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 Nine:
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 Nine

As Gúthwyn and Éomer entered the stables, the comforting sound of gently whinnying horses met her ears. Several stableboys were scurrying about, feeding the animals and ensuring that their water troughs were filled. All of them bowed respectively upon the siblings' arrival; many of them waved cheerfully at Gúthwyn. She smiled, returning the gestures whole-heartedly.

Heorot was in a stall close to the door, and she slipped inside it. "Hello, my friend," she murmured, coming to stand beside him. He was chewing intently on some oats, but still raised his head and sniffed her eagerly all the same. "No, I do not have anything today," she said, grinning. "You will have to be content with my company."

Taking a brush from a nearby shelf, she began working her way through Heorot's mane, which had somehow gotten rather tangled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Éomer doing the same with Firefoot. The two of them were in adjacent stalls.

"How was Heorot treated, brother, while I was away?" she asked at length, throwing a quick glance over her shoulder.

Éomer looked up at her, pausing mid-stroke to think. "Well," he replied eventually. "He was eager to go to battle, and if we sought to leave him behind he sometimes made such a racket that one of the Riders would have to relent."

Gúthwyn smirked, pleased that Heorot had been so persistent. "Good boy," she praised her horse. "You and I should not be kept out of war."

Her words had been to Heorot, but she uttered them too loud. Éomer's eyes narrowed. "You have both seen enough," he said.

Gúthwyn did not respond, not wanting to accidentally reveal that she had been at Helm's Deep. Instead, she focused her attention on Heorot, grooming him carefully. She and Éomer were silent, and not a word was spoken by either of them until ten minutes later.

"My lord?"

Both of them glanced up to see one of the stableboys hastily making his way over to them. He stopped in front of Firefoot's stall, bowing deeply. "The king wishes to speak with you in Meduseld," he said.

Éomer nodded. "Thank you," he responded, and patted his horse's flanks before exiting the stall. Gúthwyn made to follow, but her brother held his hand up. "It is likely nothing important," he said. "Enjoy your free time while you have it; I shall see you soon."

It was not her place to argue. Slightly frustrated, she watched as Éomer left the stables, closing the door behind him without a backwards glance. Silence fell, and as she looked around she realized that she was alone. All of the stableboys were doing some errand or other, and none were left inside.

Her thoughts turned to something she had told her brother earlier. "I feel… different," she had said. Even now, she was keenly aware of that strange sensation. She could not understand it. It was as if there was something that she had to do, a task she had to complete—maybe something that she owed someone? Yet she was not in debt, and indeed had little to give anyone. Perhaps she had forgotten to do a chore?

It was not until that night, when sleep evaded her, that she realized what it was.

Gúthwyn wrapped the warm blankets around her, closing her eyes firmly in hopes of capturing some much-needed rest. But only a few seconds had passed before she resignedly opened them again. She was wide awake, unable to fall asleep. A part of her was afraid that if she allowed herself to enter the land of dreams, images of Haldor would torment her mind.

At the thought of him, she shivered, and curled into a tight ball. Despite reassuring Éomer that she was all right, her mind was still a prisoner of his piercing blue gaze, his cold and pale hands that caressed her stomach in the dark. Even with three candles in her room, burning brightly in an attempt to banish her old fears, the shadows seemed to loom over her, bringing with them the familiar whispers in her ears.

Whore… you are worthless…

"No," she whispered, turning over restlessly, but she could not shake away the accusations. Her thoughts shifted to memories of Dîrbenn, swearing at her, screaming that Borogor had been planning on marrying her.

Gúthwyn sat up, knowing that sleep was not going to come to her. Already, her vision was starting to blur with tears; frantically, she kicked at the covers until they dislodged themselves from her. They landed on the floor with a soft thump, and she sighed heavily. Now shivering, she stood up, crossing the room to where her pack lay on a small table. She rummaged through it, and at last pulled out Beregil's book. As she was lifting it up, "The Warrior" slipped out and fell to the ground.

More distressed by this than she had any reason to be, she hastily bent down and picked the paper off of the floor, cringing at the sight of its torn edges. Tenderly, she replaced it, closing the book gently. She would not read it now; she would go outside, with the appearance of the stars to console her, and turn through its pages there.

Once more, she reached into Borogor's pack, this time withdrawing his cloak and fastening it around her shoulders. Returning briefly to her bed, she searched underneath it with her foot for a pair of slippers. The ones that she pulled out were a dark green, and hardly matched her white nightgown, but she could not have cared less.

She did not take a candle with her as she left her room, for dying embers of the daytime fires were always upon the hearth; furthermore, there were a few torches lining the walls, and they would be enough to see by. So she crept into the hallway with only Beregil's book in her hand. This time, she was not a terrified shadow scuttling through the passage, afraid of nightmares that sought to pursue her even in her waking. Yet she still did not walk without caution.

As she entered the throne room, Gúthwyn thought she could hear the sounds of low voices talking. Curiously, she inched farther into the room, half-hidden by a large pillar. She peered around it, scanning all of the corners and the tables. Then she paled: Aragorn was sitting at a table, a pipe in his mouth creating plumes of smoke that rose around his frame… and Legolas was directly across from him, his back to her. The Elf's silhouette was edged with moonlight.

For a moment, she stood as if frozen, unable to move. Aragorn and Legolas were speaking quietly, and she knew that she should not stand there without showing herself, yet she remained where she was. It was not as if she could hear what they were saying, for they were not that close to her and talking in near-whispers, but it was still not polite to keep herself hidden.

She was debating whether or not to return to her room when Aragorn glanced up and caught sight of her, skulking behind the pillar. His eyes widened in mild surprise, though he did not say anything. Legolas twisted around; his gaze flickered throughout the room, and finally landed on her.

Having no choice but to go over to them and explain what she had been doing, Gúthwyn slowly left the cover of the pillar and drew closer to their table. As she walked, her footsteps drew no sound from the wooden floors; nor did Aragorn or Legolas make any while they watched her. She could not read the expressions on their faces.

When she came to the table, Legolas shifted over, offering her a seat. For a long time, she hesitated, unsure of what to do. At last, she lowered herself gingerly onto the bench, clenching all of the muscles in her body. She wrapped the cloak tighter around her, and kept Beregil's book clutched firmly in her hand. Legolas glanced at it.

"I-I could not sleep," she muttered. "I did not mean to…"

Trailing off, she looked at Aragorn. He took the pipe out of his mouth. "Understandable," he said kindly, setting the pipe on the table. "Night oft brings new disturbances."

She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat, all too keenly aware that Legolas was only a foot away from her.

"Éomer said you had a troubling dream last night," Aragorn spoke, and even though his voice was gentle she stiffened.

"D-Did h-he say what it was a-about?" Gúthwyn asked nervously, her cheeks turning red. She chanced a look at Legolas, but his face had not changed.

Aragorn shook his head. "Not to Théoden, whom he was speaking to: I happened to overhear them."

She trembled in embarrassment. "Oh," she mumbled.

"Are you all right?" Legolas inquired softly, the first words he had said to her that day.

Gúthwyn glanced at him, wondering if there was any laughter hidden within his eyes. But she could not meet them for long, and soon she looked down at the table. "Y-Yes," she replied shakily. In an effort to steer the conversation away from herself, she asked, "W-What has you two up at this hour?"

She lifted her head to gaze at Aragorn as she said this, knowing that he would be the one deciding if she should be told. Already, he was looking as if he had doubts. "Middle-earth is heading for dark days," he sighed, fiddling with his pipe. As he did, she saw for the first time that he bore a ring on one of his fingers. It was silver, with two snakes intertwined; one held up a golden flower, while the other consumed it. She had never seen its like before.

Aragorn saw her staring at it, but the only thing he said was, "I would not wish to disturb you. Since our return to Rohan, you have been happy, and it is not my desire to cloud such joy with grim tidings."

"I would rather be grim and know what is to come than happy and unaware," Gúthwyn responded. "Besides, I am familiar with dark thoughts, far more so than merry ones. And did I not travel with the Company on its long and toilsome road? Nay, Aragorn, do not conceal from me your news."

Aragorn sighed. "I can see you will not be deterred," he said. "Did you hear of Pippin?"

Gúthwyn nodded, and a slight frown appeared on his face. "Then you know that he went with Gandalf to warn the Lord Denethor of the Enemy's attack?"

Again, she nodded. "If Sauron does indeed aim to strike the White City," Aragorn continued, "he will use almost all of his forces in hopes of a swift, decisive victory. You have seen for yourself how many men he has in his army, but do you know the numbers of the Orcs?"

She shook her head. They did not come into the northern region of Udûn, where the humans were encamped. As a matter of fact, she had not seen any up close during her entire stay there.

"We are not dealing with ten thousand," Aragorn said. "This is not Saruman's army marching on Helm's Deep, which is a tiny battle in the strands of time. A hundred thousand could easily lie behind the Black Gate—maybe twice that number."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened. She could not even begin to imagine anything worse than Helm's Deep, and yet Aragorn was telling her that Sauron's forces were over ten times bigger than Saruman's.

"As you are aware of," Aragorn said, leaning close and lowering his voice, "Rohan in its full strength cannot hope to have twenty thousand. Gondor has been weakened over the years. Perhaps four or five thousand men could she get from her allies, but it would be foolish to hope for more. In Minas Tirith, I do not think there could possibly be three thousand able-bodied men. All told, at best we are facing a hundred thousand Orcs with twenty-eight thousand Men."

Gúthwyn blanched. "So there is no hope," she said, her palms beginning to sweat. "Is that what you mean to say?"

"They said there was no hope for Helm's Deep," Aragorn replied. "Are we not alive today?"

Legolas glanced at her briefly, and her cheeks colored the slightest bit. Aragorn had a point, but the numbers they had faced at Helm's Deep had been ten times smaller.

"Do you think we would win such a fight?" she asked softly.

For a long time, Aragorn looked at her. "Unless help unlooked-for comes," he said at last, "I do not think so."

His words hit Gúthwyn harder than an iron fist slamming into her stomach. "Then if my brother rides out," she breathed, quivering, "he goes to his death?"

Aragorn did not respond, but his eyes were sorrowful. Nearly choking on her horror, Gúthwyn pressed a fist over her mouth, biting painfully into one of her fingers so that she did not cry out. For nearly eight years, she had thought that her brother was dead. To be with him for a week or two, only to have him torn away from her again, was more than she could bear. And what of Tun? Her people? Innocent boys who had not seen fifteen winters?

"Gúthwyn, Gondor has not lit its beacons yet." Legolas' voice, sounding far away, filtered in through her ears amidst the screams and groans of her people dying on a distant battlefield. "We do not know… They may not call for aid. This is only guesswork."

She was unable to say anything, but Gondor could not afford to not light the beacons. And when she did, Éomer would ride into battle, at the head of one of the columns. He would meet his death there—how could he not?

"Gúthwyn," Legolas said calmly. "Do not let despair hold you too tightly. Your people are valiant and fierce. If worse comes to worse, they will fall in honor."

His words managed to soothe her somewhat. Honor was better than nothing; death in battle was better than death in retreat. Shakily, she lowered her hand. Before, she had wanted to go outside and read Beregil's poems. Now, she only wanted to fall asleep and cast away the unexpected burden and weariness that Aragorn had laid upon her, if unwillingly.

Slowly, she stood up. "I-I think I am g-going to turn in," she said, a flush coming over her as she thought of how pathetic she must have looked in their eyes.

"I am sorry that you had to hear this," Aragorn replied, inclining his head. "But for your insistence, I would have never told you."

"I know," she whispered, and in spite of everything a brief smile came to her face.

"Gúthwyn?"

It was Legolas who had spoken; she turned to him in confusion, wondering what he could want. "Yes?"

"Goodnight," he said quietly, his blue eyes never leaving hers. "I hope you sleep well."

In that moment, Gúthwyn realized that she owed Legolas an apology.