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 Fourteen:
As always, I'm using a crazy blend of movie and book canon, and it may at times get confusing. Please bear with me. Most of the scenes in this chapter are going to be based on the book, though there are obviously things I had to make up because we do not know much about this stage of the journey. Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.

Chapter Fourteen

Cobryn stood amidst a swarm of warriors that were hastily putting out fires and leaping atop their horses. It was the hour of the ride of the Rohirrim, and with the exception of the White City he did not think he had seen a more magnificent sight. The sheer numbers in themselves were astonishing. It never ceased to amaze him how these men could control their horses so efficiently, though there be thousands more around them.

He saw Éomer riding past him, making his way down a slope upon the strong Firefoot and seeming preoccupied. Beside him was Théoden. The king of Rohan was resplendent in all his glory, even before the battle had begun. His green-tinted armor gleamed in the early morning sun, and his golden hair brushed over his shoulders like brilliant rays hitting the sparkling waters of a lake.

And it was not just him. There was something beautiful, something poetic, about these people. He could easily understand Gúthwyn's love for them; a rush of adrenaline was filling him as he watched the Riders go by, though he was not part of them. They seemed to be mere extensions of their horses, completely at one with the animals.

"I do not know how I will get this thing to Minas Tirith without getting killed in the process," someone grumbled. Cobryn grinned, and turned around to see the exception to his earlier observation—Lebryn—approaching him on the black mare that he had been given. On more than one occasion he had thought that the horse took pleasure in tormenting the former slave.

"You will do fine," he assured Lebryn, patting the horse's flanks. "Are you ready?" He did not mean for the ride.

"Yes," Lebryn replied firmly, but he reached down and clasped Cobryn's shoulder briefly. "I hope to see you again. You may be impossibly annoying at times, but…" A smirk crossed his face.

Cobryn snorted. "Sit up straight in your saddle," he said in response. Lebryn rolled his eyes as he obeyed. "Good luck," he added, trying to keep his mind from imagining the younger man being slain by Orcs.

"Thank you," Lebryn said, and while he smiled, Cobryn knew that he was worried about the upcoming battle, try though he might to conceal it.

"Kill some Orcs for me, my friend," Cobryn told him, wishing sorely that he could have ridden to battle himself. If it were not for the limp…

"That I will," Lebryn vowed. With that, he steered the horse away, and followed the other Riders to the entrance of the Harrowdale. Cobryn watched him go, feeling rather like an old man sending his son off to war. He chuckled at the notion, but all the same prayed for his friend's safe return.

The last of the Rohirrim were leaving now. Cobryn turned around and caught sight of the Hobbit, Merry, standing there in something akin to confusion. He wore all of his battle gear, and was equipped with a sword. However, Cobryn knew that earlier Théoden had told him that he would not be riding out with his men. The Halfling's little horse could not bear him the distance to Gondor, the king said, and war was no place for one as his jovial squire.

Cobryn thought the last part a little unfair, but he had to agree with the fact that Merry's pony was simply not strong enough to complete such a journey. He was about to go over to the Halfling when, from out of apparently nowhere, a Rider leaned down from his horse and scooped the Hobbit up. His eyes widened in shock as Merry landed neatly on the saddle, looking just as surprised as Cobryn felt. The Rider whispered something in Merry's ear.

So, he does get his wish after all, Cobryn thought with a smile on his face. He was not about to turn the Hobbit in—he only wanted to defend his king. There was nothing wrong with that, surely?

At that time, though, Cobryn did not know that he would be feasting upon his own words less than an hour later.

In the meantime, he decided to find Gúthwyn. If truth be told, he was a little worried for her, not least of all because of their conversation this morning. It was not easy for him to forget the bitterness that had infested her voice, already rank with hopelessness. At first, he had assumed it to be frustration that she could not fight with the men, and instead was left behind to wait and wish for her brother and uncle's safe return, but as he probed her further…

His eyes narrowed. "If I had children, would you protect them?" she had asked, and had not relented until he had given her a straight answer. What had been going through her mind, Cobryn would have done much to know. She had backed away when he inquired if she was with child; there was no bulge in her stomach, which was too thin for her own good, but that did not mean she was not pregnant.

Cobryn felt his spirits deflate as his mind drifted back to Feride. She had been so beautiful on the night they had first lain together, hidden in one of the disused storage rooms inside the ring. And he did not speak of her body, as most other men would have—she had smiled then, such as he had never seen her do before. They had both been nervous about what they were doing, but he had thought it all worth it the day she had come to him and whispered in his ear that she was with child.

How wrong he had been. Just five months later, she had been taken away, and now he had neither of them. Not Feride with her smile, so rare but on its appearance more precious than any of the jewels in all of Arda; nor their child, who would have been nearing its first birthday at this point.

Morosely, he kicked at a pebble on the ground. It skittered away aimlessly, and as it did so his thoughts returned to Gúthwyn. He knew she would never intentionally seek to remind him of his wife, but to mention children in such a matter… It was not at all something he would expect her to say, and it had caught him off-guard more than he would like to admit.

Furthermore, he did not think she was being truthful when she had mentioned her courses. He was not foolish; after over a decade in Isengard, he knew which week it was that the rags were most often used, and when the moods of the women in the dwelling took a turn for the worse. It was not the right time of the month—why was Gúthwyn lying to him?

Children… Perhaps she already had some? She had spent three years in Mordor, her only company being male warriors. It seemed near impossible that she had not sought love in the arms of one of them, or that…

No, he told himself firmly. Do not think of such things.

In any case, he could not imagine Gúthwyn keeping as big a secret as motherhood from him. Nor did it seem like she had already given birth: She was too small, her hips too narrow. So was she with child, then? His mind immediately leaped to Tun, but just as quickly he discarded the idea. Tun was in love with his lady, that was obvious; yet he respected her too much and would not dare to lie with her. And in any case, Gúthwyn appeared unaware of his affections, thinking they were only that of friendship.

Which left him back where he had started: Nowhere.

Then find her, and determine for yourself what the truth of the matter is.

Cobryn decided to follow through on his idea, and scanned the Harrowdale. The last of the Riders had disappeared while he was lost in his musings; as a result, there were only about a hundred people in the camp. These were the old men, women, and children too young to see combat. None of them had dark hair.

Sighing, he turned his gaze up to the Firienfeld, his leg already protesting. Why Gúthwyn would remain there, he did not know, but she was definitely not in the valley. As he made his way towards the Stair of the Hold, he kept his eyes open for Éowyn, so that he might ask her of her sister's whereabouts. However, he did not see the White Lady of Rohan either.

At length he came to the stairs and stood there for a long time, wishing that he had thought to make a cane for himself.

"Daunting, are they not?"

Cobryn turned, and saw an older man coming up beside him. "Yes," he agreed, and gestured at his near-useless leg. "Especially when this has not hesitated to betray me before."

The man smiled sympathetically. "Age does wear on a body," he replied. "Though you do not look like you have seen thirty winters."

"Twenty-five," Cobryn said, and held out his hand. The man shook it. "Cobryn."

"Pleased to meet you, Cobryn. Aldor, advisor to the King."

Cobryn bowed, though Aldor waved away the formality. Even in his old age, the man carried a considerable amount of authority.

"Now," Aldor said, once the introductions had been made, "what is it that you search for? Or shall I ask whom?"

"Whom," Cobryn replied. "Gúthwyn, to be exact."

A soft smile came over Aldor's face. "Ah," he said. "The young lady. Well, I have not seen her today, nor her sister."

Cobryn frowned. "I spoke with her this morning, though she disappeared from my sight shortly after."

Aldor laughed. "Aye. As the king can attest to, in her childhood she was quite the difficult girl to hold onto. She always ran away to wrestle with the boys. None of us envied her caretakers."

Somehow, that did not surprise him. "I can picture that easily," he responded wryly, and Aldor chuckled.

"I will accompany you on your way up," the older man said. "I need to speak with the lady Éowyn, for I am now her councilor until Théoden returns."

Cobryn agreed to this, and soon the two of them were making their way up the Stair of the Hold. They must have made an amusing sight, for Aldor was panting by the time they had gotten halfway and Cobryn was clutching his leg in pain. Of equal temperament were they, however, and neither of them thought of stopping.

"Never again," Aldor gasped as they reached the Firienfeld. He ducked down, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

Cobryn cursed both his leg and the makers of these impossible stairs. "Now I know how the horse feels," he grunted, massaging his thigh.

"What a pair of cripples we must look!" Aldor lamented. "I miss the days of my former strength."

"As do I," Cobryn replied, then straightened and glanced around the Firienfeld. There was no one there, something that disturbed him for some reason. "Do you think they might be in their tent?"

Aldor shrugged. "I would have thought that they would be in the Harrowdale… Maybe we did not look carefully enough?"

"I definitely did not see Gúthwyn down there," Cobryn said, and strode to where her tent was. Aldor followed closely behind. "Gúthwyn?" the former slave called, reluctant to step into her tent without permission.

There was no answer. Cobryn pulled aside the flap, and the two men looked upon an utterly empty space. Not so much as a single blanket was inside; it was completely devoid of anything. A sinking feeling began settling in his stomach.

"The horses," he said abruptly. Aldor glanced at him in confusion. "Where are their horses?"

Aldor stepped outside. "They should be—" Suddenly he stopped, and at his silence Cobryn flung himself out of the tent. "They are gone!"

"No," Cobryn muttered in disbelief. But it was true. There were no animals left in the paddock, something that he had not even noticed earlier.

"Do you think they brought them down to the Harrowdale?" Aldor asked in bewilderment.

For a long time, Cobryn did not answer. Unbidden, his mind flashed back to when he had seen a Rider lift Merry onto his saddle, not half an hour ago. The Rider had been thin and pale, with hair so gold that it made all else seem dull. And now that he thought of it, had there not been a smaller Rider behind them, with darker hair? He had assumed it a boy, but now…

Without warning, a howl of rage escaped him. Aldor jumped and stared at him in shock, but Cobryn paid no heed. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have not realized this beforehand? How had he assumed that a random Rider would happen to take pity for the Halfling and offer him a seat on his horse?

"What is it?" Aldor questioned, not yet making the connection.

"Where are the messengers?" Cobryn demanded, resisting the urge to throttle the advisor.

For a moment, Aldor merely stood there. Then his eyes became wide. "They could not have…" he breathed in horror.

"They did!" Cobryn nearly shouted. "Where are the messengers?"

Aldor buried his face in his hands. "They have all gone with the king," he moaned. "And the only horses we have left here are too old to ride at a faster pace than a trot!"

"Is there no other way to send word to Théoden?" Cobryn asked, feeling panicked. If either Gúthwyn or Éowyn perished, he would never forgive himself. How could he not have taken into account that his friend delighted in fighting, and would do just about anything to help her people? And how could he have forgotten that the White Lady was a shieldmaiden, raised to deadly capabilities with a sword? And how, how, how had he failed to remember the streak of pride within both of them, wider than the River Anduin?

"No," Aldor murmured, running his hand through his hair. "By the end of the day, they will be eighty miles from here. We have no means of reaching them!"

His words brought upon Cobryn a crashing sense of defeat. It was the same powerlessness with which he had watched Feride and Onyveth being dragged away, Feride with her emotionless face and Onyveth crying silent tears of terror—the same sense of all hope lost. In that moment, he bowed his head and sunk to his knees.

Gúthwyn stretched out her legs and sighed. It had been a long, hard day of riding. She estimated that they had gone close to thirty leagues. All around her the Riders were encamped, their horses shifting as the wind whispered softly in the night. They had been traveling for two days, not once relenting in their pace. Ever and anon, Théoden sent scouts to gather news; sometimes, they did not return. Those that did brought reports of the road being held against them as they drew nearer to Minas Tirith. Orcs were swarming through the hills around them, some less than ten miles away.

She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and tried to reassure herself that everything would be all right, that her uncle would find a way to avoid Sauron's troops. Yet so far, it seemed, he had not. Lurking in the shadows, she had seen him taking long council with her brother; Elfhelm, who had assumed the duties of the First Marshal of the Mark; and Grimbold, who was to command the third main éored of the King's host. When the men at last emerged from Théoden's tent, their faces were always long.

There was a movement to her left, and Gúthwyn glanced up to see Éowyn settling down beside her. Aside from smiling, she did not say anything, as the other men in their company had gathered around the same fire. As a matter of fact, she had not spoken so much as a single sentence the entire trip, for fear of her voice giving her away. Éowyn had done the talking, when Merry's presence had been called into question; she had some understanding, apparently, with Elfhelm, who was in charge of their éored. Gúthwyn was not aware of the exact details, but most of the men seemed to ignore the Halfling because of it, and pretended that they did not notice him.

Gúthwyn felt rather badly for the poor Hobbit, who oftentimes looked as if he regretted coming, but her mind was too anxious about what lay ahead to focus overmuch on him. Already there was a snag in her plan: These Orcs that sought to block all entry into Minas Tirith—clearly, the White City was well besieged. Gandalf must have been inside it, as well as Pippin; she did not doubt that Merry's thoughts were turned towards his friend in these dark times.

As for her, all of her mind was focused on Mordor. She could hardly believe that she had dismissed the children's lives so easily not two weeks ago. As always, she had been blinded by her emotions, unable to see that they were in all probability still alive. Even though she could not finish her task, she had a chance of rescuing poor Hammel and Haiweth. Because she had not realized this earlier, her success now depended on factors over which she had no control.

Tears threatened to form in her eyes as she relived her farewells. None of them—Théoden, Éomer, Lebryn, and Tun—knew that she would never see them again. They thought that she was safe at Dunharrow, awaiting their return. It might be they who would travel to the halls of their fathers, but the lady Gúthwyn remained protected, guarded carefully by the people. Even Éowyn was not aware that her sister would leave her in the end, though the battle might be won. It was enough to make her want to sob, but she could not. She had displayed enough weakness in the past few weeks.

Éowyn glanced over at her then. In order to keep her sister from seeing her glistening eyes, she lay down on her pallet, covering herself effectively with a small blanket. Curling up, caring not if someone recognized her peculiar sleeping habits, she closed her eyes in an attempt to get some rest. Yet no sooner had she done so than she became aware of a strange drumming noise, faint at first, but then growing louder so that she could not ignore it. The very earth seemed to be throbbing with their deepness.

Confused, she was about to ask Éowyn in an undertone when she heard the sound of someone cursing profusely. Abandoning all thoughts of sleep for the moment, Gúthwyn sat up and saw Elfhelm recovering his balance. Apparently he had stumbled over something. When she looked closer, she saw that it was Merry, and winced.

The Halfling seemed to speak in response to Elfhelm's muttered oaths. Then he added, "The least you can do in amends is to tell me what is afoot."

Gúthwyn sat up straighter and listened carefully. Evidently, the Halfling had also heard the drums. "Anything that can keep so in this devil's mirk," Elfhelm now replied, sounding harried. "But my lord sends word that we must set ourselves in readiness: orders may come for a sudden move."

She and Éowyn exchanged looks. Had Théoden found a way to evade the Orcs at last?

Merry appeared anxious. "Is the enemy coming?" he queried, sitting up with a start and scanning the nearby trees for signs of movement. That night, they were camped beside the Druadan Forest—according to legend, these woods had been the old home of the real-life Púkel-men. Gúthwyn was unsure whether to believe them or not. After all, she had been proven wrong about the Ents, which were assuredly very real.

The Halfling continued pressing Elfhelm. "Are those their drums?" he inquired, cocking his head to listen to them better. "I began to think I was imagining them, as no one else seemed to take any notice of them."

"Nay, nay," Elfhelm replied. "The Enemy is on the road, not in the hills. You hear the Woses, the Wild Men of the Woods: thus they talk together from afar."

Gúthwyn marveled to hear such tidings. Yet another one of the creatures from childhood stories walked the earth—what strange times these were! First Hobbits, then Ents, and now the Woses. Well, she thought gloomily, scuffing at the ground with her booted foot, at least I will have experienced all of this before I return to Mordor.

"And now," Elfhelm said then, taking her from her musings, "I must busy myself with my lord's commands. Pack yourself up, Master Bag!"

Blinking in confusion, Gúthwyn struggled to understand what was going on. Ahead in the trees, there was a great flickering of lanterns that appeared to be traversing a path. She exchanged a look with Éowyn; then, she saw Merry standing up and trailing after Elfhelm. Without a moment's hesitation, Gúthwyn got to her feet as well. Not waiting to see if her sister followed her, she went behind the Halfling, trusting him not to lead her astray.

Merry did not seem as if he noticed her. At length, they came to a clearing in the trees, where a tent had been erected for Théoden. Upon seeing her uncle and Éomer, who was standing beside him along with several guards, she shrunk further into the shadows. Then she had to suppress as a gasp as she saw the figure that stood before the two men. A low intake of breath told her that Éowyn was watching, as well.

This creature—she could not bring herself to describe it as a person—was clearly one of the Wild Men whom Elfhelm had spoken of. He was surprisingly short and thick, his skin stretching over his broad shoulders. She could see ripples of wrinkled flesh surrounding the arms and legs, which were utterly bare but for a small patch of grass around his waist. In the light of a hanging lantern, she thought he looked almost like a combination between a troll and a stunted Ent.

As she gaped in astonishment at the sight, still hidden behind a tall tree, she realized that the creature was speaking in the Common Tongue. At first, she had assumed the hoarse grunts emanating from his mouth a strange speech of the Wild Men, but it was not so.

"No, father of the Horse-men," the creature said haltingly, stumbling over some of the words, "we fight not. Hunt only. Kill gorgûn in woods, hate Orc-folk."

Gúthwyn could barely understand what he was saying. Théoden and Éomer looked as if they were having similar difficulties, though when the man at last finished, her brother replied:

"But our need is in aid for battle. How will you and your folk help us?"

Bewildered, Gúthwyn wondered why the Wild Men had offered to assist the king and his men. Was it their hatred of the Orcs, or was all this a trap to waylay the Rohirrim?

"Bring news," the creature croaked. His voice was as one with a rasping cough, added to with an irritating slowness that mimicked that of Treebeard's. "We look out from hills. We climb big mountain and look down. Stone-city is shut."

From what Gúthwyn could gather, he went on to confirm that which they already knew: A host of Orcs, far greater than they, was holding the road against them.

"Alas!" Théoden cried in distress. "He speaks all too shrewdly. And our scouts say that they have cast trenches and stakes across the road. We cannot sweep them away in sudden onset."

Gúthwyn tore her eyes away from the group to glance at Éowyn. She had not heard the news of the trenches and stakes; now, even more unrest assailed her heart. How were they to get through this? Éowyn's troubled gaze did not appear to hold any answers.

"Let Ghân-buri-Ghân finish!" the creature exclaimed, and Gúthwyn blinked at his name. "More than one road he knows. He will lead you by road where no pits are, no gorgûn walk, only Wild Men and beasts."

Ghân-buri-Ghân told them of how these paths had been created by what must have been the Gondorians (he referred to them as Stonehouse-folk, and was under the impression that they ate stone for food), in the days of their old power and might. Now the way was long forgotten, but apparently the Wild Men still employed its usage for their own purposes. Ghân-buri-Ghân was proposing to take the entire host through this road, all so the Rohirrim could slaughter the Orcs that disturbed his people.

Éomer turned to Théoden. "Do you think he might betray us, my lord?" he inquired in Rohirric, casting a suspicious glance at Ghân-buri-Ghân. "I have not heard of this road before."

"Neither have I," Théoden replied; "yet whether it is there or not, the fact remains that our current path leads only to an army of Orcs who would cut us down with ease."

"So shall we chance an ambush of the Wild Men, instead?" Éomer's eyes were narrowed. Just as he was slow to trust any man whom his sisters were friends with, he was loath to rely on the assistance of strange creatures.

"It seems that we must," Théoden said, with a small sigh. "I wish in these days we did not have to be so wary of other folk! To me, there is a lesser threat if we follow him. He may lead us into a trap. But a shroud of darkness has suddenly been laid on me, and I deem that either way my fate shall not escape me."

Gúthwyn wondered at her uncle's odd words, and Éomer clearly did as well: There was a long silence before at last he answered. "So be it," he declared, bowing his head. "Though I do not like being rendered so helpless, it seems this is just one more time when I am forced to endure such discomforts."

His voice took a surprisingly bitter turn as he spoke, and beside her Éowyn stiffened. Gúthwyn's mind fell on a certain councilor, hunched over with greasy hair sliding down his shoulders… What shadows her family had succumbed to in the years of the Serpent's dominion, she did not wish to think.

"We will receive your offer," Théoden announced then, turning to face Ghân-buri-Ghân. "For though we leave a host of foes behind, what matter? If the Stone-city falls, then we shall have no returning. If it is saved, then the Orc-host itself will be cut off. If you are faithful, Ghân-buri-Ghân, then we will give you rich reward, and you shall have the friendship of the Mark forever."

Gúthwyn's left side was beginning to ache from pressing into the tree bark for so long, but she did not dare move for fear of attracting attention. She was risking much just by coming here, and she did not want to jeopardize her disguise. As she tried to ignore the pain in her shoulder, where the jagged end of a tiny branch was poking her, she heard Ghân-buri-Ghân talk once more.

"Dead men are not friends to living man, and give them no gifts. But if you live after the Darkness, then leave the Wild Men alone in the woods and do not hunt them like beasts anymore."

The creature must have been speaking of ancient times, when the reach of the kingdom was longer; in her recollection, none of the Rohirrim or Gondorians had ever pursued the Woses for their own sport.

"Ghân-buri-Ghân will not lead you into trap. He will go himself with father of the Horse-men, and if he leads you wrong, you will kill him."

Gúthwyn felt a small, wry grin tugging at her mouth as she imagined her uncle riding alongside this leader of the Wild Men. The two of them could not have looked more different. Indeed, the whole scene was rather absurd.

Yet Théoden did not hesitate to exclaim, "So be it!"

Once more, she and Éowyn glanced at each other. Do not let my doom lie in the dark woods, Gúthwyn prayed. At the very least, bring me to the battlefield, so that there my prowess may be the decider of whether I am worthy of life or not.

She curled her fingers about the hilt of her sword. Soon, Framwine, she vowed. Soon.