranger, who was currently riding across the plains to Edoras, which was far from the reach of Mordor.

"He will use his puppet Saruman to destroy Rohan," Gandalf continued, and Gúthwyn felt her heart stop. "War is coming. Rohan must defend itself, and therein lies our first challenge, for Rohan is weak and ready to fall."

Her breaths were coming less evenly now. Ready to fall… What had happened in the seven years since she had left? Rohan had been strong, with only the occasional border attack to trouble them. The ambush that left her, Éowyn, and Éomer without parents had been the worst that the Riddermark had seen for many years. But now, Gandalf and Éomer spoke of Théoden's mind being swayed by Saruman; the wizard said that her beloved land was going to fall prey to the manipulations of Isengard's ruler.

So troubled were her thoughts that she only caught the last end of what Gandalf was telling Aragorn. "Frodo must finish this task alone."

She tensed ever so slightly, knowing that with him had gone her last chance of saving Hammel and Haiweth.

"He is not alone," Aragorn replied. "Sam went with him."

Gandalf seemed pleased. "Did he?" he asked. "Did he indeed? Good. Yes, very good."

She could see why the wizard was happy. Sam had always attended to Frodo, but their relationship was more than just a servant's to his master. The instincts of Sam were extraordinarily correct at times, and she knew it would most likely save the Ringbearer on several occasions.

"Gandalf," Aragorn muttered then, taking her out of her musings. "You have not said anything about Gúthwyn—from what I told you, have I done the right thing in keeping her alive?"

The wizard glanced at her quickly, then looked back at Aragorn. "You have said only that she was a servant of the Enemy, and that she was sent to take the Ring from Frodo. Yet now it is far beyond her reach. She will never get it, and it would be foolish to try. She knows this as well as you and I do."

Gúthwyn did not want to admit it, but his words stung at her more than the lash of a whip. They had struck at her with the cruel reality of what she had been trying to deny herself ever since she left Amon Hen.

"So you think she does not need to be killed?"

"No harm to the Quest will come from her," Gandalf replied. "She can remain alive. If you wish to question her more, then by all means do so."

Aragorn fell silent, withdrawing his pipe from his cloak. He began to smoke it, and soon Gúthwyn could see grey plumes of rising air about him.

"Though it seems to me," Gandalf said, "that you have asked her all that needs to be asked, and that she has answered all that needs to be answered."

"Perhaps," Aragorn murmured around the corner of his pipe. "Perhaps not. I suspect more about her will be revealed when we go to Edoras—Boromir said she was from there."

"Was she really?" Even in the semi-darkness, she saw his eyes widen. "Who was her family?"

Aragorn shrugged. "I have wondered that, myself, but she seems loth to speak of them."

"Maybe." The wizard then turned to where she lay. A sudden sinking feeling overturned her stomach. "Gúthwyn, come here."

She could do nothing else, and pretending to be asleep once more would get her nowhere. As she got up, she saw Aragorn's shoulders tense. He certainly had not known that she was listening in on their conversation.

"Tell me, Gúthwyn, how long have you been awake?" Gandalf asked her, though not unkindly, as she approached.

She folded her arms tightly. "I have not fallen asleep," she answered stiffly.

Aragorn's eyes narrowed. "Then, as you no doubt heard," he said bluntly, "we have been discussing your fate."

Her eyes traveled, just once, to her sword—it was still on the Ranger's belt. "You do not recall, then, my earlier words to you?"

He gave a grim laugh. "My slave or servant you are not, yet it is I who can take or give your life as I will."

"Peace, both of you," Gandalf said, and they were quelled. "So, Gúthwyn, is it true that you are from Edoras?"

"Yes," she replied, tensing. If the wizard was going to question her…

"Do you have family there?"

For a long moment, she looked at him. Unbidden, images of Éowyn and Éomer rose to her mind. She did not want to be pressed for answers that were too costly to give.

"In graves," she said at length, her voice terse and short.

Aragorn turned to her, and she saw that he regretted his harsh words from earlier. "I am sorry," he said.

Gúthwyn shrugged, unable to speak around the lump in her throat. In truth, when she had spoken, she had not been thinking of those in Rohan, but those in Mordor: Hammel, Haiweth, and Borogor. Her hands trembled as she remembered his arms around her… his face, leaning in close to whisper reassuringly that everything was going to be fine…

As her suddenly tear-filled eyes met Aragorn and Gandalf's, she could not stand it anymore. She turned and walked away.

"We are nearing Edoras!" Gandalf called, twisting slightly on Shadowfax to look back at them. Gúthwyn's fists clenched slightly as Heorot's hooves pounded over the plains, just behind the white horse. Early in the morning, Aragorn had awoken them, and they had started on the next leg of the journey. The day was nearly half gone, and she was beginning to recognize their surroundings. Wide expanses of fields, well trodden upon by countless horses… Majestic mountains rising in the distance…

Butterflies had taken up permanent residence in her stomach. She was constantly quivering in anticipation, despite the fact that if anyone figured out who she was, she would be brought immediately before Théoden. These concerns were tossed to the side as she wondered whether Éowyn was alive—if only she had thought to ask her brother! She hardly dared to hope that her sister lived, but if Éomer was well…

And then there was Théodred. She could be sure of a warm welcome from him, at least: Had he not taught her all the defense skills she knew? Was it not under his tutelage that she learned how to defeat the boys in wrestling matches fought on the dirt streets of Edoras? He would certainly not turn her away; she was sure of it. Curiosity wove its way into her thoughts. He was forty-one years old by now. Did he have a wife? Children?

Then Éowyn was almost twenty-four… Had she married? Before Gúthwyn had been taken, her sister never expressed any interest in men beyond their prowess on the training fields, but perhaps that had all changed. It made her wonder just how much she had missed, while she had been toiling away in Isengard and Mordor. She would find out for sure when they arrived at Edoras, but for now her mind was being tormented by the endless questions.

The sun was directly overhead when the four horses began to climb a long, sloping hill. Gúthwyn knew what lay beyond this feature. "Faster!" she urged Heorot on. He complied, the sight of the mountains instilling a wild joy in him. And then, before she had time to catch her bearings, before she had time to prepare herself for the return home, they had crested the hill, and Edoras lay in front of her.

Abruptly, she stopped, pulling on the reins. Gandalf and the others halted around her as she stared in awe at the city she had lived in almost her entire childhood. On the outside, it had not changed. The multiple wooden buildings were still there, resisting the fierce wind that constantly blew; at the top of the large hill was Meduseld. Her heart leaped as her gaze fell upon the gold-thatched roof, traveling down the massive wooden structure to where she knew guards were ceaselessly patrolling.

"Edoras," Gandalf said, his expression troubled, "and the Golden Hall Meduseld. There dwells Théoden, King of Rohan, whose mind is overthrown."

Her happy moment ended, Gúthwyn turned to the wizard. "What is wrong with him?" she demanded, a harsher tone entering her voice than even she expected.

"Saruman's hold over King Théoden is now very strong," Gandalf replied, not answering her question at all. But Aragorn was watching her closely, and so she said nothing. "Be careful what you say," the wizard cautioned them. "Do not look for welcome here."

With that, he nudged Shadowfax, and they were off again. As they drew nearer to Edoras, Gúthwyn began to realize that something was wrong. Not a sound could she hear, though normally the air was full of warriors practicing, the village people mingling on the streets, or the neighing of horses. Instead, an unnatural quiet hung over the place, as though the very mice were afraid to make a sound.

As they came upon the gates, even more misgivings entered her heart. The wooden barriers were thrown wide open, without any guards at their usual posts. What is going on? she wondered in bewilderment. It was like the city was welcoming invaders with open arms.

Gandalf was riding through the gate when she saw, out of the corner of her eye, something dark coming towards them. Aragorn and Legolas glanced up also, and they watched as a green piece of fabric floated on a breeze to the ground, landing in a crumpled heap upon the grass. Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat as she realized that it was a flag: The emblem of the Rohirrim, a galloping horse, was painted in white and gold on it.

She slowed Heorot to a stop, and dismounted. Without a word she went forward, picking up the banner and dusting it off. For reasons she could not explain, she felt as though she would cry at any moment. Tenderly she folded the flag, keeping it in her arms as she mounted again. Taking a deep breath, she rode in through the gates, her return home unheralded and unnoticed.

By all except two. Legolas had stopped Arod, waiting for her. He and Gimli watched as she rode into the city, their eyes flicking onto the banner and then back to her.

"Are you alright?" Legolas asked softly, when she had neared them.

Gúthwyn could not respond, and looked away.

The climb uphill to Meduseld was in more ways torturous than much of what Haldor had put her through. At least she had gotten used to him taking her to his bed every week; even the cold blade of his knife was familiar. But as they passed silent houses, she felt as though each sight was driving a spear farther into her heart. There were people outside, robed in dark garments, observing the strangers' passage silently, their faces grim and worn. A few narrowed their eyes as they passed; the atmosphere was hostile, and nothing like what she had been rejoicing to come back to.

Ahead of her, she saw Aragorn look up at Meduseld. She followed his gaze, and for a moment she could see no living soul on the broad landing above the stairs. Then she blinked, and her eyes focused on a slender figure, clad in a pure white gown. Golden hair tumbled about the woman's shoulders as she stared down at them; then, she turned and disappeared into the Golden Hall.

Gúthwyn's heart froze. Could it be—had she just seen—? Ilúvatar, she prayed, tilting her head up to the heavens, do not cruelly taunt me with images of my sister, if it is not she whom I look upon.

Her mind was reeling as they arrived at the steps leading into Meduseld. Numbly, she dismounted from Heorot, patting the horse absent-mindedly as she took several steadying breaths. Hastily, she checked to make sure that her scarves were firmly wrapped around her face. Then, under the curious glance of Legolas, she pulled the hood of Chalibeth's cloak firmly over her.

At a nod from Gandalf, the five of them began ascending the stairs. Gúthwyn looked back once, and saw a small group of men arriving to lead the horses away. They worked in utter silence, not even sighing or murmuring to the animals. A grim-faced man took the banner from Heorot's saddle, touching the fabric carefully before looking away. Once again, trepidation washed over her.

She turned back to face the doors of the Golden Hall. Every nerve in her body was screaming, jumping up and down and positively quivering in both excitement and anxiety. It was almost impossible to believe that, after over seven years, she had returned. She was home, she was in Rohan, and she was about to enter Meduseld. Part of her longed to cast the scarves and cloak away, to announce to all the people that she was not really dead, but she knew it could never be.

They had barely reached the landing when the doors burst open, and a small host of the royal guards strode out. Gúthwyn's eyes widened as she immediately recognized Háma, the only one of them who was not wearing a helmet. His red hair spilled out over his armor, the only vibrant thing in the vicinity. At the moment, his eyes were cautious as they swept over all of them, stopping at last on Gandalf.

"I cannot allow you before Théoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame," he said, a sigh entering his voice. For a moment he paused, and a terse expression crossed his face. "By order of… Gríma Wormtongue."

Gúthwyn could have slapped herself. How could she have forgotten? Chalibeth's words to her, years ago, echoed in her head. "That man, that so-called 'councilor,'" her friend seethed, fists clenched and trembling with fury, "is a monster and a foul—"

She had never finished the sentence, but in later years, Gúthwyn had come to understand why her friend could never speak of the Serpent. Her own hands curled into fists as she remembered Chalibeth's sobs as she recounted the tale, starting with her cleaning Saruman's office alone, and ending with her beneath Wormtongue's body, her pants in a heap on the floor.

Yet long before Chalibeth had trusted her enough to tell the story, Gúthwyn had realized that Gríma was the councilor of whom her friend spoke. Back then the revelation had troubled her, but as the years went on she had forgotten about it.

"That means you, as well." Háma's sharp voice echoed in her ears, jolting her out of her thoughts.

"I am sorry," she apologized, and then took her dagger from her belt and handed it to him. He looked askance at it.

"Your other weapons," he said, glaring at her distrustfully. She supposed her masked face did not help matters.

Pointing at Aragorn, who was just then giving another guard her sword, she replied, "He has that which I have not given you. This knife is all I have on me."

"Who are you?" he asked, his tone harsh and abrasive. "You come here dressed as a servant of the Enemy, and despite what others think, we do not allow them into our land, if it is in our power to prevent them."

When Gúthwyn responded, she was careful to eject a more feminine lilt to her voice. "I am Chalibeth of Gondor, my lord. I would no sooner serve the Enemy than die."

The lie was bold, especially as Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli looked at her with narrowed eyes, but Háma did not see them. His suspicious expression, however, did not change; rather, it increased as he turned to Gandalf.

"Your staff," he said.

"Oh, no," Gandalf replied, leaning on it as though weary. "You would not part an old man from his walking stick."

Háma sighed, but did not argue. Nodding slightly, he turned to lead them into the hall. Out of the corner of her eye, Gúthwyn saw the wizard give Aragorn the tiniest, briefest of winks.

Before they had entered Meduseld, Háma stopped, and gave a short bow. With that, he stood aside, allowing them to go forward. As the dark interior of the Golden Hall surrounded her, Gúthwyn knew immediately that something was very, very wrong in the Riddermark.