Author's recommended listening: Schubert, String Quartet No. 14 in D minor
CHAPTER VII: THE EMISSARY
It was still some considerable time following the picnic ere Truva joined the other recruits in training, for while there were some areas in which her skills had always surpassed that of the others, it had taken a great deal of effort to develop her weapons handling and language abilities to the degree that she could participate seamlessly.
The inclusion of this foreign female inevitably caused curious glances and standoffish behavior among the other recruits, for rumors of Truva's story – some more accurate than others – had circulated unchecked for more than a year. Though their very own King's sister-daughter was a fierce shieldmaiden, it was by her father and brother and cousins that Éowyn had been taught; never in the recruits' lifetimes had a female participated in common training. Fortunately, Éomer was prompt and deft in extinguishing any disruptive behavior, and Truva's life quickly settled into a comfortable new rhythm, the passage of time marked only by minor confusing incidents.
One such incident occurred several months after her introduction, when all recruits were engaged in mock combat during training one day. The air was rent with clashes and clangs as their blades flashed in the early morning sun, and Éomer paced through the pairs, dodging this way and that to evade thrusts and parries. In the shortest of moments, however, two trainees' gear became entangled and they toppled to the ground directly before the Marshall.
Éomer leapt nimbly aside, yet not before one recruit's sword catapulted from his flailing arm. Despite the edge on the blade having been dulled for the purpose of training, it lodged firmly in the tip of Éomer's toe, which had been just within range. All movement ceased immediately.
"Helm!" bellowed Éomer in thunderous, raging tones. Truva stood aghast, for though Éomer often raised his voice during training, it was only for ease of hearing and never in anger. Indeed, Truva racked her mind for any instance of Éomer being anything save calm and collected, and could think of no such occasion.
The collective gasp that emitted from other recruits, however, signaled an entirely different sense of shock than Truva's. Rather than intimidated by his outburst, their reaction was one of affront, and it seemed to Truva as though something of vast significance had escaped her understanding.
"I apologize," said Éomer humbly, having regained his composure in an instant. One by one, the recruits gradually returned to their task, leaving Truva bewildered as to why the name of a historic Eorlingas king was so incendiary, and why Éomer had felt the need to tender an apology. She was not left long to wonder, for Éomer concluded training far earlier than he was wont to do, and an astonished atmosphere lingered in the air.
Still wrapped in a haze of confusion, Truva discovered a note on her doorway several days later, written in Théodred's elegant hand:
Truest Truva,
The day after the morrow shall consist of a test in Eorling.
Please dress with exceptional warmth.
Ever yours, Théodred
Truva did not understand his suggestion with regard to her clothing, for though the early spring days were yet chilly, Théodred's lessons were almost always conducted inside – whether in Meduseld or any number of places.
True to his word, Théodred had slowly started to expand Truva's social circle, beginning with lighthearted conversations in Eorling at Héodis' home before requesting that Gríma also conduct his history lessons in the language, and at one point even suggesting that Truva address the King in his own native tongue. Each task was met with varying degrees of success, for her apprehension continued to plague her, yet each was certain to be conducted in the warmth of indoors, sheltered from the piercing cold of Edoras in winter.
Truva brushed Théodred's curious request aside momentarily and determined that she would ask him about the meaning of the incident in the training yard when they met the following day, for she increasingly found Théodred to be a close friend and confidant, someone she could comfortably ask peculiar questions to without fear of being mocked, gaped at, or pitied.
After dawn training concluded on the day that Théodred had unilaterally scheduled her exam, Truva washed up quickly and donned a heavy coat, taking heed of Théodred's advice regardless of how absurd it seemed. The two convened at the corner of the training yard, and as he led her toward the gates of Edoras, Théodred declared that the supposed "test" consisted of nothing more than conversing on a wide variety of subjects in Eorling, a feat which – due to his dedicated tutelage – Truva was exceptionally capable of.
The pair sat beside the Snowbourn as it rushed by, resting their backs against a tree just barely beginning to unfurl its leaves into the early spring air. Théodred had packed an additional blanket to ward off the chill, as well as a basket of delicacies. It felt more like play than work to Truva as she followed fresh bread and cheese with sweet wine, and laughed at the stories Théodred told in Eorling, of all the troubles he had created as a young, mischievous child.
During a lull in the conversation, Truva turned to him and asked, "What does 'Helm' mean?"
Théodred froze, gaping at her with eyes wide as she rushed to explain, "That is, Gríma has taught me in great detail about Helm Hammerhand, the eminent King of olden days, yet I recently heard it used in such a way that suggested a different meaning."
Théodred sat unmoving for several moments before he burst suddenly into great peals of laughter. Truva thought his reaction to be terribly exaggerated, and it continued for so long that she began to feel somewhat uncomfortable, unsure of what it was about her words that the prince found so incredibly humorous.
When he at last regained some control of his breathing, Théodred asked, "Who was it that uttered such language?"
"Éomer," Truva replied, though her response only served to renew Théodred's hysterics. By the time he recovered once more, he was wiping tears from his eyes.
"Is that so?" he chortled. "Éomer! You don't say!"
"Why is it so funny? The other recruits found it horrifying."
"He said it in front of the recruits?" Théodred roared, and would have lost control again had Truva not interrupted.
"Two days ago, when a sword was dropped on his foot during training."
"So that is why the poor man has been limping around these past few days," Théodred mused with a twinkle in his eye. He then explained, "There are some words that are acceptable to the King's ears, and there are those that are not. 'Helm' – as uttered in the way I suspect Éomer did – is unquestionably one of the latter."
"Ah!" Truva said with sudden understanding. "The vernacular of the Hidlands was full of such words! They were used frequently and without hesitation by owners and free villagers, yet if slaves were to speak so, we were beaten mercilessly."
"Yes, well, nobody will beat you for such language here, though I do not suggest using it lightly."
"Are there any other similar words I ought to be careful of? I would hate to use one mistakenly."
"Hmm," Théodred mused, "I suppose 'Helm!' is the most common, followed by 'Helm's son!' or 'In Helm's name.' As he is idolized to a higher degree than Helm in our society, 'Son of Eorl!' is a slightly stronger expression, though when a great deal more emphasis is required, 'In the name of Helm Hammerhand!' is the favored phrase." Théodred pronounced each utterance with a particular sense of satisfaction and enthusiasm, and it was unmistakably clear that he was enjoying himself.
"Of course, this is merely a small selection," he added with a shrug.
"I feel as though this has been a particularly insightful lesson," Truva said with a smile, and the two passed the remainder of the afternoon in a nonchalant manner – occasionally chatting, sometimes napping – and returned to the gates only once the contents of Théodred's basket had been entirely consumed.
As spring progressed, the joyous atmosphere that had settled over Truva ever since the picnic excursion became overshadowed by apprehension as she heard news that the Mark found its borders beset more than ever by threats out of the east. Whispers of the palantír – forgotten for a time – resurfaced once more, and though Truva was not privy to many of the details, she found herself beside her friends bidding Gríma a hasty goodbye when he was at long last sent to Isengard as emissary.
Many of Gríma's duties then fell entirely to Théodred, and while his dedication to Truva's language instruction had been unparalleled, the prince clearly held no similar regard for history; thus all lessons on the matter grew more infrequent until they ceased altogether.
Théodred's disaffection for the subject intrigued Truva, prompting her to ask one day as they walked about the market, "Why is it that you so utterly despise history?"
Théodred frowned slightly, and his gaze dropped to the dirt at their feet, considering his words for quite some time before responding, "Every event in history is a reminder of who I am supposed to be, the feats I am expected to measure up to; and I fear that I shall never fulfill such a glorious destiny – though my greater fear still is that I do not wish to. I am a peaceful man, Truva, and it is through my father's steadfast guidance that our lands have long prospered without great conflict.
"Each tale from our Eorlingas past raises an untenable dichotomy to the surface of my mind: the expectation of valor, yet the acute desire for it never to be necessary," he said, eyes still downturned. Truva's heart suddenly soared for this Man, trapped between duty and sense of self; and still she was startled to find herself reaching out a hand and laying it upon Théodred's arm, for never had she initiated any such gesture of her own volition. The look in Théodred's eyes spoke of equal surprise when he glanced in her direction, and rested his own hand on hers; then, as if suddenly recognizing their actions, they both withdrew sharply and walked on without a word.
Truva's history lessons resumed when Gríma returned several months later, and all seemed to be well in Edoras once more. As spring turned to summer, and summer to autumn, however, some tiny, nearly indiscernible discrepancies nagged within Truva's mind. Gríma, ordinarily a reserved yet nevertheless cheerful and considerate man, gradually grew even more insular and withdrawn. He did not dine alongside his companions with as much frequency as he once had, finding company in his books instead. The life seemed to fade from his countenance and his skin took on a sickly pallor, and the sparkle of intrigue grew diminished in his eyes. Whenever Truva entered Meduseld, Gríma was always consulting with Théoden King in concerned tones, and she feared his trip to Isengard had not brought about the political advantage the King sought.
Her concern grew as Gríma delved deeper into the history of the Mark during their lessons. His depiction of their southern Gondorian allies shifted from one of gallant heroism to one of betrayal and abandonment; and in spite of all news that returned from the borders of the Westfold, Gríma painted the increasingly hostile Dunlendings in a sympathetic light.
This interpretation Truva did not entirely disagree with, for despite their constant aggression she found the Dunlendings pitiable, having been driven from their homes when the land they occupied was redistributed without their knowledge or permission. Still, Gríma's historical reassessment – as well as a newfound propensity for praising Isengard and the Wizard that occupied it – disturbed Truva. Their lessons grew increasingly uncomfortable until she failed to attend entirely.
Gríma was not the only one to display any change, however; the countenance of Théoden King altered, as well, and it was apparent to all that the news Gríma relayed set a great burden upon him. Over time, the King's stature shrank and his shoulders grew hunched, and his once golden hair – only flecked with silver when Truva had first arrived in Edoras – became as white as the snowy peak of Thrihyrne in midwinter.
What had begun as imperceptible changes became increasingly pronounced as seasons passed, and over the course of several years the King slowly withdrew from view. What few public pronouncements he made began to lose their strength, and he became loath to take political action of any sort. The accolades and promotions that new recruits were accustomed to receiving upon completion of their basic training did not come; despite the flourishing skills of Truva and the others, they remained mere recruits, and those hopeful of following in the footsteps of affirmed soldiers were deprived of the opportunity.
Even more troubling was the news that streamed in from all borders of the Mark. At first it was limited, but then increased with such frequency that bearers of ill fortune became constant visitors to Meduseld – nor were Dunlendings the sole source of their plight, for stories of remote villages utterly ravaged by Orcs began to spread, and a disquietude settled over Edoras. The vibrant, bustling city Truva had once known was no longer.
Truva could not comprehend these stories, however, and as she could no longer ask Gríma, she looked instead to Théodred. The two of them sat at the edge of the training ground one afternoon after training when Truva turned to him and asked, "What are these 'Orcs' people speak of lately? I recall Éowyn believed that creature in Harrowdale to be one. Why is it that they attack our villages?"
"Orcs?" repeated Théodred, shifting uncomfortably. He did not answer immediately, instead taking a moment to compose his answer. "They are bastardized Elves, born at the hand of dark evil. As to why they attack our villages— did Gríma not explain?"
"No history he ever relayed to me entailed the discussion of such creatures," said Truva.
"That was a great omission on his part," said Théodred. He then began, "It extends far into the distant past – long before living memory – with the forging of Rings. These were no ordinary rings, for they had power, though many debate what that power was. Nine were given to the kings of Men, to lord dominion over their subjects. Seven were given to the Dwarves, and three to the Elves. But a last ring, master to these all, was forged in secret…"
Théodred continued with what little he knew of the wars fought long ago in the Second Age, quite enjoying how Truva hung with rapt attention upon his words. He did not pause his narration, even as the setting sun and chill wind drove them inside to Truva's accommodations; and she continued to listen, wordlessly offering Théodred a drink as she prepared a humble dinner and ate it with him.
"So, as you see, these Orcs do the bidding of Sauron – and now Saruman as well, it would seem. These creatures know aught but evil and destruction, and would make slaves of us all – or worse – should we fail to stand between them and their goal of utter domination," he concluded.
"Then we must not allow them to attain any such goal," said Truva.
"Yes, that would seem to be the clear choice," said Théodred with a smile, though his tone was inscrutable. He gathered his dishes and said, "Well, thank you for a lovely meal."
"It honors me that the son of the King would be content with such meager fare," said Truva abashedly, "Though it is truly all I have to offer in return for such a considerable tale."
"I would have told it for free," said Théodred.
"I know," said Truva, and a reserved smile flitted inexplicably across her face. Théodred stood then, gazing at her for a brief moment as if to say something, then ultimately deciding against it.
"I shall be off, then," he muttered, exiting through the door before Truva could so much as say goodbye.
One night not long after, at the conclusion of a particularly tense training session that was but one among several weeks of fraught drilling, Éomer suggested to Truva that they dine at Éomód and Héodis' house that evening. Truva was so exhausted she could scarcely move, yet Éomer would not be denied, and after he assisted her to struggle out of her gear and stow it within the armory, they made their way through the houses of the city together.
Immediately upon arrival, Truva was unnerved by the hush that reigned in the typically boisterous home, and though she noted that Fulmod was already sleeping, it did not seem to be for his sake that the party remained silent. A peculiar, reticent gloom hung over the companions, each of whom wore a grim expression, and not a single one ate their meal despite Héodis' delectable beef pie steaming on their plates.
As Truva sat pushing peas around with her fork, taking in the somber countenance of the others, it was Éomer who broke the silence at long last. "First and foremost, Truva: I would like to resume your private training immediately," he said. "I fear we may be in need of exceptionally skilled fighters, and sooner than we think. Of all the recruits, you are the most promising, and most trustworthy."
The warm glow of pride Truva might otherwise have felt at such high praise evaded her, for it was outweighed by the heavy unease that dampened the mood. She nevertheless replied, "I would be honored."
"Our greatest setback is that we know nothing," mused Éofa enigmatically.
"We know that the Dunlendings grow bold, brazenly attacking our borders, and that Orcs maraud openly across our lands," Théodred said.
"Orcs?" gasped Héodis. She reached out to grasp her husband's hand tightly.
"Nowhere near Edoras," Éomer reassured her, "Yet closer than I should like."
"What action does Théoden King seek to take?" asked Éomód.
"He has not held council nigh on two months, nor spoken at all before our people in almost three," said Éowyn, "He is close, even to his own family; none know his mind."
"Except perhaps Gríma," Éomer growled.
"Where is Gríma?" Truva asked, suddenly noticing the adviser's absence. Her question was met with a few moments of stony silence.
"I fear he can no longer be trusted," said Éomer, "Some great change has overcome Gríma; he is not the man we used to know."
"I believe the time has come for us to act ourselves," said Théodred. "If my father feels no obligation to protect our borders, that duty must necessarily fall to us."
"Openly defy the king?" exclaimed Éomód.
"We would not be defying him, per se," Éofa reasoned. "It is not that he has forbidden us from taking action, he simply has not ordered us to, either."
"I shall assemble an éored of trusted Riders," said Éomer. "Together, we will come to a consensus on what action is best to take."
"I think it is best we maintain a base here," Éomód said, still holding his wife's hand. "Fulmod is far too young to travel, and neither of us would be particularly useful against Orcs."
"I suppose I must also stay," said Éowyn. "With both Théodred and Éomer gone, there will be none to keep watch in Meduseld, or over my uncle. Moreover, Gríma observes my every move, and I fear my absence might arouse his suspicions."
"We must be certain that he cannot misinterpret our actions as an attempted coup, or at least portray them as such to Théoden King," added Théodred.
"Very well. Let us see to our duties, then reassemble soon," concluded Éomer.
As they left, the Marshal beckoned to Truva. He led her without a word to the large armory, but when he lit a lamp he led her not to the training equipment, nor did he bid her gather any pads or dull weapons. He led her instead to the very rear of the storeroom, where the light of the lamp only just trickled into the recesses of the vast array of instruments.
"You have armor provided by the King – armour of fine make that will serve you well," he said, coming upon a wooden chest and reaching deep within to draw from it a long black case. "I had intended to give this to you upon the conclusion of your training, though it is typically a father or brother who presents it to the graduating recruit. It seems you have been unfairly robbed of such ceremony."
Éomer unlatched the case and opened it, extending it to Truva. Contained inside was a sword, sheathed in a black leather scabbard. Truva slowly reached out to take it but hesitated, her hand hovering unsure over the weapon.
"Take it, it is yours," Éomer urged. Truva lifted the sword from its case, first observing its simple, unadorned hilt before unsheathing it and examining its blade. When she tested its edge, a drop of blood immediately blossomed on her thumb.
"It is a sword of no great origin; it is plain and unassuming," he said. "Give it your own story."
With that, Truva resheathed the blade. Éomer took the lamp and they exited the armory, walking silently and lost in their separate thoughts. She bade goodbye to Éomer when he parted toward the Marshal's quarters before rushing back to her own home. Once inside, Truva laid the sword before her armor and stared at through the dark, pondering the events of the evening. She wondered how circumstances could have devolved so imperceptibly yet so readily from the comfort she had grown accustomed to, and feared the inauspicious uncertainty that seemed to be closing in.
FFN's stats seem to have been fixed! Thank you to everyone who sent word!