Author's recommended listening: Casella, Symphony No.1 in B minor
CHAPTER XXV: GATES OF MORANNON
Bron shifted under Truva as they stood upon the fields of the Pelennor. Before them spread a great assemblage of warriors, the Gondorians' polished armour glinting and gleaming in the morning sunlight, side by side with the green of the Mark and the blue of Dol Amroth. A metallic rumble mingled with the low murmur of conversation, for though the sun had risen bold in the eastern sky, the warriors' spirits matched more the black clouds that piled threateningly over the Ephel Dúath, and they had not the heart to raise their voices.
Just ahead of Truva sat Éomer King upon Firefoot, shoulders thrown back boldly and golden hair flowing from beneath his helm, appearing every bit the image of a King. To his left rallied Gandalf and the Grey Company, joined by Prince Imrahil. The Dwarf Gimli appeared equally as pleased as the Hidlanders to be on foot once more. Behind them were arrayed the forces from the southern fiefs, for as Aragorn had predicted a fair wind had borne them hence with unparalleled fleetness.
Truva's heart trilled to hear the trumpets sounded, for though she knew a grim fate awaited them at its end, the way forward also bore her toward somewhere yet unexplored. She glanced to her left where the Hidlanders stood in sharp formation, Blackbramble foremost amongst them, and exchanged a wink with Chaya as the army gradually began to move out. Their road was wide and clear and flat, which allowed the ranks to march along at a rapid pace, kicking up a storm of dust that choked those who lagged behind. With little to slow their progress, it was well before noon that the forces came upon the city of Osgiliath.
Truva looked upon the River Anduin with astoundment, for though she had observed it from the distant White City ramparts, to see it so near at hand was breathtaking. Its waters were crystalline, wider and swifter even than the Bruinen west of the Misty Mountains. She could see clear down to its sandy bed and the emerald vallisneria that streaked along in its currents, providing shelter for darting silvery minnows.
The wreckage of the grand bridges that had once spanned the river now lay at its bottom, for in their conquest and subsequent retreat the forces of Mordor had destroyed much of Osgiliath's infrastructure. White marble towers and domes that once stood proud had crumbled; the debris still lay in the streets, complicating the soldiers' progress.
Craftsmen bustled to rebuild that which was lost, but even so it took quite some time for the vast Armies of the West to cross the Anduin, wave upon wave of soldiers transported by an armada of makeshift ferries and boat-bridges, though many of the mounted Eorlingas elected to simply swim across. Once regrouped on the eastern side of the city, the army moved out once more, yet the delay meant they made it but a few miles beyond the city before dark descended and a halt was called.
As the main body of soldiers struck camp for an uneasy night's rest, Aragorn called the captains to him with a sharp whistle. Prince Imrahil was quick to gather several Gondorian soldiers, followed quickly by Legolas and Gimli, though Halbarad and Éomer King were not far behind. The King beckoned for Truva to join him, and together they rode out with Aragorn toward a giant Cross-roads that lay a short distance from camp. The intersection was surrounded by a ring of pine trees, towering yet skinny, the lower branches of which had been stripped away, their triangle tips still swaying in a light breeze.
As they rode, unease settled into Truva's heart; the peacefulness that had come over her during her time in Minas Tirith gradually began to dissipate. She felt as though her every movement was being watched, yet she was never able to discern any movement in the meagre surrounding foliage. Still, as she exchanged glances with the other riders, she understood that she alone did not feel disconcerted.
Then Aragorn did something that Truva found entirely incomprehensible: he bade four trumpeters stand upon each of the intersecting roads, bray a rancorous fanfare and declare, "The Lords of Gondor have returned and all this land that is theirs they take back." After recovering from the startling noise, however, Truva recalled that their purpose was to draw the Eye of Sauron from the Ring-bearer; and therefore in the terrifying fear of exposure she felt supreme success, for it was certain that the entirety of Middle-Earth had been privy to their display.
An immense statue of some long forgotten King of Gondor rose up from the scraggly bindweed and brambles, its crown sundered and irreverently replaced with the head of an Orc. The riders came together and strained to cast down the Orc head and replace it once more with that of the true King, which was now wreathed in white and golden flowers. Their work finished, each bowed low in reverence before they returned to camp, only to be summoned to yet another council.
"We sit now upon a Cross-roads," said Aragorn, first to break the silence. "If there be any who doubt our path forward, let him speak now." The captains all glanced among each other, then looked to the stately Dúnedain leader, shuffling the dry pine needles beneath their feet. Loath to speak, they stood in silence about a fire that burned fiercely; if the fanfare of horns had somehow failed to draw Sauron's eye, the bright blazes dotted throughout camp surely would.
"Here lies our second chance to decimate the forces of Mordor," Prince Imrahil spoke at last, lending voice to the thoughts of the others. "Just beyond the Cross-roads lies Minas Morgul; if we should be successful in an assault against that fortress, might not the inland road prove easier than an outward assault upon the northern gate?"
"No," said Gandalf firmly. His figure lay half in darkness, profile outlined by the light of the fire. "There is evil that dwells in that valley, that turns the minds of living men to madness and horror."
"There is also the news that Faramir brings," added Aragorn. "If it be true that the Ring-bearer passed that way, then above all else we must not draw the Eye of Mordor hence."
"We must lay our trap wisely," advised Gandalf, "And draw out the forces of Mordor where it will have the greatest impact."
The conversation continued in much the same manner as such counsels often did: frequent repetition of the same reasoning phrased differently, tangential comments that dragged into unrelenting arguments, uncomfortable pauses when none were willing to conclude the gathering definitively. All the while Truva struggled not to doze off; yet when her eyes snapped open after having failed at last, she found the leaders dispersing in all directions.
She leapt to her feet just as Aragorn brushed by. He spared her but a momentary glance before disappearing into the gloom, beyond the sphere of light cast by the campfire. As she watched his retreating figure with an uneasy twist in her stomach, Truva found herself wishing she had not spoken her heart so freely that night in the gardens of the House of Healing. She felt silly for conflating Aragorn's distance with her own personal matters, for the fact that his responsibilities would increase a hundredfold following the battle upon the Pelennor was indeed one concern that had prompted her answer in the first place. Even so, she could not help but wonder whether the Ranger exceeded his obligations, and that his behavior might not be due in some small part to her words after all.
Even as she pondered this, Truva chastised herself; for not only did she feel these thoughts to be born of vanity, it was precisely such preoccupation that she had hoped to avoid by rejecting Aragorn in the first place. She strove to drive Aragorn from her mind as she returned to her camp and set to brushing and braiding Bron's mane. By the time she moved on to his tail, she had regained some small degree of calmness and composure, and slept a peaceful – yet short – night.
And so the next morning the Armies of the West set a guard upon the Cross-roads, and in passing demolished the bridge to Minas Morgul before continuing on the northward path. They travelled openly, albeit cautiously. The sensation of being watched ever intensified as they delved deeper into the lands of Ithilien, though no scout ever returned with word of any foe.
It was toward the end of the second day that the first hint of conflict came to pass. The army trudged on, the fatigue of the foot soldiers slowing their progress as they neared an outcrop in the Ephel Dúath. An unnerving hush prevailed when a pair of scouts from Henneth Annûn – those most familiar with the area – returned. The two held a brief conference with Gandalf and Aragorn, after which a series of events were rapidly set into motion.
Aragorn immediately called the captains to him. "The scouts bring news that an ambush lies in wait upon the bend of our road," he said, "But their forces are not many in number. I suspect it is but a feint, to lure us into a false guess of our enemy's weakness. Take a few of your riders and assault them from the West."
"Very well, my liege," said Prince Imrahil, and the captains spoke amongst themselves regarding who would lead which party.
Truva turned aside to Éomer King and said, "Allow me to go, my lord, while you remain behind with the bulk of our forces. I would not risk your safety, for your leadership will be crucial come the final battle."
"So, too, has your own significance grown; I would not allow it, were our victory not assured," said the King. "Go now, and may Helm be with you."
All too soon Prince Imrahil led the offensive, breaking westward up the embankment before turning northward once more and traveling through the sparse woods. Not far from a bend in the road, the Prince divided the company into two factions: one led by himself that would continue on directly, and the other led by the sons of Elrond, which would circle wide and assault the enemy from their western flank. It was to this latter party that Truva was assigned, and she dutifully fell in behind the Elves.
Every crack of twig beneath Bron's hooves caused her to jump, yet in their disregard for their enemy the Gondorians seem uninclined to move with any attempt at stealth. They did not lower their voices in conversation, nor did they hide their progress through the trees. Truva feared they tempted Sauron's eye too boldly, yet even as they began to veer eastward a great clamor arose ahead; furious shouts and the clash of arms sounded, and the second company dashed forward to assist their compatriots.
A paltry cluster of Orcs and Easterlings came into sight between the scraggly trees, caught in combat with Prince Imrahil's warriors. Though the enemy had sprung their attack from behind a rocky outcrop, allowing them to descend full force upon the western army, already Imrahil and the others had gained the upper hand and were driving their opponents back up the hill. Bron lunged forward, eager to engage, yet no sooner had they drawn close than the band of Mordor soldiers spotted the approaching riders and broke for the eastern mountains, scattering in disarray.
There was little work left for the second company. Some pursued the fleeing foes halfheartedly, more to ensure they were truly gone than to destroy them; for the more messengers that returned to Mordor with news of the Armies' movement, the greater diversion they would conjure.
At last the party regrouped upon the main road, and as they returned to report an unremarkable victory, Truva found herself in pace with the Elves Elladan and Elrohir. The three exchanged curt nods, yet no words passed between them, and in that moment Truva realized she had never once shared a genuine conversation with these sons of Elrond.
"Long have we travelled in company together, yet few have our words been," she remarked.
"There are some who speak most deafeningly through action," said Elladan, or perhaps it was Elrohir; even after all this time, Truva was still not sure which was which. She wondered at the Elf's words, however, for they seemed to convey some subtle meaning which she could not discern. Perhaps her actions had in some way offended these austere creatures, thus their unrelenting cold attitude toward her.
She cast about for another, more engaging topic. "What was it that drove you to join Aragorn and the forces of Men?" she asked.
"Long ago, our mother was tortured by Orcs," said the first who had spoken.
"We have never forgiven them since," said the other.
Truva cursed herself for having unwittingly broached such a delicate topic. "And so you wish to avenge her?"
"You might say so."
"And ensure the same fate does not befall others at the hand of such darkness."
Perhaps it would have been better if she had never spoken to the sons of Elrond, Truva thought to herself, though she was reluctant to abandon her overture. "So, you are brothers of Arwen."
"Yes," replied one. Another impasse.
"Which of you is the older?" she prompted, desperate.
"We are twins."
Truva's eyes flew wide. "So that is why it is impossible to tell you apart!" she exclaimed, and the two Elves peered down at her with evident derision. At last Truva decided to admit defeat, and the three passed the remainder of the ride back in silence.
That evening, as the company went about their tasks or settled into rest after their evening meal, Truva and Halbarad sat beside a fire exchanging stories to pass the time. They took turns, each attempting to outdo the other with the outlandish nature of each subsequent tale. Halbarad was just narrating a laughably tall yarn regarding some Dwarves, a Holbytla, and three trolls when an all too familiar chill descended over the camp.
"I thought that creature was slayed!" cried Truva, leaping to her feet and reaching for her bow at once, though the shadowy shapes of several fellbeast were too high to distinguish to all save the Elves. They posed no threat to the Armies of the West that evening.
"Nine kings of Men there were, given Rings of Power by Sauron, as I think you know," explained Halbarad, turning his eyes skyward. "Corrupted by greed, they became ensnared and now serve their master. He who Éowyn slayed upon the fields of the Pelennor was their most powerful leader, aye, but alone he was not."
Shivering despite the fire's warmth, Truva took a seat once again and recalled the histories Théodred had explained to her, in discovering Gríma's accounts had been lacking. It was one thing to hear tell of such horrifying events through tales, but another entirely to feel in her chest the disheartening effect of the beasts as they circled overhead.
The fellbeast drifted overhead throughout the night, leaving the soldiers exhausted and unsettled as they broke camp in the morning. Even still, the Armies pressed ever northward, and their surroundings became increasingly desolate and the perception of being watched continued to grow stronger. Trees and scrubland gave way to desert and marshland far in the distance.
Bold as she was, even Truva felt her confidence waver; and as it was for her, so it was to an even greater degree for those who had never felt such despondency in their lives. Young men and aged citizens – those not accustomed to the ways of the soldier – faltered upon the road, for they were devoid of the will to march on, uncomprehending of why their fate should lead them to such a pass. It was with sympathy that the veteran warriors looked upon these men, and Aragorn took pity on them.
"Go!" he said, "But keep what honour you may, and do not run! There is a task which you may attempt and not be wholly shamed. Take your way south-west till you come to Cair Andros, and if that is still held by enemies, as I think, then re-take it, and hold it to the last in defense of Gondor and Rohan!"
Many of the men drew tall again, regaining their courage and setting upon their path once more, yet not a few accepted Aragorn's task and departed back in the direction of Cair Andros. Truva was struck by a lofty sense of pride when she noted not one Hidlander questioned their fate and broke from the company, however; having been forced to sacrifice themselves for an unworthy cause, it was with ease that they faced perishing for a worthy one of their own choosing.
Nigh on a week had passed since the Armies' departure from Minas Tirith ere they made their final hapless camp upon the rock and slag of the wasteland, just out of sight of Morannon. The mere knowledge that the Black Gates to the desolate lands of Mordor loomed so close by unnerved Truva, yet she did not allow her emotions to show for fear of affecting the Hidlanders. They clustered together in contemplative silence as invisible things stalked past in the darkness, Wolves howling in the distance. There was little fire to be had, less food, and least of all hope.
Truva grew restless, and no longer able to remain still she sought out the company of Éomer King. She sat beside him and his paltry fire in silence for a time, then offered him the last of her lembas, which she had preserved ever since her departure from Rivendell. It was more crumbs than lembas, yet its strengthening effect was unchanged.
"So here we are, at the end of all things," said the King, gratefully accepting the waybread. Truva did not respond immediately, for there were no words, no language that could adequately express the emotions that coursed through her.
"Horses run through my heart, my lord," she said at length.
"As they do through mine," he said, stirring the fire slightly, for want of something to do with his hands. "Yet who can say whether death shall claim us in battle or we will live on to see brighter days. It is our duty to confront the darkness, though we be nervous and know not what it may hide, and must do so with courage and resolution; if not for ourselves, then for those we lead."
"Though words shall never be sufficient, I thank you," Truva said, willing herself to suppress the tears that threatened to spill. "I thank you for everything, for not only did you open your arms to me when I came upon you in the Hidlands, it was your leadership that fostered the warrior I was to become, and the leader I hope yet to be. Even upon my deathbed I shall demonstrate to you my gratitude and sincerity through action, where words fail."
"It is indeed I who must thank you," replied Éomer King, taking her hand in his. "From the moment you joined our ranks, you have brought nothing but blessing and honor to the Mark. The spirit of Eorl rides stronger in you than most born under our skies, and it is with pride that I shall meet my demise beside you – if that shall be our fate in the end."
They fell silent then, for though there was a great deal yet left unspoken, it was that which could only be voiced by the heart. After quite some time, Truva rose and bowed deeply, remaining inclined for far longer than decorum dictated. When at last she straightened, Truva turned quickly and hurried off, so that her King might not see her wipe the single tear that coursed down her cheek, no longer able to contain her distress.
It was in such an agitated state that Truva came unexpectedly upon Aragorn. Though the Armies had long ago abandoned all pretense of caution, he leaned against a boulder of shale as he kept watch in the night. Hearing her approach, Aragorn fixed Truva in his sight.
She hesitated, for throughout their northward trek he had continued to maintain his distance, and they never exchanged more than a brief glance of a few words. Truva could sense the widening gulf that was rent between them, and considered walking past; yet she was held back by the deep furrows that lined his brow, and the burden of duty that so clearly weighed upon him.
"My lord, why do you not rest?" she inquired, resting against the boulder beside the Ranger.
Aragorn did not speak for a time as he peered up toward the night sky, obscured by smokes and fumes that rose from the earth as it was. "There is a stillness I cannot shake," he said at last.
"Stillness means we shall rest better tonight, come what may on the morrow," said Truva, hoping that in giving voice to optimistic thoughts, she might believe them herself.
"And what if it be death that comes?" whispered Aragorn. He turned to face her once more, the intensity of his gaze causing Truva to shift uncomfortably. Never before had she heard him speak with such bleakness.
"Do you fear death, my lord?" she asked.
"No, I do not fear death," said Aragorn, his voice stark and determined.
"Then your warriors shall follow your lead and face our own gladly, in the expectation that we might yet effect some good in this world."
Aragorn gazed at her in wonderment, a bemused smile upon his wan lips. He shook his head slightly and said, "It was the great fortune of the Rohirrim that their path crossed with yours that day."
"As it was my own," said Truva. She stood beside Aragorn for a time, neither speaking as they gazed out into the dark nothingness together. The fellbeasts made a pass high overhead, and the familiar chill swept faintly across the camp, only to dissipate quickly when the creatures winged back over the Ephel Dúath. They were chased by a biting wind that whistled between rock and scrub, cutting through the fabric of Truva's tunic to her very bones.
She searched for fitting words of parting, only to realize there were none; she simply stood and bowed as she turned away. There were no promises of a safe return this time.
The entire camp was awake when the morning dawned cold and clear. Anxiety hung thick over the fighters as they bustled about aimlessly, for they had little to pack and all their tasks had been completed in the sleepless night.
Truva saw to Bron, giving him one final rub-down and ensuring that his tack was as secure as could be. She pulled a single withered apple from her rucksack – the lone holdover from the breakfast tables of Minas Tirith – and fed it to his ever-greedy lips. If this was to be their last day upon this Earth, it ought to begin as pleasantly as possible.
Tears welled in her eyes as she reflected on the devotion Bron had displayed over the years; his patience when she first learned to ride, his constant exhortations for treats, and his nonchalant acceptance of whatever wild demands she made had only ever served to endear him to her. More than any human, Truva realized it was her loyal companion she would regret parting from most, should she die upon the battlefield.
She mounted and joined the soldiers as they assembled upon the craggy ground. Brazen horns blew, and the vast Armies of the West marched onward, Aragorn and distinguished leaders at the helm. Truva rode before the second éored, having integrated the Hidlanders amongst its number; for indeed, once they wielded blades together in battle upon the Pelennor, the strange refugees had been wholly accepted by their Eorlingas comrades.
The great host traveled southeast, veering away from the road as it wound through sinister hills to bend along the Ered Lithui. The sun bore down upon them in the shadeless land, and though they had not far to go, an unusual weariness set into their bodies and minds. Their progress grew slow, and each step was more tiring than the last.
It was thus that the train of soldiers approached Morannon, the impassive Black Gates to the land of shadow. Unseen enemies lurked silent and watchful between the Towers of the Teeth as Nazgûl upon their fellbeasts circled above. Even the horses in Truva's heart were stilled by the beasts' chilling effect, and by the discomfiting hush that swallowed all sound off the barren plain.
Two hills stood before the Gates, and upon these hills Aragorn bade the Armies of the West array themselves: the Gondorian soldiers of Minas Tirith and their Swan Knight brethren, and those from the southern fiefdoms, standing shoulder to wither with the Eorlingas. There were many odd companions among them, as well; not only the Hidlanders, but the Sons of Elrond and Legolas, Gimli, and the bold Holbytla Peregrin. When they came at last to a standstill, what had once seemed a prodigious army was dwarfed by the terrible Gates that lay before them.
A party set forth to hail the forces of Mordor, Gandalf riding at the forefront. Behind him came Aragorn and the Grey Company, followed in turn by all the great captains. From their midst, Éomer King motioned for Truva to join him, and she rushed to take a surreptitious position alongside Halbarad. About them was arrayed a great guard, accompanied by all the standard bearers and trumpeters, so that Sauron might know all of Middle-Earth stood against him.
"Come forth!" called the heralds, their voices joined by the sounding of unnumbered trumpets. "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! Justice shall be done upon him, for wrongfully he has made war upon Gondor!"
Their cries were met with silence; not a sound was heard in answer. The sensation of wary observance could not be shaken, however, and members of the party shifted uneasily. Yet even as they gave up hope of parley and turned back, a wave of sound washed over them; drums and trumpets shook the very earth they stood upon. A small, inset door of the Gates was thrown open, and from it emerged an embassy, led by a rider upon a black horse.
"I am the Mouth of Sauron," the rider cried, and even from such a distance Truva could sense the unmitigated evil that radiated from his figure. "Is there anyone in this rout with authority to treat with me? Or indeed with wit to understand me?"
"It is the custom for ambassadors to use less insolence," said Gandalf.
"So!" said the messenger, "Then thou art the spokesman, old graybeard? It is time you see what comes to him who sets his foolish webs before the feet of Sauron the Great!"
At those words, a second member of the embassy came forward and held above his head a short sword. Truva wondered at this, for it held no meaning to her; yet when she looked to Gandalf and those of the Grey Company, she observed anguish in their faces. Another guard then held aloft a grey cloak pinned with an Elven brooch – the very same as the three travelers had worn when she first encountered them on the plains of the Mark – and Truva knew these objects must be that which belonged to the Ring bearer.
"Yes, I can see by your faces that this prisoner's significance was not underestimated on our part," the emissary gloated, "And now he shall endure the slow torment of years, as long and slow as our arts in the Great Tower can contrive, and never be released, unless maybe when he is changed and broken, so that he may come to you, and you shall see what you have done.
"This shall surely be unless you accept my Lord's terms: retreat at once beyond the Anduin, first taking oaths never again to assail Sauron the Great. Your lands shall be tributary to Mordor, and men there shall bear no weapons. These are his terms. Take them or leave them!"
"These we shall take!" said Gandalf, and to his words Truva responded in shock, for she had anticipated betrayal from the Wizard least of all. Well he had repelled the wily cunning of Saruman, only to let their lives be forfeit at the hands of the Dark Lord!
"These we shall take!" repeated Gandalf, seizing the tokens of the Ring bearer, "But as for your terms, we reject them utterly!"
In the same instant Truva came to understand Gandalf's true meaning, the messenger's demeanor altered sharply from amusement to fury. He scowled at the party aligned before him, narrowed eyes flicking from one face to another, yet in noting their stony expressions he cowered and raced back to the safety of his master's walls.
Thunderous drums were struck as the colossal Black Gates were pulled back, releasing a flood of enemy forces. As the envoy from the West withdrew to their hosts, great waves of Orcs poured forth from hidden holes and tunnels in the sides of the mountain; and Easterlings that had hidden among the hills of the Ered Lithui emerged to cut off retreat in the rear. In the work of a moment, the Armies of the West were entirely surrounded, two tiny islands upon a vast sea of foes.
The horses in Truva's heart raced once more to the sound of the drums. Beside her stood Chaya, tall and proud, eyes aflame and determination palpable. There was Blackbramble, too, his bow already drawn, and behind him all the warriors – both Hidland and Eorlingas – who were now all that stood against the swelling tides of Mordor.
Upon the far hill, Aragorn appeared as a true King, a regal sun amongst stars, undimmed even by the brightness of those gathered near to him. As Truva looked unto this Ranger, this Dúnedain whose lineage was interwoven with the days of Númenor and its greatest heroes, she was once more struck by the aura she had felt when he stood upon the gate of Hornburg; acceptance and resolution washed over her as Aragorn raised his voice to address the Western Armies:
"My friends, it is not our part to master all the tides of the world," he cried, his clear voice ringing out across the plain, "But do what is in us for the succour of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule, but on this day, upon this very ground, we shall meet our end with the good of the world in our hearts!"
He gave a shout and held Andúril high, its blade gleaming in the sun, and all the forces gathered there echoed his cry; they knew their courage could not falter. Truva raised the Horn of the House of Éofor to her lips and blew so it resounded bright, brazen tones against the rocky cliffs and slag-hills, and the hearts of her warriors were lifted in that desolate place.
Yet her horn fell quiet and the voices of the Army of the West quavered, the spirit of even the strongest amongst them quailing when the Nazgûl bent their fellbeasts' wings low over the fighters, sweeping through the shadows cast by the mountains. The sun turned red from the noxious haze that arose from Mordor as the forces of the Land of Shadow drew near.
Arrows darted through the foremost ranks of Eorlingas, sent by those Orcs hesitant to cross the boggy land that lay between the Black Gates and the hills upon which the Armies of the West stood. Even so, the warriors watched with even greater trepidation as giant hill-trolls of Gorgoroth, unperturbed by the pools, charged straight through the murky waters and dove upon the first lines.
One especially massive Troll leapt directly at Truva, its spiny hide roiling and salivating teeth gnashing; yet without any direction Bron sidestepped it neatly, sending the creature sprawling by. Truva assumed such a dim-witted creature would immediately forget its initial target and move on to new quarry, but in this thinking she was mistaken. The beast turned and charged at her again, single-mindedly bent on destroying its first victim. Bron shimmied here and there as Truva slashed at the Troll – for it made attack after attack – yet its hide was impenetrable, and each stroke of Truva's blade only served to enrage it further.
After one startlingly close pass, the Troll pivoted immediately to counter with its massive fists. Bron reared to evade the beast's strike, yet it reached out with lightning speed and snared his exposed belly in its long talons. The Troll then snatched with a second fist and sunk its claws deep into Bron's ribs, nearly encircling his entire body.
Truva only just extricated her legs in time; she drew herself upward and launched her body off the arm of the beast, bringing her sword down with full weight upon its head, yet it must have borne an incredible skull reinforced with thick, bony plates, for even then it merely shook its head and continued to dissect the horse. Truva could hear Bron's bones cracking as the gashes made by the Troll's scythe-like claws slowly widened and split down his side.
Truva screamed in fury and thrust her blade skyward, using all her might to drive the sword up from the bottom of the Troll's jaw straight through to its brain. It lurched forward, even as it attempted to open its behemoth jaw and sink razored teeth into its prey, and fell at last to the ground with a crash. Truva did not stop her assault. Overcome by grief and fury, she hacked at the fallen beast, rending every part of its body that would yield to her blade.
At last she fell to her knees before Bron, whose eyes even now clouded over behind long lashes, and whose tail twitched its last. Loyal Bron! Stouthearted companion, easygoing in times of peace yet fierce in battle – not fated to live out his old years being doted upon as he deserved, but cut down as a true warrior of the Mark! Truva threw her head back and screamed to the heavens, oblivious to the war that still raged about her.
She bowed her head, yet fury coursed through her, and when it reached a climax which she could not endure, Truva rose from Bron's side. Vision blurred by tears that streamed from her eyes, she rushed into the press of enemies, a fierce battle cry raging from her lungs as she attacked with unadulterated savagery. Foes quailed before her – hanging back, afraid to approach – yet Truva fell upon them even as they retreated. It was unheeding and senseless rage that drove her, and though both Éomer and Aragorn called to her, her ears did not hear.
"The eagles are coming! The eagles are coming!" A joyful cry arose from the Gondorians and was quickly taken up by their allies. Yet as the Nazgûl overhead turned their attention from the battlefield to face these new, unexpected adversaries, Truva felt nothing save a perverse joy to watch the forces of Mordor cower and falter, doubt struck into their hearts. Her grim determination did not wane, not even when the arrival of Elfhelm Marshal's riders from over the western hills caused even greater celebration among the Armies.
It was not until Gandalf's voice rang out over the clamor that she paused to listen. "Stand, Men of the West!" he called, "Stand and wait, for this is the hour of doom."
Truva considered feigning ignorance as the battle came to a standstill, for like Éowyn she was not technically a man; yet even in her daze she thought it best to adhere not to the letter of Gandalf's words, but to their spirit. She stood silent amidst the warriors, Eorlingas and Hidlander and Gondorian alike overcome by a strange mood that gave them pause.
The ground rumbled and shook beneath their feet. Far off in the distance, far beyond the pass of Cirith Gorgor, came an eruption of blackness tinged with fire, and before their very eyes the Towers of the Teeth collapsed, and the Black Gate was thrown down. The forces of Mordor – those not crushed by their own tumbling works of evil – scattered and fled, followed by the less stouthearted Men of Rhûn and Harad; though some, the bold in whose heart hate for the West ran deepest, gathered for a final desperate stand.
Absorbed in her own rage as she was, Truva scarcely noted that she bore witness to yet another spectacular creature of Middle Earth, to the vision of Gandalf being borne away by great Eagles. Their golden-brown plumage shone iridescent in the strange light that was sent up from the depths of Orodruin, their wings dipping in and out of the wind currents high above, yet the call of Aragorn cut through Truva's reverie and returned her attention to the task that still lay before them.
"Throw down your weapons!" he cried to the company of Easterlings and Southrons, now hardly larger than the numbers of the West. "I do not doubt you are brave men, and though I know not why you harbor such a hatred toward our people, Sauron is no friend to thine! He does naught but enslave and abuse, even amongst his own allies. Return now to your lands, and we shall leave you in peace."
Even as he said these words, however, an arrow streaked past Aragorn's head. Quick as lightning, Truva drew her own bow and struck down the offender, yet from his head sprouted two arrows. Truva glanced over to Legolas, who likewise had his bow drawn. He gave her a slight nod, and with a terrible shout the forces of the West charged down the hill and washed over their foes, extinguishing what small flame still flickered in their hearts. A handful fled after their already departed brethren, yet it was not until the very last enemy who opposed the free lands lay at their feet that the Host of the West was able to declare the battle – and the war – won.