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 Seventeen:
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. In addition, I recognize that some of the upcoming events will, to many, seem far-fetched. So it may be, but do recall that lots of strange things happen in Middle-earth. (Not to mention the fact that I came up with it in sixth grade, so cut me some slack, lol.) Let me know if anything is uncanonical, implausible, etc.
Chapter Seventeen
In the Houses of Healing, a lone man sat beside the bed of another. His head was bowed, resting on his hands. Weariness and grief were upon him, though he had not succumbed to the lulling whispers of sleep, nor the insistence of his friends that he retire to his tent. Éomer son of Éomund was he, less than a day ago made the king of Rohan; his sister Éowyn was whom he held vigil over.
A long sigh escaped him. The night had seemed to last even longer than the battle of the Pelennor Fields had. He was tormented by memories of him finding Éowyn where she lay beside their uncle, still as if dead. Yet she had lived, while the good old king had perished beneath his horse—unwillingly the bane of his master.
The two members of the royal family had been born into the city upon golden biers, Éowyn in no less honor than Théoden. Indeed, she had slain the Witch-king, a feat none had thought possible. But she had paid a heavy price for it: Long had the shadow of the Black Breath, a cloud of hopelessness and despair that fell on those who neared the Nazgûl, lain over her. That was Éomer's darkest hour: To think that his strong-willed sister might not survive.
He had feared for her life, and stayed with her as she was brought into the Houses of Healing. Pale as the simbelmynë she had been, one of her arms broken and the other lying lifeless across her chest. It came to him then how helpless she was, how helpless even in Meduseld she had been. Doomed to wait upon the ailing king, and always walking with the footsteps of Gríma echoing behind her, she had no means of escape… except for this.
Aragorn had arrived in the midst of his dark thoughts, accompanied by the wizard Gandalf, and sought to heal the White Lady of her hurts. Yet even then he had cautioned Éomer that he had not the power to repair her spirit, for she had been matched against the leader of the Black Riders, who had might far greater than hers. Long had Aragorn tended to Éowyn, countless nerve-wracking minutes that had gone by with the speed of a snail.
Hope renewed had burst within him when she began breathing deeply, the clean linen sheets rising and falling gently. And then, when he had called her, she had awoken for a brief time. Mighty were the skills of Lord Aragorn, in healing not the least. Éowyn had seemed unhurt, though tired, while they had conversed. A small smile came to his face, however, for she had also spoken of more deeds yet to fulfill.
He watched her now, sleeping peacefully, and felt a sense of calmness coming over him. She was beautiful in her rest; part of him wished she would remain that way, content to stay in bed and regain her strength. Yet he knew she would not agree to do so. She would desire to rise and walk, even if the effort exhausted her. His sister had never wanted to betray her weaknesses, and it seemed to him that she was frailer than she realized.
But at the moment, he was merely glad that she was alive and well, if a little worn from her travels. He marveled that she had gone to such lengths to fight, disguising herself as a man and riding—maybe in his own éored—to war with the other soldiers. She had even brought the Hobbit Merry with her; he, too, was lying in the Houses of Healing, having been touched by the Black Breath as well.
One more consolation did he have: That Gúthwyn was safe from harm. When Éowyn had been discovered, the terrifying notion that Éomund's youngest daughter had followed her sister into battle had overwhelmed him. He had been severely tempted to go searching for her immediately, but that would have meant abandoning Éowyn, and he could not bring himself to do that.
Now, he no longer believed that Gúthwyn had concealed herself, for no news had come to him of her, nor had she sought him out. He was relieved at this. Éowyn would recover from the Witch-king's assault, as even in her fragility she had a courageous spirit equaled by few others. Gúthwyn, on the other hand…
He sighed. It was difficult for him to articulate, even to himself, his thoughts about her. Until the night of the party in Edoras, he had mistakenly assumed her to not be much affected by what had happened to her in Isengard and Mordor. She had been afraid, of course, of the darkness and the Wargs, but that was only to be expected. And other than that incident on the way to the Nan Curunír, she had seemed perfectly fine. Indeed, he would have been hard-pressed to name a happier person.
At the feast, she had certainly been in high spirits. He had seen her on a number of occasions, each time with a wide grin across her face and often with laughter pouring out of her mouth. She clearly loved being with her people; it was a love that went not unrequited. Indeed, he thought, some returned it overmuch—Tun, specifically. Though Éomer had to admit that the ale had been plentiful at the party, he would not soon forget the sight of the guard pulling his sister onto his lap like she was a common tavern wench. But even then, Gúthwyn had seemed all right, giggling at Tun's actions and teasing him about how much he mead he had consumed. She had looked a little uncomfortable at his attentions; yet again, that was not strange.
However, that night she had proved him terribly wrong. He remembered getting out of his bed to retrieve some water, and turning around to see a ghost of a figure stumbling pitifully across the throne room. He had hurried after Gúthwyn, and seen for himself the terror in her eyes that made her shake uncontrollably. It was enough to frighten him.
His blood boiled as he recalled her story. Had that Elf still lived, he would have found him and destroyed him mercilessly for all that he had done to Gúthwyn. It was sickening, the way Haldor sought to humiliate her, how he had blackmailed and threatened and manipulated her to get what he wanted. No, more than sickening. Words could not even begin to describe his rage and disgust.
What was truly heart wrenching, however, was that she thought it was her fault; as if she could have prevented the Elf from abusing her, that if only she had not loved him things would have been different. He had nearly vomited to hear her calling herself a whore, even more so when she told him she had believed that he would turn her away. The extent to which Haldor had damaged her mind was astounding.
Once he had learned all this, he began noticing things that had at first escaped his attention. The way the slightest thing set her on edge. The way she constantly put her hands on her stomach as if nauseous. The way her eyes contracted in nervousness if someone stood too near to her. The way her face turned pale whenever he questioned her about Haldor.
A faint moan sounded in his ears then, and he looked over to see Éowyn stirring. Hastily, he moved his chair closer to her bed. She blinked rapidly, and gradually her eyes focused on him. "Brother," she murmured, a faint smile coming across her face. "I thought you had gone to get some rest."
"I am fine," he replied. "How are you feeling?"
She struggled to sit up, yet when he would have helped her she shook her head. At last she managed to do it herself, and answered, "I am well, though my arm pains me." She glanced forlornly down at the cloth sling. "This will be the bane of my existence," she muttered. "I suppose I am not allowed to get out of bed?"
Éomer chuckled. "No, Éowyn, you are not," he said. "Not until the Warden of these Houses deems you fit enough."
She heaved a long, impatient sigh. "Then what am I to do with my time? This window looks southward, to the sea, but I heed not the call of the gulls."
"And yet the sea is a better sight than the mountains," Éomer responded, "especially when they are draped in shadow."
Éowyn looked at him then, a frustrated expression on her face as if he had not understood her lament. "Now, brother," she said, changing the subject, "tell me what has become of Gúthwyn, for you have spoken naught of her."
Éomer's eyes narrowed. "She is at home," he answered cautiously, "leading the people in your stead."
All the blood drained from Éowyn's face, and the sight of it made his heart turn cold. "You have not seen her?" she gasped, sitting up straighter.
"What do you mean?" Éomer demanded, his entire body taut with anxiety.
Éowyn trembled slightly. "She rode to battle with me," she whispered, her eyes darting about the room as if she were searching for their younger sibling. "I thought you had found her!"
Éomer leaped to his feet, a sudden terror that Gúthwyn had perished racing through his veins. He would never forgive himself if he had. What had he been thinking, to assume that she had been complacent enough to remain at home while her brother and sister rode to brave deeds on the battlefield?
"Please, Éomer, send word to me when you are assured of her safety," Éowyn said, her eyes wide with worry.
"I will," he promised, and then turned on his heel and sped out of the room. He strode so swiftly down the hall that he crashed into one of the women healers, and wasted valuable time apologizing to her and helping to gather some of her fallen herbs. When he was done, he all but ran from the Houses of Healing. Many stared at him as he went past, but he cared not.
Outside, the Warden was there, speaking with Aragorn. Éomer hastened over to the two of them.
"Tell me," he said as they glanced at him, "have you seen my sister?"
The Warden looked puzzled. "Were you not just by her side?"
Éomer shook his head impatiently. "My other sister, Gúthwyn," he explained, and Aragorn stiffened.
"She went into battle as well?" the Ranger asked swiftly. The Warden appeared astonished.
"I just learned of this from Éowyn," Éomer said, a cold chill sweeping over him. "She—"
At that moment, a young boy skidded to a halt before them. He looked familiar; then Éomer realized that he had been in charge of feeding the horses in the stables.
"Do you know where Mithrandir is?" the boy panted, bending over slightly and clutching at a stitch in his side.
"I believe he is on the battlements," Aragorn answered, looking curiously at the boy. "Is something amiss?"
The boy's face flushed. "Shadowfax is not in his stall, and I was wondering—"
Éomer left them then, impatient to find Gúthwyn. Where would I go, if I were her? he asked himself. Yet he could not answer the question, and was forced to admit that he knew very little of his sister's mood. I shall search the entire city, then.
He started working his way through the streets, asking every soldier he happened upon if they had seen his sister. None of them had. The knot in his stomach grew, and whenever he turned away from a warrior it merely intensified. He prayed that he would not have to search the Pelennor Fields, where only bodies remained. If he did, and she was found…
His throat was dry by the time he reached the fifth level.
Legolas sighed, leaning against a wall and stretching out his legs. The sun was bright in the aftermath of the battle, and he was taking a few rare moments to relax. Twinges of sadness still assailed him when he heard a cry of grief rising from the women or children; it pained him to know that so many had perished. The battle had been far more costly than Helm's Deep, though in some ways it was to a smaller effect.
Yet not in all. He frowned as he thought of the fall of Théoden, killed in the height of his glory by his own horse. Théoden had been a kind man, and though he had spent much of the last years of his life an invalid, he would be reckoned among the greater of his sires for his deeds two days ago. Éomer, he did not doubt, would succeed him well—assuming he was even able to return to Rohan.
More dark thoughts swirled around Legolas. The forces they had faced at the battle were far more numerous than anything Middle-earth had seen since the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. It was not just the Orcs who had flocked to join Sauron's legions; the Haradrim, Easterlings, and the Corsairs of Umbar had all been in the service of the Dark Lord. Yet it would be foolish to think that all of his army had been emptied in the assault upon Minas Tirith.
He did not know what would be done about Mordor. At some point or another, their doom would have to be decided—but without the destruction of the Ring, there could be no hope of victory. They had heard nothing of Frodo and Sam since their separation at the Parth Galen, though if Sauron had recovered the Ring they would have known about it long ago.
"Legolas?"
Glancing up, Legolas saw Éomer approaching him. The man looked harried. "Yes?"
"Have you seen Gúthwyn?"
For a moment, Legolas stared at him, wondering if he had named the wrong woman. Éowyn had been discovered on the battlefield, lying in a swoon beside her uncle. She had slain the Witch-king of Angmar, thus making the ancient words of Glorfindel true: "Not by the hand of men will he fall."
"Do you mean Éowyn, my lord?" he asked at last, standing up and glancing at Éomer quizzically.
"No," Éomer replied shortly, his fists clenching and unclenching. His eyes were frantic. "I was with her in the Houses of Healing, and she told me that Gúthwyn had ridden out to war as well. Yet I have not seen her since the battle ended. Have you?"
Worry swept over Legolas. He should have known—especially after Helm's Deep—that Gúthwyn was willing to do anything to fight for her people. If something had happened to her… "No, I have not," he said abruptly. "Though I will help you look."
"Many thanks," Éomer muttered wearily, wiping his brow. Up close, Legolas saw that the king was absolutely exhausted. He doubted that the man had gotten any sleep last night.
"Are you feeling well?" he asked as they started moving down the streets. All the while, he kept an eye out for any small, thin men.
In response, Éomer groaned. "I do not know when I have been worse," he ground out, and did not elaborate. Legolas did not press him any further, keenly aware of what it felt like to lose someone you loved. His own mother had departed over the Sea hundreds of years ago, unable to bear the shadow that had fallen over Mirkwood. Thranduil had not taken another wife since then.
They came to the battlements, where several men were repairing the damage that had been done by the devices of the Enemy. Éomer went to question them about Gúthwyn, yet Legolas found his attention diverted by the sight of the countless corpses that still littered the Pelennor Fields. He found himself searching them for a Rohan soldier with dark hair. All the while, he sincerely hoped that none of the bodies belonged to Gúthwyn. Her family had already seen enough heartbreak.
At last, unable to look at the carnage any longer, he turned away. It was then that he saw Gandalf striding past him, carrying a several items in his hands. The wizard appeared to take no notice of him, but Legolas saw that which he held: A sword and a pack, looking suspiciously like Gúthwyn's. A cold feeling wrapped itself around his heart.
He hurried after Gandalf, joining him as he stood before Éomer.
"Gandalf," Éomer said, not seeming to be aware of the objects. "Have you seen Gúthwyn? She—"
Gandalf handed him the pack and sword.
Éomer's eyes widened in horror as he held the blade first, withdrawing it from its sheathe. The metal was stained with black blood. Tenderly he replaced it, and took the pack. Legolas' breath caught in his throat as he held up a familiar necklace.
"Dead?" Éomer choked, his body utterly still.
"These were found in Shadowfax's empty stall," Gandalf told him solemnly. His face seemed even more lined with burdens than it had been the last time Legolas had seen him. "He is not in the city—she convinced him to bear her, somehow, and they have both disappeared."
Éomer looked aghast. "How is that possible?" he demanded. "None other than you have been able to ride him!"
Unexpectedly, Legolas recalled the time he had seen Gúthwyn in the stables at Edoras, standing in Shadowfax's stall and stroking the proud horse's mane. "It is not the first time she has encountered him," he said. Gandalf glanced at him keenly, though did not say anything.
Éomer stared back and forth between the two of them, utterly nonplussed. "Then where has she gone?" he asked in bewilderment. "And why would she leave her things?"
"Mithrandir!" someone yelled, and all three of them turned around to see one of the soldiers pointing across the Pelennor Fields. "It is your horse, my lord!"
They rushed to the battlements and gazed out. Far, far away, nearly a league, a white speck gleamed against the shadow of the East. Even Legolas' keen eyes were barely able to see Shadowfax, so swiftly was the horse galloping. He appeared only as a blur, speeding towards them without the tiniest pause in his stride. Several men had gathered to watch him, murmuring to each other in amazement.
And then Legolas felt a wave of shock and horror sweep through his entire body. Shadowfax had gotten close enough for him to see that it was not Gúthwyn who rode him. Instead, two children were clinging desperately to the horse, their faces screwed up against the wind. A sudden, sinking realization came over him.
"It is a boy and a girl," he said to Éomer, and watched as the man blanched with the same terrifying understanding.
"By the Valar…" Éomer murmured. The next instant, he had leaped off of the battlements, and was sprinting down the street. Legolas and Gandalf hurried after him. No one shouted for the gates to be opened, because there were no gates to be opened: They had been torn apart by Grond, a contraption of the Enemy.
The race down to the lowest level seemed to take eternity to complete. Legolas found that he was cold with dread, in his heart fearing what had come to pass. When they at last, finally, arrived at the gates, a crowd of curious Gondorians had clustered before them.
"Make way!" Gandalf called as Éomer neared them. Hastily the people obeyed, clearing a path so that the new king of Rohan could go through. Legolas and the wizard went after him; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aragorn and Imrahil, the prince of Dol Amroth, appearing from one of the higher levels.
It was then that Shadowfax rode in, tossing his proud head and rearing at the sight of Gandalf. The girl shrieked in terror, and the boy held her tightly to his chest. Haiweth was the one, only five years old, and Hammel was the other, who had seen eight winters. Gúthwyn had told them this at Edoras—not for an instant did Legolas doubt that it was they.
Shadowfax lowered his hooves to the ground, and allowed the children to slide off of him. The girl nearly fell over, but her brother steadied her. The two of them stared at the mass of people, gaping in open awe at the both the Gondorians and their city, their amazed looks not unreturned. Then Haiweth quailed as Éomer approached them, turning away and burying her face in Hammel's stomach.
Everyone in the plaza was silent. Legolas drew nearer, anxious to hear what had befallen Gúthwyn. Aragorn and the prince joined him.
"We seek a man named Éomer, my lord," Hammel said quietly, trembling the tiniest bit under Éomer's gaze. His hands, gripping the girl's shoulders, were white.
"I am he," Éomer replied, his breathing uneven. "Hammel and Haiweth, correct?"
Hammel looked surprised, but recovered quickly. "Yes, sir."
Haiweth had glanced up at the sound of her name, and looked at Éomer suspiciously. "How does he know who we are?" she asked her brother in confusion, not troubling to lower her voice.
"I am Gúthwyn's brother," Éomer explained impatiently. "Where is she?"
The boy's dark, unhappy eyes fixed on the king of Rohan. "My lord, she…"
"She what?" Éomer demanded.
But Hammel's gaze was no longer concentrated on him. Instead, Legolas found himself staring directly into the child's eyes. His heart dropped like a stone as he saw a look of mingled fury and terror flash across his face, emotions strikingly sharp for an eight-year-old. So often had he seen this on Gúthwyn's face… Now, more than ever, he felt the burden of sharing his appearance with Haldor.
Haiweth saw him then, as well, and whimpered. Swiftly, Hammel wrapped his arms around her, holding her protectively to him.
"Hammel," Éomer said urgently, not noticing the silent exchange. "Where is Gúthwyn?"
The boy tore his eyes away from Legolas, though the frame of his body was taut. "She wanted me to tell you something," he said.
"What is it?" Éomer asked, his face paling rapidly.
"That she loves you and the rest of her family, sir, and is sorry for causing you so much grief."
The words slammed into Legolas' chest with the force of the battering ram that had broken down the gates of Minas Tirith. He now knew what it was that Gúthwyn had done, the final sacrifice she had made. She had exchanged herself for the children.
It was heart wrenching now to watch Éomer knit his brows. "Tell me where she is," he growled, his voice hard as the lump that one could see forming in his throat. "Where is she?"
"My lord, she…" Hammel struggled with the sentence, furiously wiping something from his eyes. The entire crowd was silent, hanging onto his every word. "She stayed behind, sir."
Éomer staggered back, looking wildly to the east. "No," he breathed, his chest unevenly rising and falling. "No!"
No one could speak as the king of Rohan sunk to his knees. His howls of grief, of hope shredded beyond repair, of loss so great that few had seen its like before, echoed throughout the plaza, striking the hearts of all who heard and saw him. Legolas found that he could hardly breathe. In his mind, horrible images of a ragged corpse, skin stretched over the decaying bones, its dark hair matted and tangled, drew such despair over him that he bowed his head.
The sun blazed overhead, illuminating the tears shed in that hour by Éomer Éadig; yet more would come when he told the lady Éowyn of their sister's fate. For to lose one whom has but barely been recovered, and who is like a child in their alternating stubbornness and frailty and unmatched joy, is perhaps one of the greatest tragedies a family can bear.