The Rohan Pride Trilogy
Part Three: Terms
Book One
By: WhiteLadyOfTroy
Summary:
The doom of Middle-earth is to be decided, and Gúthwyn's own fate is tangled up with it. Reunited with her people, her thoughts now turn to the children, and she would know what has befallen them—even if her life is the cost of such knowledge.
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 Seven:
As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.
Chapter Seven
With a sinking heart, Legolas watched as Gúthwyn all but ran away from him. All of his earlier happiness was dulled; once again, he found himself wondering why she was so terrified of him. Not even two sentences had he said to her before she had panicked, backing into the table with her horrified blue eyes staring at him.
Sighing, he looked around at the party. He was no longer in the mood to revel at the victory of Helm's Deep, and decided to go outside so that he might be alone with his thoughts. Putting down his mug, he began making his way towards the doors. It took him nearly five minutes to get there, as he had to fight through drunken crowds and navigate his feet around spills.
At last reaching the doors, he pushed them open and strode out into the night air. He breathed a sigh of relief, inhaling and exhaling deeply. The stars were out, but as he glanced up at them he was troubled to see that much of their light had been hidden. He did not doubt it had something to do with the gathering gloom in the East. It saddened him to see that already, before the war had even begun, such beauty was being lost.
Standing on the far corner of the landing, Legolas looked out across the land. His mind turned back to Gúthwyn, recalling despondently how she had been so happy earlier. He had seen her a couple of times, dancing and laughing. A glow had been in her face, healthier and brighter than anything he had ever noticed on her before. Yet when he had gone behind her to fill up his tankard, all of the blood had drained from her cheeks, and she had become pale and frightened as a child waking from a nightmare.
At that moment, the doors opened, and someone stepped out onto the landing. Legolas turned and saw, to his slight surprise, the very guard that Gúthwyn had been with for most of the night. As Tun's gaze fixed on him, he suddenly had a very good idea what the guard was out here for.
Tun stalked over to him, his movements sober, though Legolas knew everyone had consumed copious amounts of the mead. He himself had won a drinking contest against Gimli.
"Hello, Tun," he said cautiously, inclining his head as the guard approached.
Tun looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Legolas, right?" he asked. Legolas nodded.
For a moment, the two of them stood there. Then Tun said, "You know why I am here, do you not?"
Again, Legolas nodded, smelling the ale on the guard's breath.
"What did you say to her?" Tun demanded, crossing his arms over his chest.
Legolas sighed. "Tun, I can assure you that it was not my intent to frighten her. I do not know why she left. Perhaps you should look for her."
"It is not my place to follow Gúthwyn to her room," Tun said, with a bite of anger in his voice.
Legolas nodded in agreement, but knew that the conversation was not finished. "What do you want from me?" he asked quietly.
"I wanted to tell you something," Tun replied, leaning closer. "You might think me unreasonable for coming out here, and maybe I am, but know this: I am not the only one who cares for Gúthwyn. She is loved by the people. Her brother is the king's nephew, and heir to the throne. He will fiercely protect her from all harm."
"I am aware of this," Legolas said. The only reason, he thought, why Éomer had not done what Tun was doing now was because Gúthwyn refused to betray her own weaknesses. Somehow, Tun must have seen their encounter.
"Then you will not disagree," Tun answered, "when I tell you that it would be in your best interests to not trouble her anymore."
"It has never been my desire to bother Gúthwyn," Legolas told him, meeting his eyes firmly. "I will not seek her company anymore, if that is what you are suggesting. But I would have you know that I have done nothing to her, and it is beyond me to understand why she…" He did not want to use the term "fears." "Dislikes me."
"That may be so," Tun conceded. "But heed my words." When Legolas nodded, he gave a grim smile. "I am glad we had this conversation," he said, and turned away.
Legolas watched the guard return to Meduseld, sighing as the doors closed on the feasting and revelry. There was now little doubt regarding the extent of Tun's devotion to Gúthwyn. He could read it easily in the man's eyes. And he did not blame the guard for threatening him, as he had a lady to safeguard. It was unnecessary protection, granted, but freely given and accepted all the same.
Well, he would follow Tun's advice. If it made their lives easier, then so be it. Yet he sighed again as he gazed up at the stars: He had wished to at least amend Gúthwyn's grievances with him.
It is no matter now, he thought. You have tried, and that is all anyone can do.
Far away in her room, Gúthwyn stirred, and the candlelight filtering on her bed showed a face shining with sweat.
Haldor was above her, his hands pinning her wrists to the bed. "Are you ready, Gúthwyn?" he asked in mock concern, cruelly delighting in her distress.
She did not want to say anything. Admitting fear was weakness; being bold would only result in a harsher punishment. He knew this, and laughed. "You are too predictable," he said, lifting one of his hands and sliding it down her bare stomach.
Though she whimpered, she did not dare move against him. He knew this also, and leaned forward so that his lips were nearly touching hers. "On second thought, I have a surprise for you," he whispered, gleeful amusement in his every word. His tongue lightly licked at the corner of her mouth, causing her to shudder in disgust. "Something better."
"W-What?" she managed to say at last, the first thing she had spoken since she had come to his tent.
"You shall see," Haldor replied, and got off of her.
Shocked, she lay there numbly, until he ordered her to get up and put her clothes on. "We will finish this later," he promised her, cold steel in his speech.
"W-Where are y-you taking me?" Gúthwyn stammered, terrified of his pleasure. She had grown to loathe it even more than his anger.
In response, he gripped her by the arm, and dragged her forward. Her foot stepped in a strange liquid, and she shivered when he told her to stay there. He left her then; she did not hear his footsteps, but felt his presence at the other end of the tent. There was a crackling noise, and suddenly light flared throughout the room.
Gúthwyn looked down, and shrieked in terror. She was standing in a pool of blood, her feet dyed scarlet. Hastily, she leaped out of it, and as she did so it splattered onto her legs.
"Look up," Haldor commanded her. She always obeyed him. She raised her eyes.
There were bodies everywhere.
Nearly gagging in horror, Gúthwyn backed away, but then he stood beside her and murmured, "My collection."
"W-What?" she gasped, feeling nauseous. There was so much blood… A terrible reek filled the air.
"You do not see it?" he asked quietly, and there was laughter in his voice. "Come closer."
She was powerless to resist as he steered her forward. "Do you remember now?" he inquired, using his booted foot to turn over one of the corpses.
Chalibeth's face stared up at her.
"No!" Gúthwyn cried, trying to twist away from Haldor. "No, stop! You do not… no!"
"That is not all," he replied, and yanked her over to the right. "Let us see the next exhibit."
He kicked over another body, revealing Beregil's face, contorted with pain unimaginable. Gúthwyn felt herself choking, and could not even speak as Haldor dragged away from him.
The Elf turned over a third figure, and this time it was Tun. His golden hair was red with blood.
"Haldor, no!" she screamed, staring in horror at the sight of her champion.
"He gave his life for you… the fool!" Haldor hissed, and his grip on her arm was so tight that it was agonizing. "And look at him!"
A second later, Cobryn's face was gazing at her. Both of his legs had been cut off.
She collapsed. Haldor did not catch her, and she fell painfully on the ground. The fabric of her pants was soaked in blood; she whimpered, but the wetness did not go away.
"You are pathetic!" he snarled at her, and kicked her in the head. Stars exploded before her eyes as she was flung several feet forward. She landed on something soft. "You cannot even bear the sight of his body, worthless though it is!"
As he spoke, she tried to get to her feet, but her hands slipped on this blood, and slid on top of… another hand.
Terrified shrieks echoed throughout the tent. Gúthwyn reared up, yet a cold hand slammed down on her back and forced her down. "Look at it!" Haldor growled, keeping her pressed onto the corpse.
"I-I cannot breathe!" she choked. "P-Please!"
"Look at it!" he commanded. "Do not make me repeat myself!"
Her hand, trembling and shaking, extended forward. As she gasped for breath, she reached for the dark brown locks, now sticky with scarlet fluids. Haldor lifted the pressure off of her slightly so she could turn the entire body over.
"I thought you might enjoy a visit from your cousin," Haldor said as she stared down in horror at Théodred. His face was now pure white, contrasting garishly with the blood dripping down it.
Once more, she went limp. Yet this time Haldor laughed, and pulled her off of her cousin. "And these…" He threw her onto the ground so that she landed between two bodies. Golden hair spilled over their shoulders. One wore red armor, while the other was clad in a blue dress…
"NO!" she yelled, scrambling away from Éowyn and Éomer. "Stop it! Stop! Please!"
And then she was throwing up, adding even more stench to the air. Her shoulders were shaking so violently that she nearly choked on her own vomit. When she had finished, Haldor grabbed her by the back of her neck and lifted her up, turning her around so that she was facing him. Once, twice, three times he slapped her.
"You disgust me!" he spat. "You are weak! Useless! Not even worthy of the title 'whore' that everyone bestows upon you!"
With that, he roughly yanked her over to stand before the last bodies. There were three of them, two of which were smaller than all the rest. A cold chill washed over Gúthwyn.
"Turn them around: Let us see the grand finale," Haldor ordered.
Even if he had no control over her, she could not have disobeyed him. Something was drawing her hands to the corpses, forcing her to grip their shoulders and turn them to face her. And one by one, they did. Hammel. Haiweth. Her fingers touched the skin of the last one… Borogor. All of them had maggots roaming over their eyes.
Haldor shoved her onto them.
Gúthwyn screamed, thrashing wildly in horror. At the same time, the light went out, and everything was thrown into darkness. That was when she felt them… little burrowing maggots, crawling into her hair, worming through her clothing, getting all over her skin and biting, sucking at the flesh; try as she might to fling them off, they swarmed over her, getting into her mouth so that she gagged, into her ears so that she could not hear her own cries, in her nose so that the smell of blood and vomit was dulled, and in her eyes so that all grew black…
Gúthwyn sat bolt upright in her bed, shaking in terror. Her dress, which she had not even bothered to remove, was clinging to her… the maggots. With a whimper, she leaped out of the bed, feeling as if they were still all over her. In a panic she began yanking at the fabric, her fingers fumbling for the laces. She felt tears coming to her eyes as they slipped. When at last she had undone them, after what seemed like a thousand years of agony, she tore the dress off of her, removing the shift along with it.
Panting, her chest heaving up and down, she kicked the clothes away from her. A shudder came over her as she thought of them covered in maggots. Then her gut turned over, and she barely made it to the chamber pot before throwing up the entire contents of her stomach. Please, make it stop… she silently begged, blinking the tears out of her eyes. Please…
When she was done, she went to the washbasin, tipped her head back, and poured the whole pitcher over her body. The cold water splashed down her arms and legs, cleansing them of the maggots. But not the filth. Not that which she had carried around with her ever since that first night in Haldor's tent. Not that which had increased tenfold when she had made love to him.
Now shivering, she crossed the room to a set of drawers and opened the top one. With trembling arms, she pulled out a nightgown and a thick robe. Putting them on, she stumbled back over to the bed and lay upon it. She curled up into a ball, resting her head on the pillow, feeling more unclean than she ever had in her entire life. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Haldor's face above her, drawing nearer until she flung her eyes open in terror.
For about half an hour Gúthwyn lay there, shaking uncontrollably. The silence of the night was driving her mad. She tossed and turned, trying and failing to forget Haldor's burning eyes. A feeling of suffocation was slowly coming over her. In an attempt to be rid of it, she thought of the party, but it merely worsened things. She kept remembering how she had seen Legolas, and when his face entered her mind she grew fearful. It was impossible for her to close off her emotions when she was around him, yet they were weak—just as she was now. Whore.
At last, she could not stand it. Clutching the robe tightly around her arms, she got unsteadily to her feet and crept towards the door. She needed someone to talk to; she needed Éomer. He would protect her. He always did.
So even when she left behind the candlelight, and plunged into the darkness of the hallway, she kept going. One foot in front of the other. Then the next, and the next. Slowly she moved down the passage, her breaths coming in ragged gasps that she was sure would wake up everyone in Meduseld. But she heard not a sound as she went, a frail shadow on the moonlit wall.
Eventually she came to the door leading into the throne room. She had to cross this in order to get to the other side of the Golden Hall, where Théoden, Théodred, and Éomer's chambers were. Gulping nervously, she peered out and quickly scanned the room for any movement. There was none. So she took a deep breath and, before she could think better of what she was doing, skittered across the throne room. When she reached the opposite hallway, she tripped on her robe, and stumbled into the doorframe.
Gúthwyn held her breath, but there were no sounds of someone stirring in one of the rooms. A sigh of relief escaped her, though her limbs were still shaking. Éomer, she thought, and gradually began moving down the passage. Her robe tightened around her as she came to her brother's chambers and saw that the door was open. Cautiously, she edged to the threshold and glanced in.
There was a lump in the middle of the bed, and at the sight of it she paused. Did she really want to wake her brother at this hour because of a nightmare she had had? Was it worth it? She did not think she would even have the courage to go in and shake him to get his attention; what if his eyes flared open too suddenly, like Chalibeth's and Haldor's?
Maybe I should go back, she thought, but even as such an idea passed through her head she quavered at it. All of her strength of will had been put forth to get here, and she would not be able to make it back.
"Gúthwyn?"
With a terrified gasp, Gúthwyn whirled around and flung herself against the wall. Then she realized that Éomer was standing before her, a cup of water in his hands.
"What are you doing here?" he asked quietly. "I saw you running across the throne room—are you ill?"
For a moment, she could not speak. To her horror, tears started filling her eyes. Éomer's unexpected appearance had frightened her far more than she wanted to admit. She was unable to even meet his eyes. Why was she so pathetic, so weak?
"Gúthwyn?" her brother asked, his voice not unkind.
"I-I had a-a n-n-nightmare," she whispered, stuttering on her words and looking away.
Éomer was silent for a minute or two, but then he laid a hand on her shoulder. "Come in," he said, gesturing to his room.
She nodded meekly and stepped inside. "Please, sit," he told her.
Shivering, she crossed the room and lowered herself onto his bed. He joined her a few seconds later. "Do you want to talk about it?" he inquired, setting the cup on a small table.
"I…" Gúthwyn faltered, unsure of what to do. If she explained her dream in full, then he would be able to guess at much of what had transpired between her and Haldor. But she wanted to tell someone; was that not why she had come here in the first place? "It was about Haldor," she finally muttered.
"The Elf?" Éomer asked, and she nodded. "What did he do?"
At his question, her vision became blurred with tears. Hastily she turned away, afraid that Éomer would see her and think her frail.
"Has he ever…" Éomer's words seemed more difficult for him to get out. "In Mordor, did he ever do anything to you?"
A lump formed in her throat as she nodded.
"Do you want to talk about that?"
There was a long pause. Gúthwyn's first instinct would have been to shake her head, yet her body refused to cooperate with her. She was trembling now, so much that Éomer put a steadying hand on her shoulder. If she told her brother what had happened, he would at least know why she walked around with a shadow of her former terror always hanging over her. But would he not think her a whore, after all that she had done to Haldor?
"You do not have to, if you do not wish to."
As her brother's gentle voice met her ears, she made her decision. "N-No," she replied shakily. "I-I…"
He watched her patiently as she struggled to finish. "H-How much… how much t-time do you h-have?"
"Take as much of it as you need," was Éomer's firm response.
Gúthwyn stared down at her knees. She could back out still, if she wanted to. She could leave his room, and return to her own. Return to the maggots.
Shuddering, she repressed the urge to scratch at her arm, but glanced surreptitiously at it. There was nothing on the skin. "I-I met him," she whispered, "m-my first day…"
She began telling him the story. Not a single detail did she leave out. Bitterness filled her as she recounted how foolish she had been, how she had mistakenly believed Haldor to be the most wonderful person in all of Middle-earth, how she had even fallen in love with him. Éomer listened carefully, saying not a word, and for that she was grateful. But when she came to her first night in the Elf's tent, and told him of how he had threatened her with the children's lives before removing her leggings, his eyes flashed dangerously. The hand on her arm was gripping so tightly that she winced—but it was the shame and disgrace that hurt more.
Éomer looked like he would murder someone as she continued her tale, telling him about the knife Haldor had so frequently used on her, how he had once made her best friend do it. She did not mention Borogor's name, for she could not bear to say it aloud, yet her brother let the matter pass by. Indeed, he soon forgot it as she shakily recounted Haldor informing her that she was an experiment, and even more so as she told him about Hammel and the Elf taking a walk together.
Here Gúthwyn faltered, hardly able to get the words out. She could not believe she had played so easily into Haldor's hands, and it was almost too embarrassing to say how he had manipulated her into going to his tent for information. But she gritted her teeth and shared her humiliation with Éomer anyway. Once or twice, she glanced up at him; he was silent, yet his eyes were so dark that she soon quailed and lowered her gaze.
The story only became harder as she went on, telling him of Haldor's countless beatings and the innumerable sessions in his tent. All too soon, she came to the Elf tying her up against the wall, naked, and leaving her there until she begged for her life. The tears swelled within her again, so that she could barely see her own trembling hands before her, and this time she did not even dare look at Éomer. She could only imagine how pathetic he thought her, for giving in to Haldor's whispers and roaming hands so easily; she could only imagine the shame he would say she had brought upon the family, how she was a miserable disgrace.
Still, he spoke no word. Gúthwyn was beginning to struggle with her sentences, stumbling over them and at times having to start entire events over again. She nearly threw up as she told him about how Haldor had forced her to eat her own vomit, how he had then made her eat an entire slab of the foul meat, all before he allowed her to return to the tent. But then, as she began saying how Lumren had attacked her one night, she realized her body was shaking uncontrollably. What Haldor had done to her because of that… what she had done…
She leaned over, clutching at her stomach and almost gagging. It was costing her every ounce of pride she no longer had to admit to Éomer how much of a whore his sister was. But as a hand was placed on her back, she whispered hoarsely, "He told me… he told me to get on my knees in front of him…" Her voice was fading, so that her brother had to lean in to hear her. "He told me t-t-to… to p-p-please him…"
And then Haldor was inside her mouth; he had fistfuls of her hair in either hand, and he was pulling her closer… She could not escape; she thought she was going to choke… Then there was a bitter liquid everywhere, and he pushed her away from him… She was dying, surely—no pride left, nothing, just her pathetically limp body crawling towards the door…
Gúthwyn buried her face in her hands. She felt as if she were about to vomit. The tears were stinging at her eyelids, burning so ferociously that she very nearly let them spill over. But Haldor had said that it was weak, and she had already disgraced herself. If she did so again, what would Éomer say? What would he think of her?
Why she kept speaking, she did not know. Even when her voice cracked and faded, even when she was fighting tooth and nail against the tears that were threatening to overwhelm her, she sought to finish the story. Éomer already knew that she had slain him; but there was one final piece, one that she could not stop herself from saying even if she had tried. For almost a year, she had kept this shame bottled inside her, thinking back to it in the dark nights and feeling a small part of her die with each memory.
"When… When I returned… H-He w-was dead… H-Haldor was there, a-and I…"
Through all of this, Éomer had not said a word. Gúthwyn was beginning to feel it in the depths of her stomach: He was disappointed. Angry with her. Embarrassed to be her brother. And nothing that she told him now would change that; what she was about to say, what she was about to tell him, would be what made him cast her away. But she could not stop herself from bursting out:
"I-I made love to him!"
She met Éomer's eyes then. They were filled with disgust and hatred, only augmented as tears started blurring her vision. "I-I…" She staggered to her feet as if drunk. What had she been thinking? How could she have told him all this? What have I done? she moaned silently, taking a quaking step towards the door.
A hand closed about her wrist. "Gúthwyn," Éomer said, his breathing ragged. "Come here."
She could not disobey him, and sat back down. Then she gasped, all the air leaving her body: He had wrapped his arms around her tightly, pulling her to his chest. Confusion washed over her, and this time she had to blink twice as fast to keep the tears at bay. "A-Are you not m-mad?" she asked, waiting for his rejection with a terrified heart.
"Mad?" he repeated harshly, and she squeezed her eyes shut. The lump in her throat was too much to bear—any minute, she felt as if she were going to cry. No! she yelled at herself. Crying is weak!
For a moment, there was silence. Then he growled, "Yes."
Her heart froze.
"If you had not already killed that… that bastard, I would have hunted him down and ripped him limb from limb," Éomer snarled, his hold on her painful. "How he treated you was despicable. It makes me sick to my stomach to hear of all that he did!"
"W-What about m-me? A-Are you a-angry with me, t-too?" she had to know, utterly bewildered as to why he had not ridiculed and scorned her for her deeds.
Yet Éomer was the one who now seemed perplexed. His arms lowered, and he turned her around so that he was gazing directly into her eyes. She shivered uncontrollably, wanting to look away. "Why would you think such a thing?" he demanded, gripping her shoulders.
Her lips were trembling, try as she might to stop them. "I-I th-thought," she replied, each word a gasp, "th-that everything I-I did w-w-would make you… th-that you would be… a-a-ashamed… b-because I am a-a-a whore… I-It was why I did-did not sh-show myself at f-first, because I-I thought you w-would hate me…"
"Did you think I would turn you away," Éomer asked, his eyes narrowing, "because of how that monster tortured you?"
She nodded, unable to speak.
"Gúthwyn, you are my sister!" Éomer exclaimed, looking aghast. "I love you and Éowyn more than all of Middle-earth! Nothing will change that! How could you think I would abandon you?"
Her chest was heaving up and down with sobs, none of which had escaped her yet. Gúthwyn screwed her face up against the tears, trying to hide her face from her brother's piercing gaze. All of the weight of the past four years had accumulated so heavily on her shoulders that she thought she would never be rid of it… what she would not give to cast it away…
"Gúthwyn," Éomer said quietly, cupping her chin with a strong hand, "you do not have to mask your grief."
Frantically, she shook her head. If the tears came now… She could not even contemplate it.
"You are home," Éomer continued, his voice low; "no one will think the worse of you."
Something wet began sliding down her cheeks. Gúthwyn gasped as she started crying, incapable of stopping herself. With a muffled howl of revulsion, she buried her face in Éomer's chest. Arms wrapped around her, drawing her close to his warmth and protection. Her body shook in his grasp, frail and defeated by Haldor's abuse. Everything the Elf had done to her was pouring down her face, soaking the fabric of her brother's shirt.
"I-I feel so disgusting," she choked out, and a fresh wave of tears burst forth from her eyes.