Author's recommended listening: Shostakovich, Symphony No. 5
Disclaimer: This chapter contains a poem that appears in Tolkien's original work and thus is clearly not my own, and I claim no ownership of it.
CHAPTER VIII: THE FORDS OF ISEN
Based on Éomer's insistence that her training regimen intensify once more, Truva had presumed the covertly accumulating forces of those loyal to the Mark would remain in Edoras for some time, yet all such assumptions were wrong. A mere three days of hectic preparation passed ere a score of Eorlingas warriors stood before Théoden King, and as Théodred was strangely not present, it was Éomer who stepped to the forefront. As the Marshal spoke, Gríma lurked in the shadows behind the throne of the King, as he had a tendency of doing in recent days.
"It is but a training exercise, nothing more than those we have conducted in years past without incident," said Éomer, by way of explanation. "It is necessary – and always has been – to retain our troops' mobility and preparedness for any potential threat to these lands, from wheresoever it may come."
"An exercise that is sure to set our allies on edge in these dark times," countered Gríma with a glance to the King, who sat absentmindedly, saying nothing. Théoden King's infirm appearance had worsened drastically in the months he had spent outside of public view, and Truva could not help but wonder whether he was capable of feeling any sympathy for his own kin that stood before him, begging leave to do what was necessary to protect their beloved lands and people; or indeed whether he was capable of so much as comprehending the events that were unfolding in Meduseld.
"Our expected path lies well within our borders. Should our allies or enemies alike learn of our movements, it will be due to no other reason than their impinging upon our lands without our knowledge or consent," Éomer retorted, fully aware that those Gríma considered allies were not consistent with his own reckoning.
"Nevertheless, the friends of this great nation have a right to be informed, and so you would agree, were you not so bent on betraying your King, to provoke his allies then abandon him when they rightfully counter!" Gríma spat. Though Éomer's protective mass stood between her and the King's advisor, it took a great deal of mental fortitude on Truva's part not to shrink back at Gríma's words, for it startled her to witness someone she had once considered so good transform into a figure of twisted, hateful mien. His was the behavior of those she had known in the Hidlands, not her mild mannered, erstwhile tutor.
"I will not have my allegiance questioned so!" Éomer's voice boomed, though he did not raise it, and at once it abated. "My only wish is to serve and protect my King and people."
"Let them go." This was spoken so weakly that none present were sure they had heard it properly.
"I am sorry, my lord?" said Gríma, his demeanor altering in an instant, suddenly fawning upon the wizened and bent King.
"Let them go," the King repeated, no louder. These words sent Gríma's face into a convulsion of nasty expressions, and it clearly pained him to assent to the King's declaration.
"Very well; as the King proclaims, so shall it be done! Yet if any harm befalls our hallowed halls or the lands of the Mark, we shall know it to be the doing of this rash and malcontent Marshal, whom the King once considered family," said Gríma with a malicious glower in Éomer's direction.
"My liege," was all Éomer said before he bowed deeply at the foot of Théoden King and turned to exit.
"However!" cried Gríma, causing Éomer to pause, back turned to the dais, "If you choose to leave these city walls, you may never return. Should you abandon your King, he will in turn abandon you, and all who follow; the moment of your exit marks the first of your banishment from the Mark!"
Éomer faltered then, for his was a decision of significant gravity not to be made capriciously, and the Marshal's shoulders visibly bowed under this burden; yet at great last he marched forward resolutely, and every member of the company followed suit, exiting Meduseld as a unified whole and exuding a determined air. It was an outcome they had long discussed and were prepared for, as it was their understanding that the King that currently sat upon the throne was not the same King they had sworn allegiance to.
The Riders solemnly made their way to the stables, where the packs and all other supplies they had gathered over the past three days lay waiting. There they encountered Théodred, who was already prepared to depart. Truva gave him a brief wave as she greeted her horse, Bron, with a fresh apple; for initial attraction had blossomed into outright affection, and Truva could no longer bring herself to ride any other steed.
Bron was a simple creature, both in mind and body – not altogether dissimilar from his rider. He was neither the swiftest nor the strongest mount, yet he was steadfast and true, determined to overcome any shortcoming through hard work. He also had a particular penchant for treats; his long black tail flicked over his tawny back in simple pleasure as he munched on the proffered apple. Truva's heart weighed heavily, for the poor creature had no notion of the power struggles of Men, yet there was nothing to be done save load her packs onto Bron's back and give him a playful smack on the rump before mounting up.
After years of riding, the creature that had once been intimidatingly large to Truva now felt like a mere extension of herself, and it was with relative ease that she maneuvered Bron out of the stables behind the others, trotting down the path toward the gates. Nearly a hundred other Riders joined the company at the entrance to Edoras, though all together the banished scarcely comprised a full éored. They exited the gates, observed quietly by no more than a handful of Eorlingas villagers who simply happened to be about, for there was no time nor occasion for goodbyes.
When Truva escaped the Hidlands, she had believed herself to be fleeing solitarily from a place she loathed, to which she had no desire to return; the companionship of the Eorlingas had been tenuous and unlooked for. In leaving Edoras, however, she was leaving a place she loved and considered home – a thought which birthed a torment such as could not be wholly assuaged by the company of Riders who rode in stride about her, no matter how steadfast their camaraderie had become.
The sentiments that arose in her heart from the two distinct occasions of departure were in no way comparable, and yet each felt equally permanent in Truva's mind. She glanced back once – only once – upon the place that had, if only briefly, demonstrated to her what a true home might have been, before facing ahead and falling in formation behind Éomer Marshal.
The company followed northwest along the Great Road, for though they were banished from the lands of the Mark, Éomer had explained it was his intention to follow their originally outlined path at first: to travel the Road to Helm's Deep, where they would confirm that the Hornburg remained secure, unaware as its occupants were of the Riders' ostensible betrayal. From there they would circle north to where recent rumours of destruction along Fangorn Forest originated, after which they would reconvene with Elfhelm, Marshal of the East-mark.
Elfhelm Marshal would return to Edoras from Aldburg in the meantime, so that he might mitigate any negative repercussions resulting from the departure of Éomer Marshal and the King's forces, and to rally additional support in the city – though it was also an unspoken hope among the outcasts that Elfhelm Marshal might ultimately return to them with news of the miraculous recovery of Théoden King.
Contradictory to the gloomy mood that hung over the Riders, the weather was exquisite; the late February skies were clear and bright, yet the chill air prevented their mounts from overexertion. Birds trilled and flitted through tall swaths of grass, though the vast majority of Eorlingas rode in silence. The sole exception was, of course, Théodred, who attempted to converse with anyone who appeared likely to respond. After several failures to elicit any sort of meaningful reply, he dropped back until he rode beside Truva.
"What wonderful weather we're having!" he said with a deceptive sense of cheer, though it failed entirely to fool Truva.
"You are upset over leaving your father," she said bluntly, fixing the Prince in her gaze.
"Straight to the quick!" he said with a smile, though over the years Truva had grown familiar enough with Théodred to know his exuberant expression was sincere, while simultaneously serving as a cover for the inner turmoil he endured. When he turned to see Truva's inquiring eyes upon him, he sighed resignedly and his smile faltered.
"The King is my father, it is true," he said at last, shifting the reins in his hands, "Yet that does not alter the fact that his inaction jeopardizes the wellbeing of our people. Oh, how I labored these past few years to overcome whatever force it is that turns his eye blind to the realities that threaten our lands! It pains me grievously to admit that even the influence of his very own son yielded no effect upon the King; yet were I to remain behind in Meduseld, my presence would have served no purpose – at Éomer's side, however, I might still effect some positive result."
"Even so, I am sorry you have to leave him," said Truva.
"And I am sorry you have to leave your home," said Théodred, his smile much more wan than before.
"Oh, but I am not leaving it," said Truva, with a pointed look about the other Riders; for as much as leaving Edoras pained her, and their presence could not fully alleviate that pain, Truva realized also she would always feel at home among the Riders who loved and accepted her unconditionally; and the smile Théodred gave then was wholly genuine.
"It is true; home can be anywhere, as long as you are with those you consider family," he said, and they rode on in silence, mildly comforted in spite of the morning's events.
A day and a half of light travel passed ere they arrived before Helm's Deep and the Hornburg, which lay at the base of the Deeping-coomb. Éomer had often led his recruits, including Truva, far afield on training missions, yet they never traveled so far as the massive fortress of the West-mark. It was the first time since her brief glimpse all those years ago that Truva laid eyes upon the spectacular edifice; and she longed to see within its walls, yet a single horn blast from Éomer and a return signal from the impenetrable guard tower was the only interaction that occurred between the two parties.
"Erkenbrand abides," Éomer declared before continuing along their path.
From that point, the éored banked northward and rode on until the sky grew dark. It was as the Riders began to set up camp for the night that two scouts came racing back, seeking to speak urgently with Éomer and Théodred. After a short, terse conversation in hushed tones, the leaders called four men to them, who soon dispersed to spread word among the Riders. Loath as she was to wait for information, Truva approached the two Marshals directly.
"Whatever is the matter?" she asked. "There is clearly something amiss."
"Saruman the Wizard is mustering a force of Uruk-hai at Isengard," said Éomer with lowered voice, ignoring Truva's impetuous disregard for hierarchy, for long had the distinction between their rank been blurred by amity. "Perhaps he has heard Edoras is weak now, and plans to take advantage of the division in our forces, and the depleted numbers that now guard the capital."
"We have no choice but to head them off at the Fords of Isen," said Théodred, his face a display of consternation. "We must not allow them to cut through our defenses; we are all that can be reliably depended upon to guard the Mark now, susceptible as the remaining forces are to Gríma's influence."
"But for now, we must rest. We ride to the Fords in the morning and hopefully surprise our enemies with our arrival tomorrow night. I want you on the next watch," Éomer ordered Truva.
"Yes, my lord," she replied, struggling to process the situation. She immediately left to relieve the first sentry at his post and sat contemplating the impending conflict as she scanned the area, aware more than ever of the fact that true enemies might be prowling within the vicinity.
After some time, what few fires the Riders had dared to set began to die out as the camp settled in for the night, to glean what rest might be had before battle. Even as Truva resigned herself to the mundane routine of watch, however, Théodred appeared with a bowl of stew and some bread, left over from dinner.
"I heard you took your watch without eating," he said. Truva thanked him as she accepted the steaming bowl, noting that even the bread had been thoughtfully heated by the fireside.
"Are you not supposed to be resting?" she asked as he took a seat upon the ground beside her.
"I will, soon," he said dismissively. "But first I wanted to check on our little recruit."
"I may still be a recruit in word, yet I am not so little, you know," Truva retorted.
"You are littler than me," Théodred pointed out.
"So is Éomer, though you do not call him little."
"Oh, but I do!" Théodred said cheekily as Truva sulked, for while her height might have given her an occasional advantage in the Hidlands, it was a perpetual source of good-natured ridicule among the long-limbed Eorlingas warriors.
"Come now, do not be so out of sorts," said Théodred, "I simply wanted to inquire as to how our current situation is affecting you."
Truva took a moment to assess her own emotions before responding. "I have experienced many, many fights – oh, so many fights – yet this is not the same. There is no great risk of death in Hidland fighting, for it is ever the owners' desire to protect their assets; yet this— this is something new entirely."
"It is only natural to feel nervous," Théodred reassured her. "I always have, and often have I discussed it with Éomer, who is likewise not impervious to its effects. There are few who deny feeling so: only those too foolhardy to know that they ought to fear, and those whose false pride does not allow them to acknowledge it. Nervousness is nothing more than your body coming alive! In the Mark, we say 'horses run through your heart.'"
"Horses run through your heart," Truva mused. "A poetic turn of phrase, that is for certain – one that perfectly describes the way my heart pounds against my chest even now."
"There are loosely three circumstances in which we use this phrase: first, when we feel nervous, as I have just explained. Second, when the spirit of Eorl takes over a Rider."
"As in when they accomplish some tremendous feat of valor?"
"Precisely!" said Théodred. "Such as when the war-horn was blown, and from Súthburg Helm Hammerhand emerged to strike fear into the heart of the Dunlendings."
"I see. And the third?" Truva prompted.
"The third occasion when we use such a phrase," Théodred said quietly, his eyes dropping to his lap with uncharacteristic hesitancy, "The third occasion is when we are in love."
Not knowing how to respond, Truva's eyes were gradually drawn toward Théodred, who was suddenly gazing at her with such intensity that she was forced to look away, scanning out across the horizon in a return to her duties as watchman. Even so, she felt Théodred's eyes upon her, and she turned once more to face him.
The peculiar look on his face caused Truva's breath to come up short, and the racing of her heart to accelerate. As Truva studied his face intently, desperate for clues as to the intent behind his words, Théodred suddenly dropped his gaze once more and stared at his long, delicate fingers woven tightly in his lap.
Surely Truva must be mistaken, must be assigning additional meaning to his words where none existed; before her sat the elegant figure of a prince, who was but a single step distant from a throne that would raise him to the forefront of a vast land occupied by a proud, noble people; a prince who had never been deprived of any opportunity to appease his every whim, who had never known hunger or want, who was beloved throughout the Mark.
How could such a dignitary so much as entertain the idea of fostering any sort of affection for one such as she, proud though Truva was of all that she had achieved? She could lay claim to no great lineage, as her very parentage itself was a mystery to her; she did not hold any remarkable position – mere recruit of the King's army as she was – nor did she harbor any aspirations to ascend to one, for over the past several years Truva had grown to appreciate the simple life she led, and never had she dared dream of anything more.
Yet her confusion grew as she thought back upon the particular care Théodred had shown ever since her arrival in Edoras, and how it extended far beyond even the most hospitable welcome others had offered. The dedication with which he had applied himself to her lessons in Eorling, the countless nosegays of simbelmynë, his thoughtful letters, cheerful conversation on joyous days and words of comfort on miserable ones – Truva had attributed such attentions to nothing more than Théodred's benevolent nature, for she had little experience in the matter by which to judge them, and yet—
Théodred's gaze lifted then to meet Truva's own, and she could see that she had not been mistaken; there in his eyes flamed a passion that she had not known until that very moment, and there was hurt, too, for long had she been reticent in thought, and allowed him to writhe in the emotional anguish of anticipation.
Truva's eyes then flicked back to her own hands, which somehow suddenly did not know where to belong. "Do you— I do not wish to presume, but— That is to say, do you mean—?" She struggled to express the jumble in her mind.
Théodred rushed to reassure her. "That is, I am fully aware your experience in emotions of the heart differ greatly from mine, and I most certainly do not wish to lay a burden upon you with my words; it is simply that I feel more at ease, more free with you than I have ever felt with any other woman. And you— I can see that horses run through your heart as well, Truva; the spirit of Eorl speaks to you, regardless of your origin. And with the approaching battle, I feared— I feared that, were I to say nothing, I would regret it eternally."
When he fell quiet, Truva studied him intently. She took in his boyish short hair – the only Eorlingas warrior to wear it so, for he claimed longer hair annoyed him – and his sun-freckled skin and prominent cheekbones, and noted the slight wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth that had begun to set in despite his young age; most were creases from laughing, yet she could see also the weight of an entire kingdom carved upon his features.
Without meeting her eyes, Théodred stood up with a start. "I ought to sleep now. I am to take a later watch," and with that he stalked off, his lanky gait that had once amused her now causing her chest to balloon painfully.
Truva sat unmoving for some time, her gaze continuing to sweep about the camp's surroundings; yet she kept Théodred's vacated seat constantly in her peripheral, for she could not seem to shake the Prince's presence as his words repeated in her mind. She was so focused on observing outwardly that she failed to notice Éomer approaching from behind until he took a seat beside her. He laughed quietly when she started.
"For the record, he does still call me 'little Éomer' – just not in front of the ranks," he said with a chuckle. Truva turned to stare at him, eyes wide in shock, though he merely pointed forward to redirect her attention toward keeping watch.
"I suppose you heard—"
"Everything, why yes," said Éomer, smiling gently at her horrified expression. "Do not look so shocked! I had merely come to relieve you of your watch. What Théodred was saying seemed like it could not wait, however, so I did not interrupt."
"So you eavesdropped instead," accused Truva, and Éomer shrugged playfully in response.
"What is important is not what I heard – it is how you feel," he said. When Truva failed to respond, he prompted, "I am asking you how you feel."
Truva could not reply at once, for in truth she did not quite know how she felt, let alone how to articulate it. After some consideration, she said, "He expressed in words emotions I have very little knowledge of. I feel as though he simply reached into my mind and extricated precisely what I was thinking, without my ever being conscious that I was thinking it."
Éomer quietly nodded in agreement. "Many men say all manner of things to make naïve young women fall in love with them," he cautioned, "And yet I have known Théodred a terribly long time – ever since it was accurate to call me 'Little Éomer' – and never have I heard him speak with such sincerity."
Truva found her voice lost in that moment, for all of her emotions were so inextricably entangled that she could not unweave them, nor was she even sure how to begin.
"You should get some sleep," said Éomer after a time. "I know not what tomorrow may bring, save that it will be no ordinary day."
And so Truva left Éomer to his watch, and perturbed as she was by the events of that evening, sleep was slow to overtake her, and the following morning came far too early. Truva was not alone in her restlessness, however, for with unsettled energy every single Rider had awoken before dawn and packed their camp ere the dew dried. The last watch was called back early as everybody broke a simple fast, downing what little bread remained in their panniers, too anxious to eat anything more substantial.
Sunlight was just beginning to seep over the horizon when the Riders peeled out, more subdued in spirit yet driving a harder pace than any previous day since their departure from Edoras, and thus they made alarmingly good time. It was around noon that the company came within sight of the River Isen, over which naught but a trickle of water flowed. Truva knew the river from the maps Gríma had her study, as well as the Road that veered and ran parallel alongside it for some distance.
Darkness was only threatening to descend by the time the company bore down upon the Fords. When the Riders came within sight of the rocky crossing, Truva was struck by a strange sense of familiarity, although some details seemed unplaceable and the exact scene eluded her memory. As they drew closer, Éomer dropped back to ride alongside her.
"Do you recall this place?" he asked. When Truva shrugged noncommittally, he added, "We passed here when we trekked from the Hidlands to Edoras, though we did not tarry long, for even in those days our suspicion of the goings-on at Isengard were aroused. Back then, these waters flowed more freely. Something is amiss."
Upon their arrival at the Fords, quick preparations were made. Éomer and Théodred divided the force roughly in half, with the intention of protecting both sides of the river; for Isengard lay at its source, and thus Saruman could easily send his forces down either side. Upon the west bank lay the easier path, yet traveling along the eastern side negated the need to cross the river if bound for an assault on Edoras. Though the scouts had returned with no tell of certainties, whispers that rippled through the Riders hinted that the bulk of Saruman's forces were amassing to the west.
Théodred therefore insisted that it be he who led his force along the western side of the river, to surge northward and take the Uruk-hai by surprise even as they prepared to march on Edoras, leaving Éomer to protect the eastern bank and all the Mark should their information prove incorrect – or Théodred's Riders fail. Despite the significance of impending events, in believing their victory to be assured, Éomer encouraged Truva to join Théodred's troops so that her first experience of genuine combat might be gained without ever truly being exposed to any great danger.
As Éomer and his warriors entrenched their position upon the east bank, Théodred and his company, including Truva, set out under the cover of full darkness. In the dim light, a shallow swath in the wide river could be seen stretching across to a tiny island in the middle, and it was there that the Riders crossed before turning and progressing northward.
The going was easy, for the path was wide and clear and a waxing moon hung overhead, offering a feeble light to see by. The trickle of the river's abated water was subtle yet sufficient to cover the sound of their approach, and great beech and poplar trees reared up on both sides, lending the riders a sense of security while also kindling a fear of what might be lurking among the impenetrable shadows.
Several miles they traveled upriver, and all the while Théodred maintained a moderate pace, for he did not wish to exhaust his fighters or their horses. The Riders themselves remained hushed and hesitant, anxious to engage, and a few struggled to reassure their mounts, who in sensing their masters' tension tossed their heads and swished their tails. Truva noticed a faint clinking sound, and looked down to see Bron's reigns trembling in her hands, yet even when she took a deep breath to calm her heart the shaking did not fully subside.
A most peculiar thing happened then; a calmness passed through the warriors, despite – or perhaps because of – the knowledge that they rapidly approached Isengard and the forces that amassed there, and the inevitability of what was to come seemed undeniable. The horses' fidgeting ceased and the Riders' posture straightened as they threw their shoulders back defiantly, continuing on with a resolute, determined air.
They rode on some distance further, entranced by the eerie tranquility, before the silence that hung over the Riders was broken suddenly by a chorus of deep-throated growls emanating from amongst the trees and thick undergrowth. The terrifying noises surrounded the company on three fronts, and in a single moment Théodred's forces found themselves face-to-face with a mass of creatures that melted from the shadows and sprung snarling upon the Riders.
"Uruk-hai!" cried Théodred, drawing his sword to fend off the first wave of beasts that leapt upon him. Truva failed to react rationally for a few moments as she gazed on, stupefied by the Uruk-hai, whose heads stood easily as high as the Riddermark horses' and whose skin, just barely visible beneath darkened armor, was a mottled blue-black color that allowed them to blend seamlessly into the night. They bore also eyes as yellow as their rotted teeth, and yet the most distinctive feature to Truva was their impressive musculature; many fighters of the Hidlands trained for decades and still did not attain such toned bodies, even if fed well by their owners.
Truva did not have much time to observe these creatures, however, for no sooner had the Uruk-hai been perceived by the Eorlingas than they fell upon the outward flanks of the Riders in a whirl of glinting swords and clacking pikes. Trapped on the right side of the company, Truva was forced to quickly assess her weapon choices.
The Uruk-hai approached too close to allow the use of a bow, for which Truva was thankful, as her skills in archery still left a great deal to be desired. She knew also her spear would only prove cumbersome, so instead she drew her sword, the only weapon she wielded comfortably and confidently. It had not been long since Éomer had gifted the blade to her, however, and its balance still felt unfamiliar in her hands, for she had been afforded little time to train with it, and had never suspected how quickly she would be compelled to use it.
Truva swung the sword through the air to regain a sense of its movement, watching its unadorned edges gleam in the moonlight. In looking to her mount, Bron, to ensure that he would not take fright, he seemed even more steady than she herself; for it was in panic that, when the closest Uruk-hai sprung upon her, Truva slashed her sword haphazardly against his chest.
She was thrown from the saddle by the force of the impact. Her head struck the ground and the world went black for a moment, and she could see nothing save red and purple stars. With a shake of her head, Truva regained her senses and scrambled to her feet, for one simple stroke had been insufficient to fell the Uruk-hai, and he merely spun about and charged at her again. Truva took a hurried breath to collect herself, and recalled Théodred's word on nervousness; then she lowered the hilt of her sword and angled the tip toward the joint between the Uruk-hai's helmet and chain-link about his neck, where Éomer had taught her their armor was weakest.
As she thrust upward, her blade slipped easily through the Uruk-hai's defenses and straight out the back of his neck, after which she threw her foot upon the beast's chest and rapidly withdrew her sword back into a guarded position. The Uruk-hai tottered for a brief moment, his foul lips still curled into a snarl, before he collapsed upon the roadway and lay still. Truva likewise stood motionless, transfixed, for she was suddenly cognizant of the fact that she had taken another being's life for the first time in her own.
Truva was afforded no time to process the disturbing emotions that coursed through her, however, for another swarm of Uruk-hai immediately closed in around her. She leapt back into the saddle and spun Bron about to face these new attackers, allowing her body to take over as she fell back on years of training; her mind emptied, for cognizant thought lagged far behind action as her sword flashed around her, slashing and stabbing until little by little the press of Uruk-hai subsided.
In the unsettling hush that followed, when only the gasping breaths of the Eorlingas fighters and the snorts of their mounts could be heard, Truva's eyes were drawn forward to Théodred, who sat perched upon his steed with sword dripping from the blood of slain Uruk-hai that lay scattered around him. His horse reared against the gleaming moon then, and suddenly Truva saw in his being a new incarnation of sovereign; no longer was Théodred the goofy, lackadaisical young son of a king she had considered him to be until that moment — no, the figure before her could be perceived as nothing less than an indomitable Prince and Marshal of the Eorlingas, whose actions, not mere status of birth, crowned him a formidable leader who would not be denied.
"They were but a vanguard," he warned the others quietly. "The bulk of their forces – our true test – surely still lie ahead."
Not another word was said. The Riders split their numbers, clinging to separate sides of the path or moving through the undergrowth, both to clear it of potential enemies and to avoid being a direct target of whatever attack lay in anticipation of their approach. In their nervousness, the Riders' pace subconsciously picked up; the earlier illusion of tranquility had been shattered, and each warrior's breath caught in their throats at every snap of a twig or shift of a shadow. Their hearts, once set to racing, refused to be calmed.
It was not long before Théodred's horse, exhilarated by the frantic events, stumbled unwittingly into the trenches that Saruman's forces had prepared for their assault. Théodred scarcely managed to scramble free before he fell under a hail of arrows that came from across the pits as the night air was rent by the furious barks of the enemy. This new mass of Uruk-hai had clearly been anticipating the Eorlingas' blind approach – the vanguard had merely been a guise.
Forced to draw her bow at last, Truva unleashed several volleys of arrows into the darkness beyond the trenches, assuming the Uruk-hai were amassed so closely that, blind as she was to their position, she must surely have hit a few regardless of accuracy. Yet while she was preoccupied with the forces before her, two more mobs of Uruk-hai descended upon the flanks of the Eorlingas, clearly intending to surround the riders.
Truva drew her blade once more with relish, and beat back any foe that dared approach her. When an unlucky glancing strike knocked her sword from her hand, Truva did not waste a second in pulling a spear from the fallen corpse of an Orc and utilizing its precise point to strike several others through the eyes of their helmets. She knocked another back with the butt of the spear, creating enough space for her to dismount and collect her blade.
A massive Uruk loomed before her then, its armor glistening with blood that streamed from a gash in its shoulder. He leered at her, revealing mangled teeth in a nauseating grimace, and wiped the blood across his armor so that it tinted the white mark of a hand upon his chest scarlet. Unimpressed by this display, Truva sent the Orc tumbling into one of his approaching companions with a front kick to his chest, and swiftly dispatched both with a well-placed strike of her sword. Swinging the spear in wide arcs about her, Truva drove back the throng of advancing Orcs and remounted.
During the brief lull in fighting, Truva glanced across to the east across the river to see whether Éomer had sent any assistance – archers perhaps – only to observe an unfamiliar force making its way southward along the banks. She realized then that Saruman's resources must be far larger than any of the Eorlingas scouts had anticipated, and that the Wizard had sent yet another force down the east side of the river in addition to the west. She cried out to Théodred, yet this development had not gone unnoticed by the Marshal, either, for he raised his horn to his lips and blew several short blasts.
"Retreat! Retreat!" he cried. "Eorlingas, retreat! Make for the Fords, and for Éomer's reinforcements! Retreat!"
As Théodred continued to signal retreat, the Eorlingas struggled to comply, for a new flood of Uruk-hai had pressed forward across the trenches, and for each short interval the Riders fled they were drawn back some distance by the enemy's attacks from behind. Truva found herself caught in a deadly ebb and flow, at times thrust ahead to forge a path for retreat, other times lagging in the rear to beat back the overwhelming flow of Uruks. Spear abandoned long ago and bow slung unminded across her chest, Truva swung desperately with her sword, and occasionally even resorted to drawing her dagger as the gruesome masses swarmed ever closer.
A seeming eternity passed before Théodred's company came at last within sight of the Fords, and gained a clear view of the conflict on the opposite bank. With a flash of panic, Truva saw that Isengard's eastern force was comprised not only of Uruk-hai, as the western force was, but of Men as well, many of whom rode astride giant wolf-like creatures. They raced with lengthy strides along the rocky riverside, bearing down with alacrity upon Éomer's forces, and Truva hoped with what little freedom of consciousness remained that the Eorlingas defenses would hold, though she was too preoccupied with the foes that lay before her to do little else but hope.
"Truva!" Théodred cried in a voice laced with heretofore unknown desperation, "Hold this position! I will fall back to reinforce the east bank!"
Shocked by the sudden charge, Truva grasped with desperate fingers the ability to execute her task, duly leading the fighters who lingered on the western bank to lay cover for Théodred as he crossed through the shallow waters of the River Isen to support Éomer, though he succeeded only in gaining the eyot before encountering unsurpassable resistance. In her peripheral, Truva could see that Éomer's Riders likewise struggled to suppress the onslaught of Isengard's forces on the eastern side of the river.
It was at that very moment a hulking Uruk-hai knocked Truva off Bron with a jab of his pike to her chest, and as she lay upon the ground fighting from her back, Truva craned her neck and caught a glimpse of a horde of axe-wielding Dunlending men bearing down upon the small rise of the eyot where Théodred crouched. A savagery born of desperation overcame her then as she slayed first the Uruk-hai that had dismounted her, and subsequently any adversary that stood between her and her imperiled Marshal; yet even in her frenzy, a stillness fell over the scene as she observed two Orc-men raising their axes against Théodred.
The first blow landed.
It crumpled Théodred in an instant.
The second Orc-man's axe hung in the air as Truva struggled through the water of the Ford. With one rapid jerk, Truva dislodged yet another spear that protruded from the riverbed and heaved it in the direction of the second Orc-man, striking him clean in the shoulder. He stumbled forward, turned to observe her for a fleeting moment, then returned to his original purpose.
His blow struck as cleanly as the first, leaving Théodred prostrate at the feet of his attackers. Truva beat her way across the remaining distance, driven by fury and harboring a complete disregard for her own safety, and once she gained the eyot it was but the work of a moment to dispose of the two Orc-men. Desperate to protect the unmoving figure of Théodred, neither the encroaching throngs of Uruk-hai nor the lurking Warg-riders intimidated Truva, so berserk with passion was she.
Due to the oblivious and wild nature aroused within her, Truva might have been hewn down as well had the reinforcements led by Elfhelm Marshal not arrived then. Called upon to follow the exiled riders to Fangorn Forest, the Marshal of the East-mark had known something was amiss when his scouts reported Warg-riders within Riddermark territory. He attacked then from the east, supplementing Éomer's forces even as the core of Théodred's riders fell back upon the eyot and rallied around their fallen leader.
Upon Elfhelm Marshal's charge, all of Isengard's forces retreated from both banks of the river, perhaps intimidated by the sudden swell in Eorlingas numbers, or perhaps content in the thought that they had slain the King's son. Clusters of the newly arrived Riders pursued the enemy a great distance to ensure that they would not reappear for some time.
As the chaos gradually gave way to calm, all eyes turned to where Théodred lay upon the knoll in the middle of the eyot, struck down by the blades of the Orc-men yet alive still. With no enemy left to fight off, Truva collapsed to her knees beside her Marshal, and her sword fell unheeded from her fingers as they flew to his neck to confirm that his heart continued to beat. Her training took over as she raced through the field medicine techniques Éofa had taught her, assessing his wounds and working to staunch the uncontrollable flow of blood; yet a nearly imperceptible gesture of Théodred's hand gave Truva pause, beckoning for her to bend close, and in doing so she heard but a faint breath escape from Théodred's lips:
"Let me lie here—to keep the ford until my King comes!"
Truva shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the words from her ears, but her trembling hands that had worked across his body fell still, and her desperation only served to exacerbate the feeling of helplessness as she cradled his head and shoulders in her lap, and his breath grew increasingly shallow with each exhalation.
When Éomer waded through the shallow waters, all he saw were the storm clouds that darkened Truva's brow and the rain of tears that streamed down her face. He crouched to check Théodred's breathing, but he needn't have, for Truva's face spoke the news to him. Éomer knelt beside Truva as other Riders slowly gathered about in silence.
They remained there unmoving until the darkness of night began to give way to the faint dusk of predawn. Without a word, shovels were produced and several Eorlingas began to dig, the scrape of their shovels cutting awfully through the stillness. When they had dug deep enough, no other sound but the passing river could be heard. All Riders huddled around, and those who could not stand on the eyot itself held their place in the river, or upon its banks.
With an insurmountable feeling of insufficiency, Truva allowed the body of Théodred to be lifted away by Éomer, who placed it reverently within the grave. Her thoughts turned fleetingly to Théoden King of old, the kindly Man she had first met in the halls of Meduseld long ago, who would never have allowed his beloved son to be buried so far from home and the barrows of his forefathers. How the King they had left behind in Edoras would react, however, she did not wish to know – for she did not believe she could bear the heartbreaking indifference she suspected it would be.
Each Rider took their turn in entombing their Prince, placing dirt upon dirt and stone upon stone until the knoll had grown considerably in height. Still Truva sat, her legs unable to lift her, her hand unable to grasp the shovel offered to her; she could do nothing save stare blankly at the earth beneath which Théodred had disappeared.
Éomer hung his head as the silence deepened; then at last he gathered his courage with a deep breath and began to sing in his deep, sonorous voice a song in the language of the Eorlingas, which Truva now understood almost as easily as the Common Tongue, for it had been Théodred who taught her:
Where now are the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the harp on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the deadwood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
Line by line, more men lent their voices to this long-forgotten hymn of Eorl the Young, whose very blood had coursed through Théodred's veins and whose spirit had burned fierce in the Prince's heart. That so valiant a warrior should be buried with so little to remember him lay heavy in the minds of the Eorlingas gathered there, and as the last strains of the song were born away on the chill morning wind, a hush fell over them once more. Then at last they turned in ones and twos to tend to the others who had fallen, and to the tasks that could not be disregarded no matter the tragedies that haunted them.
The first wink of dawn had already streaked across the horizon before Éomer took Truva by the shoulders and physically lifted her to her feet, supporting her through the shallows of the Ford to the east bank of the river, where Éofa had erected her tent and set Bron on a picket line. Many of the company not occupied by their duties were sleeping – those that found it possible – while the remainder sat watch about the edges of camp or scouted the territory for lingering enemy troops.
Éomer lowered Truva to the ground, where she sat gazing unresponsive into the distance, her dazed expression reflected in a handful of similarly stunned recruits camped nearby. Once certain that his charges were settled, Éomer called Éofa and the Marshal Elfhelm briefly to his side and the three held a whispered conversation; and no sooner had they broken off than Éofa made ready his horse and took off with all speed southeast in the direction of Edoras.
Éomer watched his departing captain a few moments as Elfhelm went off to tend the wounded, then slowly turned to where Truva sat, listless and unheeding. He halfheartedly offered her some bread, much flattened in its travels, yet the Marshal knew from his own personal experience how absurd the idea of eating must be to her. Instead, he merely wrapped an arm about her shoulders and sat quietly, conveying his empathy through touch. To Truva, Éomer's embrace was simultaneously suffocating and yet not nearly tight enough.
Éomer did not expect Truva to say anything, and she did not – for she could not. To accept the temporality of her own life in the Hidlands had been heartbreaking enough, yet to face the reality that she would be expected to continue her existence in the world while deprived of one whose significance superseded her own seemed unbearable; and she knew not whether she was awake or in some agonizing nightmare.