Author's notes: I would foremost like to apologize to those subscribers whose inboxes experienced a deluge of update notifications this past week. The first wave of notifications was due to minor errors and edits; in all honesty, I had quite forgotten FFN sends out a message for every minute change, and for that I apologize.

The second wave was due to a much more significant reason. I have received quite a few suggestions from numerous sources with regard to the main character Truva, some of which were logical, many of which were directly contradictory, and one that, after much internal debate, I have decided to act upon.

Attribute to it what you will, yet despite having endured numerous situations which might reasonably result in it, Tolkien's original characters exhibit very few – if any – effects of trauma. I initially approached this project from a similar standpoint, in that grief and hardship were to be met with indefatigable hope; Middle Earth is, after all, a fictional world in which all is right in the end.

That being said, I understand fanfiction is a wholly different construct, and that society's understanding of trauma has evolved greatly since Tolkien's time (and even more so since the nebulous era in which LotR is set). I therefore began brainstorming upon the advice of my beta, and included minor behaviors in Truva that could be attributed to (C)PTSD, yet it was not until I received further comments that requested more that I determined to go back and insert overt instances of trauma-related behavior. Even so, I did what I could to maintain Truva's consonance with Tolkien's world and characters.

Lastly, I strove to ensure that there would be limited incongruence for those who have already read this far and do not wish to return and read again the earlier chapters; I ask only that certain oddities and inconsistencies might be dismissed should they surface. For any curious as to what specific changes have been made, do not hesitate to contact me and I would be happy to provide a list! I should also like to hope that, barring any major problems, this marks the end of any updates save those for new chapters.

Author's further notes: From this chapter, the story converges for a time with Tolkien's original works, as well as the film adaptations, and some passages – particularly dialogue – have been used for the sake of consistency. I claim no ownership of these passages.

Author's recommended listening: Forsyth, Viola Concerto in G minor

CHAPTER IX: ACROSS THE PLAINS

A single day passed in this manner: the Riders went about their necessary business, be it redoubling watch, scavenging supplies, or far flung scouts bringing news that the forces of Isengard were in full retreat; yet Truva and a great number of other recruits were unable to rouse themselves from the numbness of dearly obtained victory. Truva did not eat, slept in fits of mere minutes at a time, and could not be engaged.

Éomer recognized in her a shadow of his old self upon the conclusion of his first battle, after having lost many friends precious to him; and determined to do the only thing that he thought might help, he consulted with Elfhelm Marshal. Together they determined that a majority of the Riders would remain to guard the Fords, as a small company was sent further afield in search of straggling enemy forces. A task – any task, Éomer concluded – would at least serve to keep Truva and the others active, if not attentive.

Upon the second dawn after the battle at the Fords, Éomer set out with an entire éored, tasked with sweeping along the Fangorn Forest, their original destination and the source of rumored Orc activity. Should their path remain clear, they would then traverse southward through the plains of the Mark before circling back to the Fords once more. It was a simple long-range scouting mission, and given the other Riders' reports, it promised to be devoid of any significant trouble.

The first day passed uneventfully. Despite the excruciating ache in his own heart, Éomer had no other focus than the condition of his young recruits, whose sole sign of consciousness was their open eyes. It was Truva who concerned him especially, however, for she followed the party blindly, looking neither right nor left, only staring straight ahead, unseeing. She continued to refuse food, drank only when forced, and spoke not a word to anyone.

On the second day, the company encountered precisely that which they had sought, and which they had so desperately wished to avoid. As the Riders crossed the plains a few leagues south of the Entwood, two sharp-eyed scouts descended from a low rise and rapidly approached Éomer.

"A small party of Uruks, sir," said one, pointing straight east ahead of the éored.

"I would estimate nearly a hundred," said the other. "They are making incredible time; never have I witnessed Orcs move so fast."

"Their direction is northeast," the first rider added.

"If that be true, it is unlikely they are any faction of the army we encountered at the Fords," Éomer mused. "What could their aim possibly be? Regardless, our mission is clear." He gave a low whistle to call the Riders to attention.

"Good news – if it may be said to be so!" he called. "To the east lies our quarry: those abominable creatures that have so brazenly crossed our lands for too long, whose brethren not three days ago hew down our brothers, and who have tormented our borders since the times of our fathers! We stalled Isengard's forces at the Fords; let us now cut off their path from the east, and pursue these demons with the alacrity only our people and our horses know!"

A great cheer arose from the Riders as Éomer took a breath. "These brutes appear to be heading for the shelter of Fangorn. Let us ensure they never arrive! We shall divide in two: half will pursue the Uruks from behind, the other will cut off their path to the Forest. I need not tell you leave none alive, yet be cautious. Do not take unnecessary risks, for these Orcs appear physically superior even to those we encountered at the Fords. If our chase lasts into the night, fall back and pursue from a distance, for these are creatures that thrive on darkness; wait until morning and light to attack."

With that, Éomer gave a rough shout and spurred his horse forward, angling slightly southward. The Riders followed behind, dividing themselves between Éomer and his captain who turned north toward the Forest, and some small drop of Truva's listlessness dissipated in the anticipation of more fighting when the Marshal motioned for her to accompany him.

They rode hard, the golden grass flying beneath the hooves of their mounts and their breath coming in short bursts, and soon the distant black smudges of the Uruks were within sight of all. The Eorlingas' speed redoubled, yet the Orcs had clearly caught wind of them, for their speed also increased, even as several of the slighter Orcs began to fall behind. As Éomer and his Riders gained, they could see the Orcs glancing back in panic, drawing their bows and shooting wildly in an attempt to keep the horsemen at a distance.

A tiny flame ignited within Truva, and it seemed to her that the closer she approached the pack of Orcs the more intense her wrath became, fending off her listlessness and billowing until it developed into an uncontainable blaze. She saw in these beasts the same evil that had hewn Théodred down; and the same base selfishness, the same disregard for humanity that Dregant had reveled in – whose unspeakable acts flashed before her eyes even now, mingling with the vision of Théodred being hewn down by the axes of the Orc-men, and her rage grew all the more.

Truva pulled her bow from behind and drew an arrow. She was not nearly as sharp-eyed as the native Eorlingas, and she struggled to hit a target even when standing upon firm ground, yet before her was a perfect opportunity to test her skills. She laid a calm hand upon Bron, who did not slow yet his strides grew smooth and long. Slowly, deliberately, Truva nocked an arrow to the bowstring and drew it back with breath held, fixing a trailing Orc in her sights, and let loose the string.

Her shaft fell far short, more a threat to the Riders than the Orcs. "Helm!" Truva cursed quietly to herself, the fury within her mounting further as drew another arrow. This, too, failed to strike any target, though it fell amidst the fleeing pack. It was not until her fourth attempt that Truva was met with any success; an Orc fell tumbling to the ground, tripping up another that came behind it, who in turn was dispatched by an Eorlingas that rode beside Truva.

The Riders pulled ever closer, picking off Orcs one by one, yet daylight was fast fading. Peaks of the Misty Mountains pierced the bottom of the sun now, like teeth threatening to swallow it whole. The forest lay as an ominous dark haze upon the horizon, offering a hint of shelter to the Orcs and a sense of dismay to the Riders. Éomer spurred his horse to even greater speeds.

The second company of Riders then came into view ahead, and the Orcs swung eastward in response, hoping to evade this new threat. The distance that lay between them was still too great, however, and there was a great doubt as to whether the Riders would succeed in intercepting the Orcs before they reached the refuge of Fangorn, for all parties were driven by wild desperation.

The sun had just sunk fully behind the horizon when the orcs mounted a small knoll just beyond the tree line, only to find that the two pincers of Eorlingas had encircled all but the eastern side of the hill. The Orcs dashed in this direction, but their path was cut off by arrows from the riders, soon reinforced by the riders themselves. The Orcs retreated to the very crest of the knoll, just beyond the range of the bows of the Riders, who hung back at the hill's foot, remembering Éomer's warning.

As their surroundings turned from the blood-red of sunset to blackness of night, the Eorlingas stationed themselves in an impenetrable ring around the knoll. They gathered wood and lit fires to confuse the Orcs' excellent night vision, though they did not linger beside these fires, clear targets for the Orcs as they were.

A rigorous watch was set and unprecedentedly long hours of the night passed tensely. Aside from a brief skirmish in the wee hours of the night, the riders remained quiet, pacing anxiously or tending their mounts, finding any way to occupy themselves during the time in which sleep would not come. Over the quietude, the sound of guttural voices that emanated from the hilltop reached their ears, signs of what the Riders hoped were heated arguments that would leave the Orcs dispirited – or perhaps even fewer in number – come morning.

Come morning did: a faint, washed out dawn of late winter. The Eorlingas perched upon their mounts, muscles taut and jaws clenched, awaiting whatever signal was to come. Before Éomer called them to action, however, Truva heard an unexpected rustling from their rear. When she turned, she witnessed another pack of Orcs, a few score perhaps, emerging from the Forest.

"Reinforcements! From the north!" she cried with all the might of her lungs. When other Riders turned to look, the Orcs upon the hill took their distraction as an opportunity to charge. The entire knoll erupted into chaotic violence, the whistle of arrows from both holding strong at first until they closed in on each other.

Truva loosed several arrows in the direction of the rapidly approaching reinforcements behind her, then turned and held aloft her spear in preparation for the charge of the Uruk-hai close at hand. Rage surged within Truva as the snarling, contorted faces of the enemy drew near, as she heard their growls and barks and saw their eyes narrowed in anger or fear, she knew not which; yet any wrath they might have harbored surely paled in comparison to that which Truva herself suffered.

She drove away the foremost advancing ranks, parting the Orcs with her spear in defense of Bron more than her own self. Those few that made it past her spear were dispatched by sword, until the melee grew so tumultuous that Truva discarded the spear entirely and relied solely on her blade. She fought senselessly, disregarding caution and throwing herself unheeding into the masses that intermingled with the Eorlingas warriors in a deadly churn of blade and blood.

The Uruks' power was unparalleled, far stronger and faster than those that had fought at the Fords; yet despite the surprising might of their foes, and despite being slightly outnumbered, the Eorlingas fought with a fury born of grief. At the Fords, they had fought desperately to protect the people of the Mark – now, they fought for revenge.

It was not long ere the Riders had scattered the Orcs, who fled in all directions in ones and threes as the horsemen chased after them and cut them down. Though a small group nearly made it to the Forest, Éomer and Truva ensured that none would escape alive that day.

When the chaos had settled, Éomer surveyed their losses. The Riders had slaughtered more than one hundred and fifty Orcs, yet in doing so they had lost fifteen dear souls of their own, and thus it was with a sense of renewed grief that Éomer dismounted, followed by the others. In silence, they gathered the bodies of their fallen brethren and bore them with dignity to the edge of the Entwood, and when their work was done the land wore a crown of fifteen spears.

No words were said, for the hearts of the Eorlingas were weary from sorrow.

The carcasses of their enemy they proceeded to pile upon the hill, marking it in no other way than with the greatest Orc's severed head impaled upon one of their crude pikes; and when all traces of the creatures had been collected, Éomer set the heap alight. The Riders watched the flames for quite some time, for the fire in their hearts burned likewise, then they departed one by one to set up camp in the fading light of day – a good distance away from the acrid stench of burning Orc-flesh.

Truva served her part in gathering firewood, cautioned by the ancient tales of the Riddermark to collect only that which had already fallen, and afterward she gratefully accepted from the cooks the meager fare they had contrived from what few supplies were available. Upon making her way to the edge of camp where she had picketed Bron, Truva noticed Éomer rubbing the horse down with back turned to her.

"I have already rubbed him down, you know," she said. "Twice."

"Trust you to supersede your duties," he replied, transitioning to Bron's glossy mane where he began to weave intricate braids. "He is such a steadfast companion, and deserves our utmost attention."

Truva took a seat on a patch of lush grass. "I would have brought your dinner had I known you would be here."

"I have eaten," said Éomer, though Truva knew it not to be true. Like herself, she had not observed her Marshal eat since the Fords, and even in ordinary times he always saw to it that his charges ate first. "It is good to see you with food," he continued.

"One must eat, after all," said Truva as she pushed the assorted mushrooms and leafy greens about her bowl, though she did not bring them to her mouth. Éomer finished a braid and sat beside Truva upon the ground.

"Do you know the legend of Helm Hammerhand?" he asked after a beat.

"I have endured a great many lectures regarding the deeds of our ninth King of the Mark, yet whether they included the specific legend you speak of, I know not," she answered.

"I suppose you have heard that some thousand or so years ago, our lands were besieged by the Dunlendings led by Wulf son of Freca, and the Corsairs of Umbar. In a situation not wholly dissimilar to our present circumstances, Helm and his forces were defeated at the Fords of Isen and fell back to the defenses of Hornburg."

"I have learned insomuch," said Truva, nodding. "The King's elder son, Prince Haleth, subsequently fell defending Edoras from Wulf."

"And when those trapped in Hornburg became at a loss for food in the winter, Helm's younger son, Háma Prince, went out foraging and was lost in a blizzard."

"That is a good summation of my teachings," said Truva.

"Did you hear it drove him crazy?" asked Éomer. Truva's head snapped up. "Oh yes," continued Éomer, "Mad with grief at the loss of his two sons, oft Helm King would blow the great war-horn and throw himself among the Dunlendings and kill them with his bare hands."

"Is that why it is called Hornburg?"

"Yes; originally dubbed Súthburg, it was due to the fear the sounding horn struck into the hearts of Eorlingas enemies that the fortress was renamed Hornburg."

"What became of the King?"

"One night when rage overtook him, he blew the horn and stormed from the castle to attack the enemy. He did not return. They found him the next morning, frozen upright as if still fighting; they say his spirit still roams the plains of the Mark to this very day."

The two of them fell silent for a while, each with their individual thoughts.

"Why do you tell me this?" Truva asked eventually.

"It is the belief of the Eorlingas that the spirit of royalty, having fallen in battle, will wander our lands until his horse is buried beside him, at which point his spirit will ride off into eternity. Now, being renowned for fighting with naught but his fists, having no steed to be buried beside him, and being tied to the land by grief as he was, Helm's spirit lingers.

"The notion that Théodred's spirit has joined that of Helm – at least for a time – and that they were with us even this very day in battle, brings me some solace," he continued, "And I hope that it might perhaps do the same for you."

Truva considered the Marshal's words for quite some time, for though she understood their meaning, she could not feel their spirit. Even so, looking into his grave face she could see Éomer expected some response that belied the hopelessness that settled into the crevices of her mind. "I hope that Théodred's stallion lives for many more years," she said.

Éomer summoned a wan smile that quickly disappeared once more, and it took him several breaths to continue. "It was also grief that drove Helm to his death — grief, and the rage born of it. Truva, I would not see you follow the same path; do not allow the darkness that I know you must feel to consume you as it did him."

Truva stared at her Marshal then, for she was truly at a loss for words. The fury she had endured at the Fords, and the fire that had subsequently sparked in her heart still smouldered, ready at the slightest gust of wind to flame up once more. It was these embers that had kept her alive in the Hidlands, yet now she felt as though they had grown beyond her control.

Éomer examined her face and, certain that his point had been made, laid a hand upon her shoulder before rising and departing without another word. Truva settled in for another restless night without even troubling to pitch her tent.

Despite the early hour she arose the following morning, having abandoned all hope of rest, there were others already about breaking camp and preparing for a new day. It seemed as though the entire company was as restless as Truva. The sun had not completely surpassed the horizon before they rode out across the hillock-strewn plains.

They rode all morning, traveling further east and toward the Wold, though there were whispers that Éomer Marshal intended to swing south come afternoon, for their skirmish with the Uruk-hai was concerning, and he worried still for the forces that remained at the Fords. It was as they passed over a slight rise, the sun nearly stretching to its zenith overhead, that a shout rang out from behind the Eorlingas.

"What news from the north, Riders of Rohan?"

Already on edge from recent events, the Riders were startled by this unanticipated hailing and immediately wheeled about to face its source. There, seemingly sprung from nowhere, stood a Man, garbed in rugged leather rather much the worse for wear. Two other figures flanked him – one slightly taller and one considerably shorter – all bearing light green cloaks that perfectly concealed them amongst the surrounding land, yet even as Truva peered closer the colors of the fabric seemed to shift almost imperceptibly.

As the Eorlingas approached, the three figures shifted out into the open and the Riders surrounded them guardedly, for their origin was wholly unclear. They were certainly not Orcs sent either by Saruman or Mordor, nor were they Eorlingas, for the Man spoke in the Common Tongue; nor did they sport the raiment of Gondor to the south, though in recent years the two nations' allyship had grown strained, and long it had been since livery bearing the White Tree was last seen in the Mark.

"Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?" Éomer demanded.

"I am called Strider," the one who had initially called out replied. "I came out of the North. I am hunting Orcs."

"That is no name for a man that you give. And strange too is your clothing. Are you Elvish folk?" Éomer interrogated them.

"No," the Man replied, "But one of us is an Elf: Legolas from the Woodland Realm in distant Mirkwood."

Truva stared open-mouthed, and the unshakable, oppressive gloom she had endured of late was dispelled ever so slightly by her amazement; for Men alone populated the Mark, as were they the exclusive inhabitants of the Hidlands – and the latter's most common visitor, though Dwarves were not unknown to make an appearance. An Elf, however—! From an early age, Truva had half determined that the existence of Elves was no more than a myth, and though her experiences since had taught her otherwise, to see such a being standing before her very eyes left her astounded.

"And the one of short stature?" Éomer commanded.

"Give me your name, horse master, and I shall give you mine!" said the Dwarf, and Truva frowned at his impertinence. She harbored no love for Dwarves, who came most often to the Hidlands in search of precious rock that could be found nowhere else. The price of their desired treasure was so exorbitant that the most practical way to pay for it was through slaves, and thus Dwarf traders had become the largest supplier of human livestock sourced from beyond the Valley.

She watched with unease as Éomer dismounted to confront the trio. "I would cut off your head, Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground." Not a single sound emanated from the Riders, wary as they were of these suspicious figures, yet Truva knew each Eorlingas to be inwardly chuckling.

"He does not stand alone," interjected the Elf. "You would die before your stroke fell!" In an instant he had notched an arrow to the string drawing his bow menacingly, with the Marshal's face fixed at its point, and the Dwarf likewise raised his axe in anticipation of trouble.

The Eorlingas reacted in kind, and the sound of their spears clacking together was that of a sudden rainstorm upon parched earth, and more than one blade was drawn. A bolt of electricity shot through the Riders. The audacity of these travelers to traverse their lands and fail to properly identify themselves, spitting insults instead!

The Man who called himself Strider leaped between the two factions. "Your pardon, horse lord. We intend no evil to Rohan, nor to any of its folk, neither to man nor to horse. Will you not hear our tale before you strike?"

"I will, but first tell me your right name."

"I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and am called Elessar, the heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor," he said. Truva's interest was piqued at this long-winded introduction, for it sounded familiar; and as repulsive as she found the memory she hearkened back to her many lessons with Gríma, yet it was with repeated frustration that she failed to recall in what context she had heard such titles.

"The Orcs whom we pursue took captive two of my friends," the Man Aragorn son of Arathorn continued. "What tidings can you tell us?"

The previous night flooded suddenly back to the memory of all Riders present, for surely the Uruk-hai they had encountered then were the party these three sought. Such thinking must have occurred to Éomer, as well, for he responded somewhat coldly, "Then you need not pursue them further. The Orcs are destroyed."

"And our friends?" asked the Dwarf.

"We found none but Orcs," said Éomer.

"Were there no bodies other than those of Orc-kind?" The Elf asked. "Our friends were Hobbits."

"They would be small, only children to your eyes," added Aragorn.

"Hobbits?" said Éomer. "And what may they be? It is a strange name."

Truva, however, nearly gasped audibly when understanding dawned upon her. She bent toward her Marshal and spoke in Eorling as surreptitiously as possible, "I think he means Halflings, sir."

Halflings, like Elves, were yet another race she had only heard tales of, and who were practically unknown in the Mark, yet to think that they had unwittingly brought about the destruction of beings so slight made her quiver.

"Halflings!" Éomer shook his head. "Your friends may have been slain or buried among the Orcs, but I do not think this is so. If they were attired as you are, perhaps they evaded our sight and passed us by. That is your only hope."

He gave a sharp whistle and the horses of two riders who had fallen the previous night trotted forward. "Hasufel, and Arod; may these horses bear you to better fortune than their former masters. Farewell."

Truva cleared her throat suggestively as Éomer passed the reins to the trio, whispering aside to him, "My lord, would you send them alone to confirm the fate of their friends?"

"We have more pressing matters," the Marshal replied shortly.

"Be that as it may, if the result of our transgressions were the deaths of these Halflings, would it not be the least we could do to accompany them and take accountability for our misdeeds?"

Éomer gazed intensely at her for a moment, his eyes shifting between his recruit and the three travelers. "In that case, Truva, you are to go with them," he said to her, then louder to Aragorn, "If you can accommodate an addition – though in our desperate straits I can spare no other."

"I think it would greatly delay our progress to take on a compani—"

"You have two steeds, and one of our finest warriors to assist you," said Éomer, ignoring the Man's protest. He then murmured a few words to Aragorn, and there seemed to be some agreement between the two, for Aragorn nodded and Éomer turned to Firefoot and remounted, then motioned for Truva to approach.

"Watch these strangers carefully and determine their purpose, if you can," he said in a low voice. "If you deem them trustworthy, do all within your power to see whether they might return with you and be of some assistance to us in these dangerous days. Yet a Man, an Elf, and a Dwarf? That is strange company, and it speaks of something larger amiss. Use discretion in determining what information you share with them."

Truva nodded as the Marshal wheeled his horse around. "Look for your friends, but do not trust to hope," he called out to the three travelers. "It has forsaken these lands. We ride now!"

With that, Éomer peeled away and steered his course southward, followed by the remaining Eorlingas. As their figures grew smaller in the distance, chased by a cloud of dust raised by the thundering horses' hooves, Truva could not help but feel slightly betrayed, as though her leader had abandoned her and placed upon her sole responsibility for the atrocity they had possibly committed.

She dismounted and approached the three strangers. "I am called Truva," she said by way of introduction, accompanied by a short bow. "I am sorry our fates align at this most unfortunate juncture."

"You have heard our names," Aragorn said, "Save the Dwarf Gimli, son of Glóin." His words were cold, yet he bowed politely in return.

"You needn't fear me hindering your search," Truva said in an attempt to reassure the party, for the more quickly they grew comfortable with her, the more opportunity she would find to withdraw information from them.

"Strange of you to say," commented Gimli, "As you have already done so."

"Not as strange as a company composed of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf," retorted Truva, surprising even herself in how quickly her mild manner dissipated; she attributed it to her disaffection for the Dwarf's people, and to the mood that continued to cloud her mind ever since the events at the Fords.

"As strange as a female Eorlingas warrior?" Legolas interjected.

"Her Highness Lady Éowyn, the very sister-daughter of the King herself, is a fierce shieldmaiden – it is not so strange as you would have it thought," said Truva defensively, struggling to control herself, for she knew a combative attitude would not be conducive to the task Éomer had set upon her. She then continued before the others could insult her further, "I can lead you directly to the battle site, and swiftly."

"You had best do that," said Aragorn as he mounted the dark-gray horse Hasufel that had been provided him by Éomer. Truva watched in amusement as the Elf deftly mounted Arod before struggling to pull the Dwarf up behind him; though Arod, typically fiery, bore these antics with patience all the while. Of all the numerous things Truva had seen in her life, an Elf and a Dwarf upon a horse of the Mark was surely the most peculiar.

Without another word, Truva turned Bron about and led the company at a quick clip back the way the Eorlingas had come. They traveled in silence, and late morning had not long turned to early afternoon before signs of smoke rose skyward from the hills before them, for the pile of carcasses still sent its noxious fumes aloft. Seeing this sign, Aragorn increased his pace then, drawing ahead of the others.

From behind, Truva was at last able to thoroughly observe the three strangers without being subject to scrutiny herself. The Dwarf was identical to the few others she had seen, short in both stature and temperament. She could not discern where his mane-like hair ended and his face began, and wondered how Dwarves told individuals apart, or whether they even could.

The Elf intrigued her a great deal, for every time she attempted to focus her attention upon him, it seemed as though her eyes slid unconsciously away. She found it impossible to observe him clearly, and he appeared to her as a hazy conception rather than discrete figure – though even a mere glance was sufficient to demonstrate that he was one of the fairest beings she had ever encountered.

Yet it was the unassuming figure of the Man that her thoughts consistently circled back to, and though she scoured her memories for when she might have heard his name, it was quite some time and quite some distance that passed ere it occurred to her.

"Thorongil!" she exclaimed loudly.

Aragorn whipped around in his saddle. "How is it that you know that name?" he demanded.

"It is you, is it not? The mysterious Ranger of the North who served Thengel, our fifteenth King of the Mark."

"Well you know your history," said the Elf.

"But it was only rumours that he was a Man of such noble kin, and he walked among us nigh on fifty years ago; even so, the annals spoke of you then as a man full-grown," Truva continued, perplexed. "And yet you appear now as though you have not so much as passed as many winters as I."

"Aragorn is no ordinary man," Gimli said gruffly, "Though I do not see how it is any business of yours!"

Truva begrudged the Dwarf his curt conclusion to the matter and fell briefly into a resentful silence, though she did not allow it to discourage her for long, for Éomer's words were foremost in her mind. "By what road did you come into these lands?" she asked.

Aragorn seemed to weigh her question in his mind, perhaps determining how much to reveal, before answering. "We set out from Imladris many weeks ago. With us went Boromir of Minas Tirith. My errand was to go to that city with the son of Denethor, to aid his folk in their war against Sauron. But the Company that I journeyed with had other business. Of that I cannot speak now."

A few of the names and places were vaguely familiar to Truva – the Elven city of Rivendell not the least of which intrigued her – yet that was not the most noteworthy point of the Man's speech to her. "You say you chase Orcs and seek to oppose Sauron. Who is it that you serve?"

"I serve no man," said Aragorn. Rebuffed once more by the strangers' brevity, Truva considered altering tack; perhaps she might induce them to reveal more if she herself made an overture of trust.

"The Mark likewise does not pay tribute to those dark mountains. Some years ago the Lord of the Black Land wished to purchase horses of us at a great price, but we refused him, for he puts beasts to evil use. Then he sent plundering Orcs, and they carried off what they could, choosing always the black horses: few of these are now left. For that reason, our feud with the Orcs is bitter."

"We have grim tidings, then," said Gimli. "At least eight of those horses were washed away to their deaths ere we reached Rivendell."

Truva choked back a cry. "Washed away?"

"I am afraid it is as you say; the Dark Lord bends good creatures to his will," said Aragorn with a hint of regret. "We encountered great evil upon our journey, and the horses of Rohan bore that evil."

Truva fell into despondent silence at this news, for many of the horses snatched away by the Orcs were those she had assisted Éomód in raising within King's own stables; bright, friendly creatures whose connection with the Eorlingas ran deep into their hearts. It was Éomer's orders alone that prevented her from reverting back into her reticent nature, and drove her to pursue the conversation further; it was her duty glean as much information as she could in as little time as possible, for she knew not how long she would remain in the presence of this company.

"Our chief concern lies with Saruman," said Truva. "He has claimed lordship over all this land, and there has been rising tension between Isengard and the Mark for many years. Not a week has transpired since we lost a great many men in battle with his forces, including Lord and Marshal Théodred, heir to the throne. The dark wizard has taken Orcs into his service, and Warg-riders and evil Men; we fear an alliance between Orthanc and the Dark Tower, leaving us vulnerable to being beset from both east and west."

Aragorn remained silent, so Truva pressed further. "If it is true that you are who you claim, Thorongil, as you once served the Mark, will you not lend succor again in these desperate times? When we find your Halfling friends, will you not ascend once again the stairs of Meduseld, or is it in vain that we hope you have been sent to us in our greatest hour of need?"

"I will come when I may," said Aragorn, unerringly curt yet mannerly in all his answers. Truva felt as though she had reached an impasse. She dared not mention how Éomer had ridden out at the head of his éored absent the blessing of the King, that he and all who followed were outcasts, that the darkness which lay over the lands of the Mark came not only from without, but from within as well.

The silence that followed was not broken by any of the four riders even as they topped the last ridge near the edge of Fangorn Forest, from which the location of the skirmish came into view. Arargorn spurred his horse to a full gallop and the others followed, barreling down the slope and arriving at the knoll within minutes.

True to Éomer's words, the entire area was clear save the vile mass of Uruk-hai carcasses, which continued to smoulder. Though the smell revolted Truva and caused her stomach to churn, she was second to dismount behind Aragorn only; and she was quick to draw her sword, using it to examine the tangle of limbs and twisted torsos, crude weapons and darkened mail, searching for any hint of something that was not of Orcish origin.

"What do they look like, your Halfling friends?" she asked as the Elf lent grace to the Dwarf's fall from Arod.

"They are about so high," said Legolas, holding up his hand to a height slightly below that of the Dwarf's head. "With golden locks that curled. They seem as small boys."

"They were wearing dark breeches and light shirts, in addition to the cloaks of Elven make," Aragorn added. Truva frowned; everything within sight was black and filthy. Surely one of the Riders would have spoken had they encountered something so unusual, she thought to herself.

The overcast afternoon transitioned to evening and shadows lengthened, yet still no trace of the Halflings had they found when the sky grew so dark they could no longer see. Forced to abandon the day's search, the strange companions made camp beneath the eaves of Fangorn and huddled about a small fire of collected wood, careful not to anger the spirits of the Forest yet irreverent to the presence of any Orcs that might be lurking.

As soon as the land began to show hints of growing light following morning, Aragorn bent immediately to the task of tracking the Halflings without so much as pausing for breakfast, undeterred by their fruitless search the previous day. He began in the area around their campfire, limiting the likelihood that he would disturb any signs with his own tracks, then slowly circled toward the pile of Orc carcasses with face so near the ground his nose must certainly have brushed it on occasion.

The others followed immediately, dividing the area between them, yet after a short while Truva came to understand her relative inexperience rendered her somewhat useless. She turned her focus instead to the three companions, observing their methodology to see what she might learn. Aragorn was most particular in his actions, and thus it was he she was regarding when the Ranger suddenly stood straight and called out, "Here at last we find news!"

They all gathered about him at this call, only to observe a golden leaf held delicately in his fingers. Its origin must certainly have been a tree beyond the borders of the Mark, for Truva did not recognize its kind at all.

"A mallorn-leaf of Lórien!" exclaimed Legolas, and in looking about upon the ground, he added, "And crumbs of lembas bread!"

"And cut rope!" the Dwarf cried, picking up a few short lengths from a nearby thicket of grass. "They must have been bound and found the means to cut them!"

Aragorn proceeded eastward to the river Entwash, following the faintest of signs invisible to Truva, until there, upon the sandy bank of the river, lay a set of small footprints clear enough for all to see. These tracks he followed straight to the edge of Entwood.

"One hobbit at least stood here for a while and looked back," said Aragorn, "And then he turned away into the forest."

Gimli looked none too pleased with this assessment. "I do not like the look of this Fangorn; and we were warned against it."

"I do not think the wood feels evil, whatever tales may say," countered the Elf.

"The Eorlingas do not say the forest is inherently evil," said Truva, "Yet it necessitates caution. The trees are old, older than our existence here, and they harbor things unknown."

"I catch only the faintest echoes of dark places where the hearts of the trees are black," said Legolas. "There is something happening inside, or going to happen. Do you not feel the tenseness? It takes my breath."

Indeed, even upon the edge of the Forest Truva felt as though she were struggling to inhale very thin air, not entirely dissimilar from when Éomer made the recruits run training exercises in the White Mountains; yet those mountains lay at a significantly higher altitude than where the company currently stood.

Sensing where their path lay, Truva untethered Bron so that he would have a wider area to graze should their task take longer than expected, and the others did likewise. She felt reassured in the knowledge that they could easily find their way back home to Edoras if need be. With one last affectionate rub of Bron's nose, Truva turned to face the ominous forest.

Aragorn was first to dive in amongst the bramble at the tree line, followed closely by the others. A single step plunged them from day into nighttime; ashes and beeches bent so close overhead they wove a tapestry that light did not penetrate, and walking along the stream was as walking through a tunnel. The only blossom that graced the tangled branches was a thick, gloomy mist that draped from tree to tree, rendering it impossible to see any distance ahead at all.

The four had walked only a short way before Aragorn spied more footprints along the sandy banks of the stream. "This is good tidings!" he said, "Yet it seems that at this point the hobbits left the water-side."

The Ranger turned and followed more signs that mystified Truva, and he struggled through thick brambles and the occasional hidden trickle of a stream off the Entwash. The progress of the group grew excruciatingly slow as they forged forward in such a fashion for a time, their path taking them northwest toward the Misty Mountains as the air grew closer all the while.

Their heads bent to the ground, it took the small band by surprise when the dense trees suddenly opened onto a small clearing, through the middle of which an arm of the mountains ran down to create a steep, rocky shelf. Just within the clearing, Truva noticed a prone figure and rushed to its side, only to draw back in disgust. "How vile!" she cried.

The others came up behind her to behold the body of a dead Orc, contorted beyond any possibility of recognition.

"A bit squished," remarked the Dwarf.

"I truly believed the Eorlingas had eliminated each and every Orcs we confronted," said Truva. "Perhaps this is one from the second party that assaulted us from the north, slunk off from his brethren in fear before the battle even began."

"I do not think it wise to burn such a corpse here," said the Elf.

"No, it is best we leave it be," said Aragorn. "This forest has its own burial rites."

They turned then to the rocky projection that jutted through the surrounding forest. Legolas approached first, leaping nimbly up ledge-like outcrops to the top, where he stood in the watery sunshine and breathed in deeply. Truva and Gimli scrambled up behind him, though Aragorn was slow to follow.

"I am almost sure that the hobbits have been up here," he said, "But there are other marks, very strange marks, which I do not understand." He continued to look about as the other three enjoyed the freer air and gazed out above the canopy, Truva toward the rolling grasslands of her home, Legolas and Gimli eastward to the great Anduin.

"Look!" called Legolas, his voice low yet sharp. The other three quickly turned to observe what the Elf indicated to them.

"Look at what? Where? I have not elf-eyes," grumbled the Dwarf.

"Down in the wood, back the way we have just come," said Legolas in hushed tones. "It is he. Cannot you see him, passing from tree to tree?"

Truva followed his extended finger, and a figure came into sight, clad in gray and wearily making its way through the forest, leaning upon a staff. Something stirred in Truva's memory; this figure – cloaked as he was, with a hat that obscured his face perched upon his head – reminded her of some long-forgotten image. Quite suddenly, she recalled the dream she had many years ago, of the white stallion and the old man who rode away upon it. Could this be the same man? He did not seem to notice the company's presence, and yet his pace quickened as he approached the rocky outcrop where they stood.

"It is Saruman!" Gimli hissed, raising his axe tightly in his fists. "Do not let him speak, or put a spell upon us! Shoot first!"

Shocked from her reverie, Truva drew her sword halfway from its sheath, for dreams and reality grew muddled before her eyes; yet if this figure was indeed Saruman as the Dwarf insisted, Truva was determined that it be her to strike the dark wizard down, for revenge in the name of her fallen compatriots weighed heavily in her mind. She gripped her sword hilt with white knuckles.

Legolas held his bow loosely, but Aragorn did not even reach for his blade. "We may not shoot an old man so, at unawares and unchallenged, whatever fear or doubt be upon us. Watch and wait!"

"Saruman is no ordinary old man," warned Truva. "If it be truly him, to catch the Wizard unawares might be our only hope."

By that time, however, the old man's speed had brought him to the bottom of the ledge, not so distant from their own position. "Well met indeed, my friends!" he said, turning his face upward, though his features remained hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his wide hat. The four lost all hope of gaining the upper hand through the element of surprise.

"I wish to speak to you," continued the man. "Will you come down, or shall I come up?"

"Might we know your name, and then hear what it is that you have to say to us?" said Aragorn, drawing his sword at last.

"My name!" said the old man, with a quiet laugh. "Have you not guessed it already?"

"Saruman!" shouted Gimli as the old man bounded up the stone with an alacrity that would have put Elves to shame. Gimli raised his axe to strike, but it swung off into nothingness; the sword hilt in Truva's hand burned so hot that she could not draw it fully, and looking to Aragorn she saw that he had likewise dropped his blade in pain. An arrow Legolas let fly burst into flame as it hurtled toward the figure.

The old man leaped upon a low, flat stone and cast off his gray cloak, revealing beneath it robes of purest white. He seemed to grow in size, looming tall above the four, wrapped in a mist of blinding white light. They stood motionless as breathless moments slipped by.

"Gandalf!" Aragorn whispered at last, unbelieving.

"Gandalf," said the old man, his voice traced with confusion as though he were attempting to recall it himself. "Yes, that was the name. I was Gandalf."

"But you are all in white!" exclaimed Gimli.

"Yes, I am White now," the old man laughed. "I have passed through fire and deep water, since we parted. I have forgotten much that I thought I knew, and learned again much that I had forgotten. But tell me of yourselves! I see that we have a new companion in our midst," he said, turning his attention to Truva.

"I am Truva, shieldmaiden of the Mark," Truva said, and bowed hesitantly, for by his own confession he was not the Wizard Saruman, yet still she was unsure of his identity.

"Is that so," said Gandalf, "Truva." He seemed to muse upon her name for a moment, and Truva was certain she caught a glimpse of a twinkle in his eye and a shadow of a smile upon his lips as he turned back to the other three. "Now what of your journey?"

Aragorn cast a glance askance at Truva, then launched into a guarded story of places she had only ever heard of in passing – a wondrous story that included Elves and Hobbits and other such strange folk. Though Truva did not understand a great deal, it confirmed to her that they had traveled a great distance, finding themselves ever at odds with the forces of Isengard and Mordor.

"But the Hobbits!" the Dwarf interrupted, clearly unable to contain himself any longer. "We have come far to seek them, and you seem to know where they are. Where are they now?"

"With Treebeard and the Ents," replied Gandalf, and Truva gasped audibly. Oft she had requested of Théodred and Éomód to hear the tales of Fangorn, intrigued as she was by the Ents that legend held played shepherd to the trees within its furthest depths; yet to hear from this man that their existence was no mere legend was electrifying, nor was she the only one among the band to feel so.

"Ents!" exclaimed Legolas. "Even among Elves they are only a memory. If I were to meet one still walking in this world, then indeed I should feel young again!"

"I hope indeed that you may yet meet them, but not now," said Gandalf. "The morning is wearing away. We mustn't tarry."

"Do we go to find our friends and to see Treebeard?" asked Aragorn.

"No," said Gandalf. "That is not the road we must take. Our friends are safe, but war is upon us. We must go to Edoras and seek out Théoden in his Hall. The light of Andúril must now be uncovered in the battle for which it has so long awaited."

"We will set out with you, but it is a long way for a man to walk, young or old," said Gimli.

"We have but three steeds," said Aragorn by way of explanation.

"Is that so? We shall see, we shall see," said Gandalf, as he wrapped himself again in his gray raiment and led the company wordlessly back along the Entwash to the edge of Fangorn, but to their great surprise not even steadfast Bron lingered beneath the trees, though they had been gone but half the day. Truva felt panic well up inside her as she looked about the empty fields, for surely this spoke of foul play!

"It shall be a weary walk," said Aragorn.

"I shall not walk. Time presses," said Gandalf. He paused momentarily, emitting a low, melodic whistle, followed by an equally entrancing high note. He continued to do so until far in the distance four horses could be seen bounding across the fields.

"Bron!" Truva cried, immediately recognizing her companion amidst the others.

"Hasufel!" said Legolas with joy. "And there is my friend Arod beside him. But there is another that strides ahead: a very great horse. I have not seen his like before."

"Nor will you again," said Gandalf as they drew near, Bron sauntering up to Truva to investigate whether she had returned with any treats for him; and though her attention was primarily devoted to her own steed, she could not help but look in amazement upon the glorious horse that bent in greeting to Gandalf – for she recognized it as the crowning jewel of Théoden King's stables, who had mysteriously disappeared but a few months prior.

"That is Shadowfax," said Gandalf. "He is the chief of the Mearas, lord of the horses. Does he not shine like silver, and run as smoothly as a swift stream?"

It was in that very instant Truva grew certain her dream of years ago had been a reflection of the man that stood before her now, and that the horse had been none other than Shadowfax – though the meaning of the dream remained obscure to her. She stared openly at Gandalf, who winked surreptitiously without ever fully turning to meet her eyes.

"Time presses, my friends," he said, mounting his illustrious horse. "Let us make straight for Edoras, riding as swift as we may!"

With that, the riders took off south through the rolling swaths of grass, the sun that drifted upon their right slowly traversing across the sky towards its bed behind the Misty Mountains.