The Rohan Pride Trilogy
Part Two: Reunions
Book Two
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 Twenty-Three:
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. Finally, just an advance warning: Lately, my chapters have been bouncing back and forth between extremely long or rather short.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Less than half an hour after the Uruks' utter annihilation, Gúthwyn was slipping through a small passageway in the Hornburg. One hand had been clamped firmly on her stomach, keeping the rock in it as well as the blood from flowing too freely. She nearly stumbled into the wall as she went, but forced herself to keep moving. Any moment now, the Riders would return to the armory, ready to deposit their weapons and begin the long process of burying the dead.
Gúthwyn had returned to the Hornburg before most of the other warriors had, and certainly well in advance of her uncle or brother. It pained her heart to have to avoid reuniting with Éomer for a second time, but she could not let him know that she had been on the battlefield. He would immediately tell Théoden, and from her uncle Éowyn would soon find out. She was more fearful of her sister's reaction than she was of the king's.
All this was in her mind as she hastily scurried into the armory. Mercifully, no one was there. Even though she could not afford to waste time, for a moment she stood there, indecision making her pause. Should she put on her dress? Théoden had last seen her wearing it, and he would suspect something if she greeted him in different garb. Yet if she donned the extra clothing, she would have a harder time keeping the blood in her wound from flowing.
She was not actually planning on seeing Théoden until she had sewn up her wound, but in order to get to the private chambers deeper in the fortress she would have to pass through nearly the entire Hornburg. The women and children were being notified of the victory even as she reentered the fortress, so her presence would not draw questions; however, the people would definitely want to speak to her.
Sighing, Gúthwyn at last decided to wear the dress. Casting all of her armor off—it was now sweaty, and stained with blood, but eventually it would be cleaned—she let it fall back into the pile. The mail shirt was difficult to remove, as she had to carefully work around the stone fragment. Eventually, though, it too was in the heap.
Going to the barrel of broken spears, she retrieved Borogor's pack and opened it. Swiftly withdrawing the dress, she pulled it unceremoniously over her head, then took out Borogor's cloak. It would not attract too much attention. She wrapped it about herself as if she was cold, but in reality she was covering any possible bloodstains. Her hands were remarkably steady as she did all of this.
Taking her sword, she wiped it off with the spare cloak she had worn in the battle, knowing that in the aftermath of the carnage she had witnessed it would not appear strange to the person who found it. When Framwine was as clean as she could get it, she sheathed the blade, and attached it to her pack with a couple of bowstrings she saw lying around.
Finished, she shouldered the pack, and left the armory. Throughout the entire passage, she was worried that someone would walk down and see her. Questions would be asked, and depending on whom the interrogator was—her mind briefly flashed back to Aragorn, brandishing Beregil's book in front of her like a prized trophy—more might be revealed than she could afford to divulge, but these fears vanished when she moved through a set of doors and came into the inner court.
It was nearly full to bursting with the wounded. With every step that she took, more were arriving. Some had to be carried in by their friends, missing either their legs or bleeding too profusely to walk. Others staggered around, trying to find a place to sit down and staunch a cut. The women attended to them, hardly even taking the time to revel in the unexpected victory before tending to the slain and hurt.
Gúthwyn weaved her way through all of this, wincing now and then as she saw some of the more serious injuries. Worse than the sights were the sounds: Ever and anon, a cry of grief would rise into the air as a loved one was discovered to be dead. She tried to banish these from her mind, but it was weak and could not ignore the wailing of the women and children.
And then, she heard the sound of her name being called. Turning, she scanned the crowd for her hailer. At length, her eyes fell upon one of the guards; his right hand was performing the finishing touches on a self-made sling, but his gaze was fixed on her.
"Tun!" she exclaimed, momentarily forgetting about her task and racing over to him. Overwhelmed with relief—and shock—at the sight of his assuredly safe figure, she enveloped him in a tight embrace, careful to avoid jostling his arm. "Thank the Valar… but how? I thought—"
A sharp burst of agony cut her off, and she slid one hand down to cover her stomach. No grimace of pain did she allow to pass over her features; as a result, Tun noticed nothing. "A large group of men was forced to retreat into the caves. I looked for you, but did not see you," he told her, loosening his hold so that she could pull away if she wanted. Even after a battle, propriety was still observed.
Gúthwyn did step back slightly, letting her other hand fall onto her stomach as well, but she remained close to him. There was hardly any room for movement, nor was it her wish to take up more space than she had to when the wounded were still coming in. "I was farther back," she lied, and for the briefest instant hesitated as she tried to think of something she could have reasonably been doing. "One of the women was in a panic, and I was trying to calm her down."
"For half of the night?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.
She smiled. "I was not avoiding you," she replied. "She needed a lot of help; I was not even aware that the soldiers were there."
When Tun seemed even more puzzled, she realized that she obviously would have noticed the warriors' presence, and hastened to correct her mistake. "Hardly aware, I mean." In an attempt to distract him, she asked, "How did your arm break?"
He looked sheepish. "I did not have enough balance when an Uruk attacked me, and I fell. Mercifully, not on my sword-arm." His gaze turned sober as he glanced around at the men about them. "My injury is nothing, compared to some of what I have seen." Lowering his voice, he added, "Did you hear of what befell one of the guard's sons?"
She shook her head.
"They say half of his face is gone, and he is only eleven."
Gúthwyn's eyes widened. "Tun, you can tell me all that you wish of men that have been killed or maimed, but pray do not speak to me of so poor a child."
He gave a short bow, not seeming particularly inclined to talk about the boy either. "What are you planning on doing now?" he asked, straightening. "I can walk with you for awhile, if you wish."
"Thank you, but I do not want you even thinking about anything other than rest at this point," she scolded him lightly. "I will return soon, but I desire to find my sister and brother. Théoden is probably busy at the moment, though I hope to speak with him as well." She actually did want to do those things—just after she had sewn herself up.
Tun winced. "I do not need any rest," he replied, but she would have none of it.
"I will find out," she warned him, "if you have not done as I told you."
"Fine," he grumbled, though his eyes were sparkling. "Farewell, then."
"Farewell," she replied, and smiled before turning away. Her mind now entirely bent on the task she had yet to fulfill, she did not see Legolas' eyes following her every move, nor did she notice when his footsteps began trailing after hers.
"How many dead, do you think?" Gimli's question echoed hauntingly in Legolas' ears. He was painfully aware that he was the only Elf alive at Helm's Deep, but he did not want to think about why that was.
"Nearly all of the Uruk-hai," Aragorn replied, breaking Legolas from his disturbed thoughts. "All but fifty or so of the men… Alas, hardly any of the boys survived."
"They should not have fought," Legolas murmured, his heart grieving for the many a mother who was now childless. "Not enough winters were in them."
"And the Elves?" Gimli pressed. "Haldir?"
Legolas and Aragorn exchanged heavy glances. "Dead," Aragorn answered at last. "Not a single one left."
Gimli's mouth opened and closed, at a loss for words. "Oh," he finally murmured, letting out a sigh.
His two friends continued to talk about the battle in subdued tones, but Legolas' attention was distracted by the sudden sight of Gúthwyn. She was conversing with her friend, the guard, whose name he had yet to catch. Not for the first time, he wondered if there were any feelings other than friendship between them. Gúthwyn did not seem as if she were in love with him, but it was clear from the way the guard's eyes lit up when she approached him that he was enamored of her.
Yet soon, Legolas' thoughts were not on the guard. His eyes narrowed as he noticed how Gúthwyn had both of her hands pressed over her stomach, something she did when she was feeling nauseous or frightened. Granted, she did it fairly often, most of the time not even realizing it herself, but there was something different about the gesture now. He could not quite put his finger on it, though.
By now, Aragorn and Gimli had long passed him, going on to examine more of the damage. He should have gone to catch up with them, but curiosity got the better of him. As he continued to look at Gúthwyn, hoping to decipher this newest mystery, he began observing the slight grimaces that came over her face when she moved, and the way her hands were slowly turning whiter—as if she were clutching her stomach tightly.
And when she turned from the guard, he watched her walking, and marked the stride instantly as that of a warrior when he has been wounded, try as he might to conceal it. She was very good at minimizing the winces, the slight staggering, and the pale face as she went, but he knew better. Even Aragorn could not often keep his thoughts from the Elves.
Unexpectedly, his mind flashed back to a boy he had seen during the battle. He had been taller than most of his companions, yet still a foot shorter than him. Much like Gúthwyn was. And he had been grabbing his stomach in pain—just as Gúthwyn was now. Legolas had helped him into the Hornburg. The whole way up, the boy had been tense, but now he realized that it was from fear, not agony…
So, Gúthwyn, you fought at Helm's Deep. He should have known. She was too proud a fighter to submit docilely to being kept in the caves with women and children while great deeds were at hand. As a matter of fact, she had not even argued upon being told to go to the caves; that, at the very least, they should have expected from her. Éowyn had certainly done so.
And now, if Gúthwyn was not going to find a place where she could sew her wound up herself, he was a Dwarf. His eyes narrowed when she disappeared into a small passage, one that led to a more private end of the fortress. Almost before he was aware of what he was doing, he began making his way through the crowd, following her slim frame with the same determinedness as when he had been pursuing Merry and Pippin.
When he came to the passage, he slowed down, and took a quick glance inside. He was just in time to catch the sight of her back rounding a corner. Going quietly even for an Elf, he went after her, always keeping a certain distance. Gúthwyn did not seem so worried of pursuit now; she had let down her guard, as he could see when she stumbled against a wall and gasped softly.
For a moment, she stood there, breathing heavily. Legolas waited just around the corner. When she started once more, he matched her strides with his own. At length, she unknowingly led him to the end of the hall, in which there were several doors. Her hand closed about one of the handles, and she slipped inside a room, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Legolas approached it. There was no crack through which he could look—she had made sure of that—but there was a small window at just his height. He glanced through into a bedroom, one that would have been given to some member of the royal family when they visited. Gúthwyn had gone to the bed, and was casting her cloak onto it. Two things tumbled out: A needle, glimmering in the sunlight from a large, high-up window, and a spool of thread.
He waited for the opportune moment to reveal himself, when she would be forced to admit that she had fought. The Valar knew how long she had concealed the wound. Even as he watched her, she was trembling violently. Reaching up, she began pulling off her dress. At first, Legolas averted his eyes, but then he realized that she was wearing leggings and a tunic beneath it.
Gúthwyn lifted the bottom of her shirt slightly, and he could see none of her skin, so much blood was there. Her fingers slipped in it as she started prodding at the wound, wincing with each touch. Now was the time. Taking a deep breath, wondering how she would react to his presence, Legolas raised his fist and knocked on the door three times. Then he stepped away, so it would not appear as though he had been observing her every movement.
There was a long delay before the door began to open. Her face peered out, and then blanched as she saw him. "What are you doing here?" she demanded shakily.
"You fought," he answered, and her eyes darted wildly around them before she replied.
"I have been in the caves."
He did not want her to know that he had been watching her. "I saw you going through the court. Your walk was akin to that of a wounded fighter's."
"That does not mean anything," she snapped, though her face was wary. "It has been a long night."
"If you are not wounded," Legolas responded, glancing at the hand she had used to open the door, "then why is there blood on your fingers?"
She quickly curled her fist around the handle so that he could not see her scarlet fingertips. "Tun was hurt," she said. Her eyes were still roaming all their surroundings, as if she were searching for an escape.
"Tun had his arm in a sling, not in bandages," he retorted, taking a guess as to whom she had spoken of. When her eyes widened, he knew his assumption had been correct, and sought to press his advantage before she could deflect anything else. "During the battle, I helped you into the Hornburg, did I not? Your hands were clutched over your stomach, and you could barely move from the pain."
Gúthwyn's face contorted furiously. "How dare you follow me in here, and press these accusations upon me? Leave!" She made to shut the door, but before she could his hand closed over hers. As if she had been scalded, she yanked it away, only realizing her mistake when he opened the door even further and stepped inside.
Her eyes widened in panic, and she started backing up. "Get out!" she nearly shrieked, pointing to the door. "Leave me alone!"
Legolas did not close the door, as that would have only served to frighten her even more, but he leaned against the frame. "Gúthwyn, I know as well as you do that you fought. That needle and thread on the bed is not for embroidery. You were wounded."
She had been caught, and they both knew it. "Fine," she snarled, her hands clenching into fists. "What does it matter to you?"
"Because I am not letting you sew that wound up yourself."
For a moment, Gúthwyn stared at him, dumbfounded; then, she scrambled away from him, so that she was closer to the far wall. "You have no right to order me about!" she hissed, her arms folding over her stomach. "Leave!"
"Even now," Legolas replied calmly, "your hands are shaking. You are in no condition to use that needle, especially when one wrong movement could cause irreparable damage."
She tried desperately to still her quaking hands, but was unsuccessful. "I will not tell you again," she said at length, pointing at the door. "Get out!"
"If I go," Legolas said, not wanting to do this, but needing to keep her from sewing the wound, "then it is straight to your uncle, or to your brother, to tell them that you have been in the battle."
What little color was left in Gúthwyn's face drained out. She flattened herself against the wall, folding her arms tightly and staring at him with horrified eyes. "You would not," she said, but without conviction in her voice.
"I would," Legolas said. "If that is what it takes to stop you from hurting yourself."
"Do not pretend this is about my well being!" she exclaimed. "It is a lie!"
"Even if you do not believe me, I will still go to Théoden." Legolas kept his voice firm, yet determinedly rid it of any frustration or anger.
She was silent.
"Gúthwyn, if you let me sew your wound, I promise I will not spill a word. Such a guarantee you will not get from anyone else, not even from Aragorn or Gimli."
"No," she replied, pressing herself harder into the wall. "I can do it myself!"
Legolas gave a short bow. "Then I shall find Théoden, and see what he thinks." He took the handle, and started to leave the room.
"No!" she cried, and he stopped, though left one foot in the passage as he glanced back at her.
She appeared to be debating with herself; Legolas could almost see the wheels turning in her mind. He waited patiently, knowing that he had already pushed his bounds as far as they would go. Having to play the role of blackmailer was not something he liked doing, but it was plain to see that she would only harm herself if left alone to tend the wound. Even the most skilled of healers rarely sewed themselves up, recognizing the dangers of an unsteady hand.
A full minute had gone by before Gúthwyn shifted and looked at him. "Fine," she growled, her face both enraged and terrified at the same time. "You can sew it, if it pleases you to discomfort me."
Legolas slowly closed the door. The soft shutting noise it made caused her to tense up again, and as he stepped forward, he said, "Gúthwyn, I have never tried to harm you. Nor would I desire to. I am not here to discomfort you—I am here because I am worried for you."
She did not move away from the wall. "Just get it over with," she snapped, pointing at the needle and thread still on top of the bed. He took the gesture as an invitation and went to it, taking both items.
"Do you have any rags or bandages?" he asked her. At the sound of his voice, she jumped slightly, and then nodded. He reached for her bag, which was only a foot from him, but she leaped forward and snatched it up before his fingers made contact with the leather. Hastily, she rummaged through it, her face now white as the niphredil that grew on the fair grass of Lothlórien.
Withdrawing several wads of fabric from the bag, she all but threw them onto the bed. Legolas picked them up as she backed away from him. This constant fear, this constant horror of him, he could not even begin to fathom. It had its roots in Haldor, that was for sure, but what had the Elf done to her that was so awful? What had he done that had her now shivering in terror, unable to even look him in the face?
"Gúthwyn," Legolas said quietly, and she glanced at his feet. "Will you lie down?"
At last, her eyes met his, and they were wide with dread. "Why?" she asked, her voice hoarse and unsteady.
"It is the easiest and fastest way to do this," he told her, sensing that for her to obey him was, to her, akin to placing her head beneath a sword. "Please."
Hesitantly, trembling as she did so, Gúthwyn complied, shutting her eyes for a brief moment before opening them. As he drew closer and knelt beside her, he could see a thin film of perspiration beginning to form on her brow, though the morning was rather cold. "Are you feeling ill?" he questioned concernedly. She pressed her lips together tightly, and shook her head.
For a minute, he busied himself with threading the needle and preparing the rags. Her eyes were following his hands ceaselessly, as though afraid that they would suddenly reach out and strike her. When he had finished, and was holding the needle between two fingers, she took a shallow breath, and squeezed her eyes shut.
The next instant, she whimpered in fright and opened them: He had begun pulling up her tunic. Glancing at her, feeling a strange kind of pity for this young woman, he gently inquired, "Does it hurt?"
Once more, she shook her head, but when his fingers touched the bloody flesh she cringed. Legolas rolled her shirt up a little further, allowing himself to see the wound fully. It was not life threatening, mercifully, but deep enough to cause serious damage, should the blood flow not be stopped. There was a good-sized rock embedded in the skin that was the source of the problem.
"How did you get this?" he asked, taking one of the rags and getting ready to pull it out. Unfortunately, there was no water nearby, but he could not leave her to retrieve some.
It was a long time before Gúthwyn answered. It was as if she had forgotten how. "Explosion," she finally managed.
His eyes narrowed, remembering that he had wondered what she was doing fighting alongside the Elves. "Why were you on the Deeping Wall?"
As he spoke, he quickly reached in and pulled out the rock. She drew in a sharp breath, but grew even more panicked when he pressed a rag on it. As the cloth turned scarlet, she started wriggling underneath him, trying to squirm away from his ministrations.
"Gúthwyn," he said, though not unkindly. "If you move, it only makes things harder."
She was quelled, yet the look in her eyes was difficult to behold. He had only seen such fear on her when Haldor had been clutching her. What did he do to you? Legolas wondered, absent-mindedly taking another rag and replacing the soiled one.
His fingers touched her skin, and a choked moan escaped her. "D-Did not w-want Théoden t-to see me," she ground out, then arched upwards as he briefly removed the rag and lifted her tunic up more for a better look.
Legolas put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down. She did not struggle anymore against him, but was now trembling uncontrollably.
"Gúthwyn," he said calmingly, "I cannot do this if you are moving."
For a few seconds, she was still. Relieved, Legolas relocated his hand to her stomach, using it as a further means of keeping her body steady. With his other hand, he lifted the needle, and was about to begin when he noticed something off about her ribs. Frowning, he raised her shirt a little higher. The bottom ribs, their outlines alarmingly sharp against her skin, were slightly crooked.
"What happened to your ribs?" he asked.
"B-Broken," she grunted, and her eyes were clouded with new pain.
"You seem rather accident-prone," he said, trying to get her to relax, but she merely clenched her fists even tighter. Sighing, he was about to return to the task when he saw another strange sight. Starting at her ribs, and disappearing beneath her shirt, was a long scar, looking suspiciously like a welt from a whip. There was another one near it, fainter, but there all the same.
Too late, he realized that he had been pulling her shirt up much farther than he had a right to; his mind was bent on seeing the wounds. Only when her hand clamped down on his, forcing the tunic back down, did he see what he had almost done. A gasp erupting from her lips, Gúthwyn flung herself into a sitting position, drawing backwards and staring at him. Her eyes were wide with embarrassment, and her chest was heaving frantically up and down.
"Are you done examining me?" she hissed, looking as if she had more than half a mind to get up and run away.
Legolas could have kicked himself. "I am so sorry," he hastily apologized, truly meaning every fervent word. "I did not mean—you had more wounds—" How could he have let that happen? It was bad enough to do that—even accidentally—to any woman, but with Gúthwyn it was a thousand times worse. She already despised him; this would only make her hate him even more.
"You are healing my stomach!" she cried, jabbing her finger at it and covering up the subsequent wince. "Nothing else!"
"Gúthwyn, I am sorry. I had no right; I was not thinking." His words were quiet, but inside he was yelling at himself for being so thoughtless. He did not doubt that he had ruined any chance of a civil conversation with her.
In response, she edged away from him, yet seemed to keep his earlier threat in mind. "W-What do you w-want from me?" she whispered, now quivering in fear.
He leaned forward, and placing a hand on her shoulder looked her directly in the eye. Gúthwyn cringed terrifically, but made no move to slap it off. She seemed more afraid of whatever it was she thought he would do if she did. "Gúthwyn, my actions were inexcusable. You have every right to be angry with me. At this point, I want nothing from you now except that you let me heal your wound. And I would have you hold your tunic in place, so that I do not repeat what just happened."
Her face was pale as she nodded shakily. It took her nearly a minute to lie back down, and when she did her eyes were fixed on his hands. Carefully, Legolas took the last clean rag and wiped off the blood that had accumulated there. He knew she was intently watching his every motion, and did not begrudge her of so simple a thing—especially since he had already broken her fragile trust.
At length, he took up the needle. "Are you ready?" he asked, placing a hand on her stomach in preparation.
She whimpered, closed her eyes, and nodded. With a sigh, he started sewing. The cut was not large, nor was a thing like stitching too painful for the patient, but no sooner had Legolas commenced than Gúthwyn panicked. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps that heaved her entire torso upwards; with every new stitch, a soft moan escaped her lips, now bruised from her biting them; underneath her eyelids, he could see the eyes darting frantically around.
"Gúthwyn," he said when he was less than halfway through. She froze, pinned to the floor by the sound of his voice. "Is this hurting you?"
She shook her head, yet when his fingers touched the wound she winced. Her eyes remained closed, still roving about wildly.
"If you do not move," Legolas continued, wondering if it was truly her stomach that pained her or something else, "then this will be over faster."
The flesh on Gúthwyn's lips that was not black and blue turned white as she clamped them together. Legolas resumed his sewing, trying to quicken the process for her sake. He had never seen her fall apart like this before. She was sweating now, crying out—so quietly that he could barely hear it—every time his hands moved to create a new stitch. When one of her fists uncurled, he saw that it was bleeding from how deeply her nails had dug into it.
He was finishing the last stitch when his breath caught in his throat. A tear had escaped from her left eye, sliding down the cheek and landing with a soft plink on the floor. He lowered the needle in astonishment. "Gúth—"
It was no use. She had felt that tear as keenly as he had seen it, and with a frightened gasp she flung herself up and scrambled away from him. Crawling to a bucket that had been in the corner, she leaned over it and retched. The gagging noises were terrible to hear; her entire body shook with them. He tried to go to her, but when she saw him out of the corner of her eye she vomited even more. In horror, he stared at her, now thinking of Haldor's cruel gaze and the malignancy in his voice.
When at last Gúthwyn was done, wiping her mouth on her sleeve before shakily getting to her feet, he stood up as well.
"Gúthwyn," he said, and she pressed her hand over her mouth. Nothing short of absolute terror and mortification was in her eyes as she beheld him. Saddened, he asked quietly, "What did he do to you?"
Slowly, she lowered her hand. "I think," she began, her voice trembling and the thin frame of her body quaking, "you have humiliated me enough for one day!"
Before he could say anything, she stormed over to her bag, snatched both it and her dress up, and ran from the room.