The Rohan Pride Trilogy
Part Three: Terms
Book Two
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. Terms will be divided into two books.
About Chapter Eleven:
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 Eleven
The sun had not yet touched the horizon when a scout hailed Théoden and his Riders. They halted beside the river and waited for the man to approach them. Gúthwyn squinted, but did not recognize him. On horse he went, drawing close to the king before checking the animal and giving a low bow. "My lord," he said, "I have been sent to escort thee through Harrowdale."
"Well met, Éowine," Théoden replied, inclining his head. "I can feel already we near the valley."
"Aye, and—" Just then, Éowine caught sight of Gúthwyn, who had been next to Éowyn and Éomer. His eyes widened in astonishment, and he stared with unabashed curiosity.
"My niece, Gúthwyn," Théoden said, seeing the Rider's confusion. At this, Éowine's mouth fell open, and he bowed deeply.
"Forgive me, my lady," he murmured. "I did not know—"
"You have been stationed at Dunharrow long, good man," Théoden said. "Perhaps Grimbold should have relieved you of your duties more often."
"I would not have it, my lord," Éowine responded, glancing once more at Gúthwyn. She smiled at him.
Éowine led them into the valley, and as they went cries of "Théoden King! The King of the Mark returns!" met their ears. Gúthwyn delighted in this, as the sound of her people in good spirits lifted her heart above many troubles. There were a great number of tents arrayed in the valley—so many that she could not help but gasp in amazement. She could not even begin to count the number of tents there, gleaming white against the broad green lawn. All around them, men were bustling, sharpening their weapons or making fires to cook food. Some families were there, adding children's laughter to the noise. Many of the people called out to Théoden as moved down the field; some were officers, shouting out the number of men they had brought.
Éomer laughed at her expression. "Hold your awe until we reach the Firienfeld, sister!" he said. "Then you might look down upon them all."
"Indeed," Éowyn added, an amused grin on her face, "they seem far greater when you are turned away from the shadow of the Dwimorberg."
"Why do you call it the Dwimorberg?" a voice asked. Gúthwyn looked around, and then with no small surprise saw Merry, riding near them on a small pony.
"Merry!" she exclaimed, her smile broad. "To ride so near the king is an honor, and I am glad that you are with us."
"I have sworn my service to Théoden," was his proud reply, "as a squire!"
Gúthwyn could not help but raise her eyebrows. The Halfling had had little experience in battle, and he was hardly taller than most of the children. What use Théoden could find for him, she did not know. Yet she covered her puzzlement swiftly, and said, "I bid thee welcome, then, and I hope you find such a position rewarding."
"It is already reward enough," Merry said, "if I get to see places like these on my travels."
"It is called the Dwimorberg, Merry," Éowyn spoke, returning them to their original conversation, "because the name means Haunted Mountain, and through it run the Paths of the Dead."
Even though night was coming, Gúthwyn knew Merry did not shiver from the cold. "The Paths of the Dead, my lady?" he asked, frowning. "They do not sound cheerful."
Éomer smiled grimly. "That is because no one has ever sought to traverse them and emerged alive."
"Oh," Merry said, and was silent for the rest of the ride.
They passed through the Harrowdale, and came to the Stair of the Hold. They were winding, and at each turn there was a statue. Gúthwyn stared at them as she rode by, for she had never seen their likes, and doubted that they were made by the Rohirrim. Thousands of years old did they seem to be; their faces were weathered almost featureless. She could only see their eyes, staring at her somberly.
"The Púkel-men," Éomer muttered.
For a moment, Gúthwyn felt a strange kind of pity for their lost expressions, but the sentiment soon disappeared as they came to the Firienfeld. Most of the tents here were for the king's guard; there would be one for herself and Éowyn as well. Remembering Cobryn and Lebryn, who had been riding at the back of the group, she looked behind her quickly and was pleased to see that they were still there. As a matter of fact, they were speaking with Tun.
She blinked in mild surprise, and then smiled before returning her attentions to the front of the line. Théoden was halting Snowmane, so she followed suit with Heorot. Dismounting and landing lightly on the ground, she asked Éowyn, "How many days do you think we will be here?"
Éowyn glanced at her suspiciously. "They will be here perhaps no later than tomorrow," she replied. "We will stay here until news from the battle is brought back to us."
Gúthwyn nodded, trying to keep her face from flushing. "Are you to be in charge of the people?" she inquired, scratching playfully at Heorot's ears. He snorted, trying to lick her fingers.
"That will be my duty, I imagine," Éowyn said with a sigh. Gúthwyn watched her sister's brow furrow, as if she were thinking hard upon something.
A tap on her shoulder alerted her to her brother's presence. "Bring Windfola and Heorot with me," he said to her and Éowyn, gesturing to where the horses were being kept. She glanced over, and immediately noticed that something was off: The animals were whinnying nervously, tossing their heads and stamping on the ground. Some of the men trying to die them down were struggling with their mares.
Even as she looked, Heorot whickered anxiously. She did not have to wonder what the source of his distress was: Suddenly she became aware of a shadow that had fallen over her face, and gazed up. A frown came over her as she saw the peak of the Dwimorberg rising over them all. The men here were far quieter than those in the Harrowdale, and it was not a mystery to her. A chill seemed to exude itself from the mountain, bringing with it faint whispers of darkness.
"Gúthwyn?"
She shook herself out of her reverie and glanced at Éomer. "Sorry," she said. "I just was lost in my thoughts."
They led their horses over to the makeshift paddock, tying them up near the other ones. Heorot neighed, attempting to pull away as she finished the last not. "Calm down, boy," she whispered, reaching out to stroke his mane. He whinnied at her touch, but she persisted until he became less nervous. "There you are, good…"
She was removing the saddle when Legolas and Gimli made their way over. Legolas nodded at her briefly, and somewhat flustered she returned the gesture, trying to ignore the twisting of her stomach.
"The horses are restless," Legolas said to Éomer, "and the men are quiet."
Her brother put Firefoot's saddle down on a post, and turned a troubled face to the Dwimorberg. "They grow nervous in the shadow of the mountain," he explained, sighing.
"That road there," Gimli said suddenly, pointing with a gloved finger: "where does that lead?"
Gúthwyn came to stand beside them, relieving herself of Heorot's saddle and following the Dwarf's gaze. There was a great fissure in the rock, leading to a misty fog in which she could see nothing. The door to the Paths of the Dead, she thought, shuddering slightly. It had an ill omen about it, and she had no desire to draw closer to it.
"It is the road to the Dimholt," Legolas answered unexpectedly, startling her, "the door under the mountain." His face was grave; Gúthwyn wondered how much he knew about it. Her hands trembled when he caught her eye.
"None who venture there ever return," Éomer said darkly. "That mountain is evil."
He turned away from them then, going over to Éowyn. Her sister was helping Merry unsaddle his pony, as the Halfling did not have much experience with horses. Gúthwyn was left alone with Legolas and Gimli. "Do you have accommodations, my lords?" she asked politely, trying to think of something Éowyn might say in this type of situation.
Gimli chuckled. "So now that you are a lady, we are lords?" he asked, and she blushed, not meeting Legolas' eyes. A familiar queasy feeling was winding its way through her belly.
Mercifully, she was spared from the awkward exchange when someone called her name. Turning around, she saw Cobryn and Lebryn approaching, looking none the worse despite riding for many hours. Her face stretched into a broad smile. "I am sorry I did not speak much to you on the road," she said as they came nearer. "But I see that you have made friends with my champion?" It was a question, not a statement—she certainly hoped it was so.
"Your champion," Lebryn snickered, pushing his dark hair out of his face. "Convenient, eh?"
"Please, Lebryn," she replied, rolling her eyes at his humor. "Do not make me slap you again."
He winced, unconsciously rubbing his cheek. "That hurt," he muttered ruefully. "You should have warned me."
"Again, peace between the two of you," Cobryn interjected exasperatedly. "You are both like children, in that you constantly bicker amongst yourselves."
Gúthwyn knew that he was not in the least bit angry with either of them, and she smiled at Lebryn in a silent apology. He nodded, though his hand lingered on his face for awhile.
"Anyway," Cobryn said, "yes, we were talking with Tun. He is certainly polite and courteous enough." His lips curled into a mischievous grin. "I presume only because you have assured him that neither of us are trying to capture your heart?" Gúthwyn's eyes widened as her friend laughed. "It was rather obvious that he was not too pleased with us upon our arrival."
"Since you mentioned it, I did tell him that," she replied, her cheeks turning a faint pink color. "Éomer asked me the same thing, if you remember."
Cobryn was about to respond when someone shouted her name. She recognized Tun's voice and smiled before facing him.
"My lady," Tun greeted her, bowing. He nodded at Cobryn and Lebryn. "I do not have duty now," he said, "and there is something I thought you might like to see."
There was a slight grin about his face as he told her this, and Gúthwyn asked, "Is it a surprise?"
He thought for a moment, his brown eyes lifted upwards in concentration. "Well," he said eventually, "perhaps not. I will show you, and let you be the judge."
"That sounds like a plan," Gúthwyn agreed cheerfully, and beamed up at him. "Show me the way, my friend!"
"Cobryn, Lebryn, you may come if you wish," Tun offered, smiling. "You might well enjoy the sight."
He led them through the Firienfeld. As they went, she saw Éomer enter Théoden's tent, though not without giving her companions a warning glance. Cobryn made an indistinct noise when her brother did this, but chose not to comment. Without further incident, they arrived at the end of the field. Tun guided her to the very edge of it, putting a cautious hand on her arm so that she did not lose her footing and tumble over the precipice. It was well that he did, for what she saw below her made her breathless and dizzy with wonder.
Stretching across the Harrowdale were countless rows of tents, going nearly as far as her eye could see. All around them, Riders were hurrying up and down the camp; now and then, snatches of their conversation drifted up to the Firienfeld. The smell of horses and armor was in the air, heavenly to her as she inhaled and exhaled deeply. If she had thought the muster at Edoras was awe-inspiring, that was nothing compared to what she was seeing now. There had to have been at least five thousand Riders, all stoically preparing to march to war.
"Your people, my lady," Tun declared, bowing.
Gúthwyn could hardly speak for happiness. "This is amazing," she at last managed, overwhelmed with delight at such an incredible view. "I…" she trailed off, unable to find the words to describe her joy.
"I can see why you love these people so much," Cobryn said, looking down upon the valley. He seemed to take more pleasure in her gladness than anything else, though his gaze was interested as he scanned the columns of tents. Beside him, Lebryn was silent, yet she could see his eyes were wide.
"I would do anything for them," Gúthwyn replied passionately, leaning forward to observe the Harrowdale better.
Tun's grip on her arm tightened. "Be careful," he murmured.
"Do not worry," she replied, a broad grin on her face. "I have no intention of going anywhere."
Gúthwyn lay on her pallet, flicking through the pages of Beregil's book by the light of a small candle. She was all alone in the tent, as Éowyn had left to present Merry with his armor and speak to him about his duties. Although she enjoyed her sister's company, she did not mind the privacy, for it gave her a chance to sort through her tumbled thoughts.
A soft sigh escaped her as she withdrew the page upon which poor Beregil had scribed "The Warrior." The past few weeks had been so busy that she had barely had time to think about the two brothers. Yet now her mood was glum as she reflected bitterly on all of the terrible turns her life had taken. More than ever, she cursed herself for her stupidity. A part of her felt that, if only she had realized Borogor's love in time, he would not have perished in Ithilien. It was foolish to think in such ways, but she could not help it.
She wrapped her cloak—Borogor's—around her tightly as her misery deepened. Every fiber of her body yearned for his touch, be it only his comforting hand on her shoulder, or his forehead against hers. Why had she not taken the opportunity while he was with her? How could she have been so ignorant, naively thinking that they were just friends? Now, she knew that all along they had been more than companions, he even more than someone that she completely relied on both physically and mentally. Without him, she would have been driven insane long ago.
Gúthwyn could not bring herself to read "The Warrior" now: Surely she would not be able to make it through the first few lines without bursting into tears. Already she could feel them pricking at the corners of her eyes, causing them to burn and the words before her to blur. The more she thought about Borogor, and how she would have agreed to be his wife without a second's hesitation—would they have started a family together?—the more her mind began turning to the children.
It was maddening that she did not know where exactly Hammel and Haiweth were, nor what had happened to them. She felt as if she were wandering in a thick fog, unable to reach out for them. How many days had passed since she had killed Haldor? As her mind quickly banished memories of his scarlet face and piercing blue eyes, she reckoned that not much more than two weeks had gone by. Could someone have found the Elf's body by then and brought the news to Mordor? Would Sauron even have the children killed then, if her corpse was not with Haldor's? Or would he have them slain anyway?
Gúthwyn was distracted by the flap to her tent unexpectedly opening. Wondering if Éowyn had returned from girding Merry, she glanced up, but did not see anything. Instead, she heard high-pitched giggles. It was then that a child poked his head into the tent, an impish grin on his face.
"Hello, little one," Gúthwyn said, smiling as she put Beregil's book down. "How did you get up here?"
None of the Riders in the Firienfeld had children that she knew of; someone from the Harrowdale had to have brought him up.
"Mama said I could come," the boy beamed, and bounced over to her. He was about three or four; his hair was in desperate need of a brushing, as golden locks were flying all over his face.
Gúthwyn shifted so that he could sit next to her, amused at his boldness. "And what might your name be?"
"Heahtor," the boy replied, stumbling slightly over the name and grinning sheepishly at his mistake. Gúthwyn's smile broadened: Laughter.
"You are aptly named," she told him.
"What are you reading?" he asked curiously, touching Beregil's book.
Gúthwyn ignored the clenching of her stomach as she answered, "It is a book of poems that a friend wrote."
"Poems?" the boy wrinkled his nose; evidently they were not interesting enough for his tastes. "Will you play with me?" he inquired instead, looking up at her hopefully.
She could not have refused his adorable eyes even if she had wanted to. "Of course," she said merrily. "But only if your mother allows it."
For a moment, Heahtor seemed put out. Biting his lip, he said, "Mama doesn't smile here."
"Not even at you?" Gúthwyn asked, though she knew the source of his mother's distress: The prospect of Heahtor's father going out to war, and the Dwimorberg that ever loomed as a great shadow over Dunharrow.
Heahtor shook his head sadly, but then brightened. "Can we play now?" he wanted to know.
"Absolutely," Gúthwyn said, standing up. "First, take me to your mother."
He pouted, having that young desire to get what he wanted now, though she would not be deterred. "It will only be for a moment," she reminded him.
Looking somewhat mollified, he took her hand and would have started pulling her out of the tent, but for one thing. "What is your name?" he asked, craning his neck to gaze up at her.
"It is Gúthwyn," she told him, smiling.
Heahtor frowned in concentration, and then repeated the name back to her with near-perfect pronunciation. He could not help but laugh as he said it, and began dragging her towards the tent flap. Gúthwyn, too, was unable to suppress a giggle; the sound of it only made Heahtor laugh harder.
Together they departed from the tent, and stood upon the darkening Firienfeld. She was just starting to search for a worried woman—presuming, naturally, that Heahtor's mother had no idea where her son was now—when a voice called out to them. "There you are!"
Heahtor waved energetically at a Rider who was approaching them. He was one of Théoden's guards, a higher-ranked officer based on the symbols decorating his armor. Gúthwyn realized that she recognized him from her younger days in Edoras, as he had been in and out of the Golden Hall for her entire life.
"Elfhelm," she said gladly as he came up to them.
He looked surprised that she remembered him. "My lady," he replied, bowing. A smile graced his features, then thinned slightly as he glanced down at the young boy. "I hope my nephew has not been troubling you—have you, Heahtor?"
"No!" Heahtor cried indignantly.
"Indeed, he has been wonderful company," Gúthwyn said earnestly. "We were about to find his mother, so that I might beg for a little of his time."
Elfhelm's eyes widened. "My lady," he said apologetically, "you need not bother."
"Elfhelm, I gave Heahtor my word, and I will not back out of it," she answered, though not unkindly. "Will you bring me to…" She paused, unsure of whether Heahtor was the son of a brother or a sister. When he had been at Meduseld, it was military business that he conducted—he rarely came just to visit. A small blush came to her face as she thought of all the times she had tried to waylay him; he had put up with her attentions gracefully enough, but now she wondered how exasperated he must have been with her.
"My sister," Elfhelm filled in for her. "Yes, of course I will. You may well recall her, for she was a cook at the Golden Hall until she was with child."
"Brytta?" Gúthwyn asked, astonished. She had missed the woman when she had returned to Edoras, but assumed that she had gone home to her family in this time of war.
"The same," Elfhelm confirmed.
Heahtor tugged impatiently at Gúthwyn's dress. "You said you would play!" he pouted, stamping his foot.
"And I will not break my word," Gúthwyn replied solemnly, ruffling the hair on top of his head. "Where is your mother?"
"In our tent," was his reply.
She cast a sideways glance at Elfhelm.
"I brought him here so that Brytta might have some rest," the Rider muttered, rolling his eyes at the sight of his belligerent nephew. "He is quite excited with all of the warriors and horses about, and has been chattering nonstop ever since we arrived. She is not expecting him until nightfall."
"Well, Heahtor, did you hear that?" Gúthwyn asked, nodding her thanks at Elfhelm. "We do not have to ask permission anymore."
He gave a whoop of delight, and ran in a small circle around her.
"That was a good meal, and no mistake!" Gimli rumbled contentedly, patting his stomach and sighing happily. He laid his bowl on the ground in front of him, setting the spoon in it with a satisfied smile.
Legolas glanced at his friend. "Who had more: You, or your beard?" he asked, smirking.
The Dwarf growled at him, but when he saw a few flecks of meat in his beard, he grunted in assent. Legolas chuckled, looking away from Gimli to gaze out over the Firienfeld. The two of them had just emerged onto the darkening grounds a few minutes ago, as they had been speaking with Aragorn in his tent. Something was troubling the Ranger; he could tell it in the way his friend's eyes never seemed to be focused on them, and the way in which he constantly sighed during the conversation. Legolas was beginning to worry about the man: It appeared as if a great burden of many years had been laid upon him since they had left Rivendell. He had not been eating much, either, and had declined to join them, saying that he was not hungry.
Now it was Legolas' turn to sigh in preoccupation. Yet as he did so, the sound of a child's laughter met his ears, pure and uncaring of the times to come. He turned around to see a little boy of about three or so run past, a grin of delight stretching from ear to ear. Not two seconds later Gúthwyn came into view, chasing after the child. Her long brown hair was at the mercy of the wind, and blew wildly around her face, but she did not pay it any heed. She was giggling, clearly having the time of her life.
"Who is the boy?" Gimli asked, watching them as well.
Legolas shrugged. "One of the Rider's, I expect," he replied. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as his eyes followed Gúthwyn. It was a relief to see her happy, as too often had her gaze been shrouded in terror or some deep grief.
It was her reunion with her family that had truly brought about this change in her. She loved them fiercely; it was plain for anyone to see. The sadness upon her at Théodred's burial had been heart wrenching to observe, all the more so as he realized that she had never gotten a chance to bid him farewell. He felt guilty for having seen her in such a state, as she loathed the idea of anyone thinking her weak, though at the time he had not understood her sorrow.
Yet now that Gúthwyn was with her people again, he was hard-pressed to name someone in higher spirits. The Rohirrim obviously loved her with intense devotion. It made him wonder what she had been like as a child. And she returned their affections equally, never letting a wave or a smile go unreturned. He knew that, already, Tun was enamored of her. The guard had been with her constantly, always doing his best to both protect and entertain his lady.
She had even apologized to Legolas for her behavior, something that he had to admit had shocked him. Her words had been spoken with a tremble, and she had barely been able to meet his eyes, but it had been an apology all the same. For the briefest instant, he had even seen a hesitant smile creep across her face. A small hope was growing inside him that she might overcome her fear to consider being friends. He had wanted to make amends with her ever since their meeting in Rivendell, and his chance might very well be in front of him.
Just then, the child Gúthwyn was chasing around the Firienfeld started running towards the forbidden crevice in the mountain that lead to the Paths of the Dead. Legolas straightened, but even as his eyes narrowed Gúthwyn overcame the boy and halted him. Leaning down, she whispered something in his ear; whatever it was, it made him giggle, though when she stood back up she cast an anxious glance at the Dwimorberg.
Legolas looked away, not liking the fear that he saw in her eyes.