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 Twelve:
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 Twelve

"Good evening, my lady."

Gúthwyn glanced up, knowing even before she did so that she would see Tun approaching her. She was right. Her champion sat down on the log beside her, momentarily blocking her view of the crackling fire a few feet away.

"Hello, my friend," she said, smiling. "I am glad to have company."

He looked concerned. "Have you been alone all night?"

Flattered by his worry, yet feeling more than a little guilty, she hastened to reply: "No. Éowyn, Cobryn, and Lebryn were with me for dinner, although they retired shortly after." Cobryn had offered to stay up with her, but she had declined—there was something she had had to decide, something that would affect her drastically. Her resolve was sealed now; however, half an hour ago her mind had been fraught with so much doubt that she scarcely knew what to think.

"Are you all right?" Tun's quiet voice met her ears, and she realized that she had become lost in her musings.

"Yes, I am fine," she answered, shivering slightly even though it was not terribly cold out.

Something heavy was placed around her shoulders, and she started before seeing that Tun had removed his green cloak and given it to her. "Thank you," she murmured, blushing and praying that he had not overexerted his arm with the motion.

"You seem troubled," he observed, contemplating her carefully. She felt her cheeks color at his scrutiny, but did not mind it so much with him as she would have most other men. "Are you sure everything is fine?"

Gúthwyn nodded. If truth was to be told, she was more determined than anything, thanks to little Heahtor of all people; however, she could not explain the feeling to anyone, at risk of having her meticulous plans ruined. "I suppose"—she paused, casting around for that which would not bring suspicion upon her—"I am worried for the men."

Tun sighed softly. Théoden had given orders that the Riders were to leave at dawn tomorrow, as otherwise they would be too late to aid Gondor. Aragorn was part of the reason for this haste; she knew the Ranger was frustrated in the delay that the mustering brought, though it could not be helped with such a large population. "We may yet return," he said, without much hope in his expression.

"Maybe," Gúthwyn agreed, her voice somber and lonesome. After hearing of the odds against them, which were admittedly less overwhelming than Helm's Deep but far greater in number, she felt that, like as not, they were all riding to their deaths. Before her encounter with Heahtor, she might have been the one to whom such horrible tidings were brought; now, however, she would not have to worry about what befell the Rohirrim in their final hour.

"Gúthwyn?" Tun asked, his words quieter than normal. She looked at him, and for a moment it seemed as if he were going to say something important. Then he exhaled, breaking the illusion. "I worry for what will happen to you if… if the battle should go wrong."

"Do not say such things," she replied, putting a hand on his shoulder and allowing a small smile to cross her features. "It is most unbecoming of a champion to speak so morosely to his lady."

"I suppose you are right," Tun admitted, and stood up. "May I escort you to your tent?" he asked, offering his hand out to her. "The night grows old, and it would not be good for you to stay up too late."

She allowed him to pull her to her feet. "I will have to bid the men farewell tomorrow," she sighed. "Many a face shall I look into and wonder if I will ever see them again—yours not the least of them."

"Do not grieve," Tun urged her as they began walking towards her tent. "If you lose hope, then I have none for myself."

Gúthwyn did not have the heart to tell him that her hopes had just been reborn, yet lay somewhere far away from her champion. "I shall not, then," she promised instead. They were standing in front of her tent now, Tun shifting awkwardly on his feet. She realized that she still had his cloak on, and hastened to remove it. "My apologies," she said, trying to hand it to him.

He looked startled, as if he had not even noticed that she still wore it. Then he took her hand, which was beneath the brooch, and closed it over the metal clasp. "Keep it," he responded.

Firmly, Gúthwyn held it out to him. "This is part of your uniform," she reminded him, "and men will ask questions. Wear it proudly tomorrow, and all the days after until your doom is to be decided."

He had no choice but to take the cloak back. "As you wish, my lady," he said, bowing. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Tun."

When she entered the tent, struggling in the dark to find her way to her pallet without awakening her sister, there was a rustling noise. Éowyn sat up, her gold hair glimmering silver in the pale moonlight filtering in through the slightly open tent flap.

"I am sorry," Gúthwyn whispered, lowering herself onto a blanket. "I did not mean to disturb—"

"I was not asleep," Éowyn answered. Indeed, as her eyes adjusted to the light, Gúthwyn saw that her sister was still fully dressed, and was surprised at this.

"Is something wrong?" she wondered in mild confusion.

Éowyn glanced at her, shaking her head. "No, nothing," she said. "Why would you ask?"

Gúthwyn sensed that this was not the best time to press her sister. "Never mind," she murmured, yawning a little and stretching out on her pallet.

"Was that Tun you were talking to?" Éowyn inquired, though Gúthwyn was aware that her sister knew fully well that it was her champion.

"Yes," she replied, and Éowyn gazed at her keenly.

"You have been spending much of your time with him, have you not?"

Gúthwyn nodded. "Do you remember when we were younger, how I used to spend all of my days with him?"

She thought her sister looked exasperated for a few seconds, as if Gúthwyn had not understood the question, and thus had not answered it properly. But Éowyn did not say anything more on the matter; being rather perplexed, Gúthwyn remained silent as well. As the minutes passed without spoken word, she found her thoughts turning to other things.

And she had much to sift through in her mind. Hammel and Haiweth's faces flashed before her. Because of Heahtor, who had done nothing more than shown her how much she missed having a young one to watch over, she had come to a realization: She could not just leave them in Mordor without a backward glance. Even if her mission had failed, and so their deaths guaranteed, she had loved them for over three years. Such fierce protection she could not abandon in their time of need.

If only two weeks had passed since her killing Haldor—her fingers trembled—there was a possibility that Sauron had not yet learned of it. He might still think her trying to find the Ring and return it to him. That is, unless Frodo and Sam had been captured, and he already had the Ring.

She immediately dismissed the notion out of her mind. If Sauron had the Ring, and it were truly as powerful as Gandalf and the Council had said, they would have known about it immediately. So the Dark Lord's search remained in vain, none of his labors bearing fruit. All the better for her, especially if she was considered one of these labors. He would not endanger a possibility of success—or would he?

Gúthwyn thought back to her interrogation with Aragorn. As painful as it had been, he had planted several seeds of disquiet in her mind. He clearly believed that Sauron's intent had been to kill her off while she was in the wilderness, likely so that Haldor could continue the task in her stead. If she knew anything about Haldor, which was surprisingly little in comparison to that which he knew about her, he would have sent a message to the Dark Lord the moment he had slain her, before her body was even cold. The children would have been dead within the week.

Yet that scheme had gone terribly, horribly wrong for the Elf. Gúthwyn had been the one who emerged triumphant from their duel. It was Haldor's corpse that lay on the foliage, decaying under the sun. And perhaps—a slim chance it was, but perhaps—she had been wrong to dismiss Hammel and Haiweth's fates as sealed. Maybe they had not perished. Maybe Sauron was delaying their deaths until word from Haldor came. She might have days or weeks until his patience ran out.

Gúthwyn sighed, and cursed her folly in a whisper so quiet that she could not even hear it herself. Outside, a horse's hooves lightly sounded, and then stopped. If only she had realized this before the beacons had been lit, she could have gone back to Mordor. If she had left Edoras in the middle of the night, no one would have noticed her passing. She had the password to give to those on top of the Black Gate upon her return; all she had to do was shout it, and they would let her in.

From there, it would have been a matter of finding the children before Sauron could send someone to detain her, and making sure they left Mordor on the horse that she used to enter. Gúthwyn did not doubt that her fate would be grim, once the Dark Lord learned that she had not upheld her end of the bargain. She was probably facing torture unimaginable in the dark pits of Barad-dûr, and a terrible death in some sunless dungeon. Yet if it was to be so in order to ensure Hammel and Haiweth's freedom, then she would not have it any other way.

But now that the beacons had been lit, and Rohan was riding off to battle, there was a thousand times more risk to her plan. Gúthwyn had no intention of being left behind while the men won renown on the field. She would have to disguise herself again, though she had done so before—and succeeded. And this time, she would be sure to keep as far away from Legolas as humanly possible.

Even if no one recognized her, the Rohirrim still had to be the winners of the battle in order for victory to be hers. She could not very well emerge from the opposing army and waltz her way to the Mountains of Shadow. No; she would be shot down before she had gotten fifty feet. But if her people defeated the forces of Sauron, none would be left to hinder her passing. She could get to Mordor easily, and free the children.

If only she had thought of her plan before Gondor had sent for help! Now, she could not steal away from her people in the dark of night: Sauron's armies were probably already marching on Osgiliath, the nearest Gondorian city to his realm, and she had no hope of reaching the Mountains of Shadow without being taken by the Enemy and questioned. That option was closed.

Gúthwyn restlessly turned over. By a combination of her own stupidity and the courses of the past week, she had only one choice. She would fight in the battle, and do her best to help her people win. If the Dark Lord's armies were defeated, and she was not killed, she would be able to ride to Mordor. From there, she would give the password, and find the children before she was taken to see Sauron. Assuming all went right, the odds of which were smaller than her littlest finger, Hammel and Haiweth would reach Gondor at about the time she was put under her first torture machine.

In this dark hour, Gúthwyn very nearly laughed. So much could go so wrong—her plan was about as hopeless as the battle of Helm's Deep had been. Yet had that not been won? There was a chance of success for her, just as there had been for the defenders of that fortress. It merely happened to be incredibly, incredibly slim. She was smiling wryly when, at that moment, Éowyn stood up, and without a backward glance left the tent.

Gúthwyn blinked, wondering what on earth her sister was doing wandering around in the middle of the night. As she lay there in confusion, she heard the sound of a horse whinnying. It sounded like Brego, whom Aragorn had been riding. A sudden, sinking feeling wormed its way into her stomach, but she dared not follow Éowyn for fear of being seen.

Anxiously, she sat up and stared fixatedly at the billowing canvas, willing her sister to return. For several minutes she waited there, shivering in the windy night. Before much time had passed, she had taken Chalibeth's cloak out and wrapped it around herself. Still Éowyn did not come back. A quarter of an hour went by.

She was about to leave the tent to find her sister, regardless of how private her business may have been, when the tent flap opened. Gúthwyn did not pretend to be asleep as Éowyn slipped inside, rubbing something from her face. Even in the gloom, she thought her eyes looked red—as if she had been crying.

"Éowyn?" Gúthwyn asked softly. Her voice was as frozen water being poured onto her sister: Éowyn stiffened in shock, and for nearly a full minute was silent.

"I did not know you were awake," she said at last, her voice colder and sterner than it normally was. Éomer would not have thought it strange, had he been there, but Gúthwyn had not seen her sister in the days of Théoden's enchantment; to her, it was frightening to gaze upon the White Lady of Rohan and truly realize what the title meant.

"I… what happened?" Gúthwyn questioned, at a loss for what else to say.

"Nothing, sister. Do not worry yourself; you are pale and thin enough as it is."

Gúthwyn knew the words were not intended to be an insult, and she did not take it as one. "Éowyn, I would hear what has made you upset, for then I might hope to amend your grief." If Aragorn had done or said anything, she would hunt the hunter down and make him regret his catch.

Éowyn stood there for a moment, as fragile and slender as a lily in a dark pool, and finally said: "Lord Aragorn is leaving."

Wincing at the defeated tone in those words, Gúthwyn asked, "What do you mean?" Even as she spoke, she paid close attention to the guarded face before her.

But her sister did not answer her, and at length Gúthwyn decided to find out for herself. She stood up; though Éowyn stirred, she did not move to stop her, and she passed unhindered through the flap. Coming out into a night darker than most, she hesitated for an instant before continuing. All around her, the light from watch fires soon came into view, beckoning cheerfully, but she did not give them another glance. Instead, she made her way to where the horses were kept. Somehow, she was not surprised to see a familiar Man walking away from the paddocks, his head bowed and his hand entwined about the lead rope of Brego.

"Aragorn!" she called, lifting the hem of her nightgown and running towards him. She knew it was not proper to be out so scantily dressed—propriety be damned, she thought as he turned around.

The Ranger's eyes were wary as she approached him. "Where are you going?" Gúthwyn asked, slowing to a stop and looking at Brego. She could tell from the way the horse had been prepared that this was no short journey. A sudden flare of anger rushed through her. "Are you leaving us before the battle begins, much like the coward Gríma left when his enchantments were laid bare?"

"I am not abandoning your people," Aragorn replied wearily, seeming to not have the heart to speak with her. "I go to seek aid."

She would not let him off the hook. "Then you were facing the wrong way," she said, "for that is the way to the Dimholt, and only death lies there." She could not help shivering as she glanced at the forbidding mountain.

Aragorn's voice was calm. "Then mayhap it is to death I go, but a messenger came to me in the night. I am taking the Paths of the Dead."

His words hit her like a gigantic fist swinging into her stomach, briefly robbing her of all the breath in her lungs. Was this man mad? Ever since Baldor had attempted to traverse those deadly passages, and vanished without a trace, none had dared to try them, or even retrieve the prince's body.

At last regaining the ability to speak, she stammered, "B-But… surely you jest!"

He looked at her keenly. "I would not jest about such a topic," he replied. "It is the road I must take."

Gúthwyn's face grew pale. "You cannot abandon the men!"

Aragorn's eyes narrowed. "That is exactly what your sister said to me," he told her, once more appearing guarded. "And she is the reason you are here, is she not?"

"What did you do?" Gúthwyn demanded, stepping closer and glaring.

"I told her the truth," Aragorn answered, and she was stricken to hear the regret in his tone. "That what she desires, I cannot fulfill."

"You knew she loved you," Gúthwyn hissed, her hands curling into fists, "from the moment she met you! Why did you let her think that you returned her feelings?"

Aragorn's eyes blazed, the fire in them so terrible to behold that she stepped back. "I have done no such thing," he said, his voice in contrast to his gaze cold iron. "You speak of that which you know little. I have wanted Éowyn to be happy, but I would not entertain her wishes if I had no intention of granting them!"

"Yet you found it easy to discard them!" Gúthwyn snapped, and regretted her words almost immediately.

It was then that she truly thought the Ranger would strike her. His hand rose several inches before he stopped himself, the expression on his face twisted with fury—yet not all of it was directed at her.

She felt her eyes widen in horror, though her disgust was at her callous words rather than his restrained anger. "I-I am sorry," she whispered, shame coloring her cheeks a bright red. "I did not… I should not have…"

"I love your sister," Aragorn said quietly, "as just that: a sister. It grieves me to know that I have only added to her pain, rather than eased it."

Gúthwyn bowed her head, embarrassed that she had let her emotions carry her so far. "I am sorry," she muttered again.

"You seek to defend those you love," Aragorn said, "and that I understand; I do not hold you to your words."

He spoke kindly, but she could not keep her face from flushing.

"Farewell."

She raised her head and looked at him, yet somehow a proper reply would not form in her mouth. At length he nodded, turning away and starting to lead Brego through the tents.

Then she ran after him, drawing his attention with the sound of her footsteps. "What shall I tell my uncle when he asks where you have gone?" she asked breathlessly, coming to a halt beside him.

He looked at her, not slowing down. "Théoden knows I have an errand that must be done."

"Does he know what your errand is?" she could not help inquiring.

Aragorn was spared from responding when a short, stout figure suddenly stood up in front of them. "Just where do you think you are off to?" Gimli wanted to know, his voice a low grumble.

She watched Aragorn sigh, clearly not pleased with the delay. "Not this time," the Ranger said, pausing in his stride. "This time you must stay, Gimli."

"You will take Gúthwyn in a dress and without a sword, yet I cannot go?" Gimli retorted, casting a puzzled look at her.

"She is not going," Aragorn quickly said, and glanced at her as if to say that she should not get any ideas.

"Then you will need company on the road," Gimli replied easily, slipping an axe into his belt.

Aragorn made as if to shake his head, but then a dryly amused voice met their ears. "Have you learned nothing of the stubbornness of Dwarves?" Legolas asked, joining the group. He was leading Arod. For a brief moment, her eyes met his, and he tilted his head in a silent inquiry. Gúthwyn became very self-conscious of just how thin her nightgown was; instinctively, she wrapped her arms around herself.

"You might as well accept it," Gimli said then. "We are going with you, laddie."

She watched as a small smile crept over Aragorn's face, despite his earlier resolution to travel alone. "It seems as if I am doomed to lead you into peril," he sighed.

"So you will not be dissuaded?" Gúthwyn asked quietly.

All three of them looked at her. "No," Aragorn replied at length. "I will not."

A heavy feeling settled into her heart. "So I suppose this is the last time we will see each other, then," she said, her gaze passing over them: Aragorn, tall and kingly even in his soiled garb; Gimli, standing proudly, though he was the shortest of them all; Legolas, so much like Haldor in everything that he did, yet with no malice in his eyes as he looked upon her.

"Do not lose hope," the Elf now bade her. "We may meet again."

"I have some hope," Gúthwyn answered, her hands trembling the slightest bit, "though it is not in your return, which I doubt will come to pass."

Aragorn grinned wryly. "Your people doubted at the battle of Helm's Deep," he reminded her. "Perhaps you make the same mistake again."

"But if I do not," Gúthwyn said, "then… farewell, and may the Valar bless you."

"Farewell," both Aragorn and Gimli responded, though Legolas was silent for a time. At length, he nodded at her.

"May your road be long and prosperous," he said, and bowed. "I am sorry for whatever grievances I may have brought upon you, for I had no intent to."

"T-Thank you," Gúthwyn murmured, a hesitant smile coming to her face. Even as she did so, he shifted so that the moonlight struck his face, making his eyes glitter as Haldor's had. She valiantly fought against a shudder, and said, "Good luck."

"Thank you, Lady Gúthwyn," Legolas said, and then the three of them had turned away and disappeared into the night.