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 Ten:
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 Ten

She awoke mere seconds later to find Legolas' arms keeping her from the ground, the blackness just beginning to recede from her vision. Abruptly she pulled away from him, cringing as his hands brushed against hers.

"Are you alright?" he asked her curiously, his deep blue eyes fixing her covered ones.

Gúthwyn took a deep, steadying breath, then glanced over at Théoden. His face was now calmer, though she could see a deep sorrow underlining it. He had not noticed her brief spell of dizziness; no one had, except for Aragorn, who was watching her with narrowed eyes.

Théodred… she thought, and the familiar painful lump rose in her throat, accompanied by a sudden blur in her vision. But she could not show weakness—weakness only led to questions, and she was not ready to answer them.

Steeling herself to forget the countless hours her cousin had spent training her, and the way his eyes sparkled when he laughed, she took another step away from Legolas. "Yes," she muttered in response, turning to look at him. "I-I just lost my b-balance for a moment."

He clearly did not believe her, but neither did he press the issue, and for that she was grateful. It was hard enough to now see Théoden demanding to see his son; Éowyn, taking him by the arm and leading him up the stairs; the guards, silently parting to let them pass, their gazes troubled and saddened.

Gúthwyn turned to where the burial mounds were, whitened from the patches of simbelmynë that had decorated them for years unnumbered. Her cousin would soon be lying beneath a hill in a dark tomb, his armor and sword to rust and his body to decay. Tears angrily threatened to spill over, and she wiped them away, but just as swiftly they returned.

"Are you sure?" Legolas asked her then, sounding concerned. She looked up at him, trying to decipher the expression on his face: Was he inwardly mocking her? Yet there was nothing beyond pity, and that she could not stand.

"I am fine," she choked out, and then knew that she had to get away from him. "E-Excuse me."

Walking around him, she went down the steps, encountering Aragorn on his way up. "Where are you going?" he questioned, stepping in her path before she had a chance to go any farther.

"Stables," she said, fighting valiantly against the tears.

He stood aside, but she did not think it was her explanation that had made him move.

The crowds of people were beginning to disperse, going back to their homes with bowed heads and bent shoulders. Gúthwyn went past them all, heading for the stables as she had said she would. No one would be there, not with the recent events. She needed somewhere to be alone, somewhere she could find comfort.

At length, she pushed open the doors of the stables, taking a deep breath and trying to calm herself. Her eyes quickly scanned from wall to wall; the place was empty, except for the horses. Heorot was in the stall closest to her, and at the sight of him she felt the knot in her chest unloosen slightly. "Hello, my friend," she murmured, opening the door and stepping in beside him.

He looked at her, sniffing eagerly for food, but she had not brought anything. "I am sorry," she said, lightly stroking his mane. "Next time, I will have something for you."

The horse nuzzled her face in forgiveness, and at his touch she felt the sadness rising up to overwhelm her again. "Théodred is dead," she whispered, shaking. "I thought… I-I thought he would have a w-wife a-and children…"

Leaning against the wall, she buried her face in her hands. "He was supposed to be alive!" she cried, her shoulders heaving up and down. No tears fell from her eyes, but they were dangerously close to doing so.

How long she stayed there, she did not know. Before much time had passed she had slid to the ground, managing to find a clean patch of hay to huddle on. Heorot watched her curiously as she wrapped her arms around her legs, curling into a tight ball and resting her head on her knees. At least ten minutes went by that way, with her dull eyes watching the casual swishing of Heorot's tail, her mind too numb to think of Théodred's lifeless body.

At length, she gradually stood, stretching and gazing around her. Grief still hung heavily on her, but now her attentions were turned to the far end of the stables. There, Shadowfax stood, tossing his mane restlessly. His white coat gleamed against the dark walls, glistening as though recently attended to. She could see his eyes focusing on her, clearly trying to determine if she were a threat or not.

Curiosity got the better of her. She left Heorot's stall, approaching Shadowfax's much larger one with some trepidation. He intrigued her: She had never seen a horse of his like before, and when Théoden had owned him he had not permitted her to go near him. Now, she drew closer to the stall, only somewhat emboldened when he did not start whinnying in displeasure. As she cautiously stepped inside, he stared at her haughtily, yet remained in place.

"Shadowfax," she said quietly, hovering near the gate. His startlingly unblinking eyes never left hers, but she did not think they distrusted her.

Gúthwyn took a small step forward, then another tentative one when he did not move. She was quiet, for somehow she did not think the proud Mearh would take well to the phrase 'good boy.' Shadowfax was silent as well, but she saw his eyes narrowing as she came within a few feet of him.

Her hand was slowly reaching out to touch his white coat when she heard the stable doors opening. Carefully, she lowered her hand, then turned around to see whom it was. Her heart froze: It was Legolas.

He was staring at her in surprise. "What are you doing?" he asked. In the dead quiet that hung between them, she could hear a fly buzzing around one of the horses.

"Nothing," she said at last, and exited Shadowfax's stall. "W-What do you want?"

"They are going to put Théodred to rest," he replied, his voice somber. Gúthwyn felt a small tremor run through her, and she did not move closer to him.

He stepped toward her. "Are you alright?" he inquired, for the third time that day. "Is—" Then his eyes widened, as if he had suddenly remembered something.

"What?" Her tone was perhaps unnecessarily harsh, but at the thought of Théodred's funeral, Gúthwyn found herself barely able to control her emotions.

"Your back," he said, and unconsciously her fingers reached behind her and felt the faintly raised outline of the wound Haldor had given her. A shudder went through her as she remembered their duel, but beyond that, he had not done much harm to her. The wound itself had stopped bleeding less than an hour later, and as of this morning, it was fast on its way to healing. It did not even hurt when she walked.

"It is fine," she said stiffly.

"Aragorn forgot to look at it," he responded. "You should speak to him; if it becomes infect—"

"It is fine," Gúthwyn repeated, cutting him off abruptly. Nothing would make her seek the Ranger's aid, most of all because her back was covered in scars. It meant more lies that she would have to give, and soon she would not be able to keep track of them.

"Have you bandaged it?" he asked, though he knew fully well the answer. She flushed.

"I said, it is fine." Her tone of voice brooked no room for argument, but Legolas tried anyway.

"Gúthwyn, you—"

"Stop!" she cried, and he shut his mouth. "I do not know why you care," she continued, at last moving closer to him so she could leave the stables, "but I am fine. The wound is getting better. I am fine!"

Before he could say anything, she shouldered her way past him and went outside, stopping and taking a brief second to compose herself. With a deep breath, she picked up her pace, now heading for the burial mounds and hoping that Legolas would wait before following her. A great score of people were already walking towards her destination; now, she understood why they all wore dark clothing. They had been in silent mourning for the prince the entire week, yet the king had not even noticed that it was his own son they grieved for.

Another wave of anger came over her as she spotted her uncle, standing next to Éowyn and Gandalf beside the first mounds. Her sister had changed; now she, too, was dressed in black, with her hair tied up behind her and no trace of the earlier happiness upon her face. As Gúthwyn came up beside Aragorn, her sister glanced at her. Éowyn's eyes were both puzzled and narrowed. Gúthwyn knew she must have made a strange sight, with a black cloak and scarves covering her face—her appearance probably brought to mind one of the servants of the Enemy. Which, technically, she was, though not by choice.

All too soon, however, Éowyn looked away, and then Legolas arrived. He stopped next to Gúthwyn, who barely managed to repress a shiver at their closeness. To avoid any questions he might have been thinking of asking her, she gazed around the crowd, trying to figure out where her cousin was.

She did not have to wait long to find out, though: At that moment, a sudden hush fell over the people, and they hastily cleared a path. As she was jostled aside, nearly bumping into Legolas in the process, she saw a small host of guards walking slowly down the path to the mounds. They bore a funeral bier, upon which lay her cousin Théodred, prince of Rohan.

A small gasp escaped her lips, and she stood as one transfixed while his body passed her. His appearance had not changed much since she was taken, but it frightened her to see how pale he was. Though she knew he had been dead for nearly a week, she had not expected the white pallor of his skin, nor his cold, pale hands that were folded in the final resting position across his chest. A sprig of flowers and a long sword were clutched in them.

She felt herself trembling, and could not stop even when the crowd started moving after the bier. Her feet numbly directed her along, yet more than once she stumbled. Legolas steadied her each time, clearly sensing that something was wrong with her; such was her grief that she allowed him to. Théodred… her heart called, going ahead of her to the bier. Théodred, may you rest in peace.

The words were nowhere near all that she wished to say. As the guards brought Théodred before a burial mound, she saw the opened stone door and felt the tears coming to her eyes. This was cruelty beyond cruelty, to have a loved one perish and not be able to say goodbye, nor thank them for all they had selflessly done. Théodred, why did you have to leave? Why were you taken away?

And then, floating to her across the wind, came the sound of a mournful voice lifted up in song. Gúthwyn craned her neck, still fighting against the tears, to see her sister singing an old Rohirric farewell, one that was used whenever there was a funeral for an untimely death. She knew all of the words as well as she knew Beregil's poem.

An evil death has set forth the noble warrior
A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels
In Meduseld that he is no more,
To his lord dearest and kinsmen most beloved,
An evil death…

Gúthwyn truly thought she would start crying then and there. All around her, people were doing so, the men shedding as many tears as the women. The guards were lowering Théodred, and they formed two lines down which they carefully passed his bier. She could not find the strength to wipe her eyes as her cousin's body disappeared into the tomb, never to be seen by her or anyone else again. Off to the side, Théoden was watching his son being swallowed by the darkness; grimmer was his face than she had ever observed before.

"Farewell," she whispered, and then Háma closed the stone door.

A cold, silent night lay over Rohan. The king and his household had retired to Meduseld. Those villagers who had been present at the funeral—nearly all of them—were now in their own homes, preparing to go to bed after a long day. Théodred lay in his tomb, stiff and unmoving. Only one person was outside, huddled against the wind that blew from the north.

Gúthwyn wrapped Borogor's cloak tightly around her, burying her face in her knees and trying to keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks. For nearly half an hour she had been crouched against the outer wall of Meduseld, just a yard or two away from the doors. Every memory she had of Théodred was replaying mercilessly in her mind, starting at her first recollection of him—he had put her on a horse, and allowed her to hold the reins—and going to her fateful twelfth birthday, in which he had helped teach her how to use a sword.

It struck her as ironic that she had come to Rohan, expecting her cousin alive and safe, with her brother and sister each in a grave; instead, Théodred was the one in the tomb, while Éowyn and Éomer both walked the earth. It seemed as though the Valar were feeding her sweets with one hand and beating her with the other. Everything they sent her had two edges, two consequences, to it.

For a brief moment, she raised her head and gazed at the burial mounds, but then she could not stand the sight, and put her face in her hands. Théodred, she thought, her face contorting in grief, why could I not have spoken with you one last time?

Such was her despair that she did not notice when Legolas stepped outside in search of her. Nor did she see him when he glanced over and saw her, curled in a tight ball against a pillar; neither did her ears mark his footsteps as he walked slowly over to her tiny, hunched over form. It was only when he spoke that she was aware of his presence.

"Gúthwyn?"

She started, but recognized his voice, and in terror did not look up. At such close quarters, he would be able to read her emotions as easily as Haldor could. If he realized that there were still tears in her eyes…

"Gúthwyn, what is it?"

Please, leave me alone! she begged him silently, staring intently at her knees. Her pride and dignity were at stake.

Slowly, his hand moved under her chin. She stiffened, but he irresistibly lifted her head so that their eyes were level. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Her body was trembling uncontrollably; he still had not let go of her.

Her eyes were blurry when he asked, quietly and gently, "Do you weep for the king's son?"

The sound of her hand, slapping his face with such force that a red mark soon appeared, resounded in the air with a sharp smack. As he reeled away from her, Gúthwyn leapt to her feet, hastily drawing backwards.

"You know nothing of me," she snarled. "Do not try to interpret my mood, for you will always be wrong!"

Before he could say anything, she turned on her heel and stormed towards the doors of Meduseld, still shaking in fear and hatred.