Author's recommended listening: Williams, Phantasy Quintet
CHAPTER XXVII: BENEATH THE CULUMALDA BLOSSOMS
Each step away from Mordor brought levity into the hearts of Truva and her companions as they marched northward the next morning. Their path was easy, for at first the small company followed the road in a peculiar repetition of their journey toward Morannon. How greatly their mood had turned, from one of foreboding doom to buoyant elation! Even so, Truva found herself longing for Bron's steady support; if not for his companionship, then in succor of her labored walking. Despite Halbarad's careful tending, the wound in her knee still bothered her far greater than she cared to admit.
It was not past midmorning ere several Gondorian archers, familiar with the lands of Ithilien, led the warriors away from the road, through the pathless wasteland. Throughout the day, the desolation about them gradually transitioned to living land again; dry, prickly juniper gave way to flourishing laurel and myrtle, and the ground beneath them was no longer the treacherous stretches shale but dirt and grasses.
That night the company made camp in a copse of pines, hidden from view within a slight cleft in the hills just west of the road. They lit brazen fires in the descending gloam, yet the peaks of Ephel Dúath loomed dark in the east. Events at Durthang likewise left them circumspect, and thus a heavy guard was set.
Sent afield to forage, Truva and Blackbramble succeeded in hunting nearly half a dozen grouse – though their far greater success was locating an expansive patch of thistles; they returned to camp ladened with the purple blossoms, and nursed their cuts as those on cooking duty roasted the buds over low flames. Greatly cheered, the warriors settled into their meal, waves of low conversation ebbing and waning. When the fireside fell wholly silent, Halbarad spoke:
"What are you all to do now?" he asked. "Now that the war is won."
"I long to return home," Éomód answered immediately. "I miss Héodis, my wife, and my son Fulmod. I have no greater wish than to sweep them into my arms and affirm their existence with my own hands. Would that I never be parted from them again!"
"So too do I miss the sweeping plains of the Mark," said another Eorlingas warrior. "Great is my desire to set eyes upon its lush grasses that bend and wave in the breeze, and mountains that are white, not black."
"Greenery can be no match for the azure sea!" cried a Gondorian from one of the southern fiefs. "The first thing I shall do upon my return is sail out in a small boat, and do nothing all day save cast my line into the waves, and grow dark from the sun's rays."
As each of their brethren shared all that had been robbed of them by war, the Hidlanders cast uneasy glances amongst themselves. It was no home they had left behind; no family awaited their return with baited breath. The meagre rations they had been provided along their journey were veritable feasts in comparison to the fare they were accustomed to in the Hidlands, the marching orders followed freely. They had no notion of where they were to go, or what was to be expected of them.
Unsurety seeped even into Truva's mind, for certainly her position as Marshal was no more than the result of emergent circumstances. She owed the Eorlingas her devotion even so, yet the newly liberated Hidlanders sparked a feeling of protectiveness in her breast. She thought also of Aragorn, and the words she had spoken to him in the gardens of the Houses of Healing; it had been duty that stayed her tongue, and now that duty had been discharged, perhaps she might dare to hope—?
It was lost in such thought, a thistle heart halfway to her mouth, that Truva heard the call of a whip-poor-will sent skyward. The camp immediately went still. After the initial shock faded, hands reached for blades and bows as the warriors leapt to their feet, darting for cover and circling into positions just beyond the light of the campfire.
No sooner was the circle deserted than a call came. "Ai-oi! At ease, Host of the West! It is friend that comes, not foe!" The northern watchman stumbled into the clearing anon, guiding a score of soldiers bearing the White Tree of Gondor – that belonging to Minas Tirith. Noting such insignia, the company emerged cautiously from behind pines and shrubs, still poised with weapons in hand. The new arrivals greeted them with stiff bows.
Halbarad strode forward at once. "You had us frightened well into next month, lad!" he exclaimed, clapping the watchman on the shoulder and greeting the Gondorian soldiers.
"We did not intend to cause distress," said the foremost emissary. "We were sent as reinforcements by Lord Aragorn, as his concern grew the more days that went by, and the longer your mission became. I see now that his worry was misplaced, for you are well."
"And victorious!" said Halbarad. "I do believe Aragorn shall be greatly pleased with the results of our efforts. But come! Sit yourselves by the fire and dine upon our humble fare; we've scarce enough to go around as it is, but even so we offer it freely."
And so the watch renewed its task, and the Gondorian soldiers sat amongst their compatriots – all save one, who immediately set out again, so that he might all the more quickly bring news of the company's return to the Field of Cormallen, where even now the bulk of the Armies awaited them. The soldiers gently refused all offers of roast grouse, for they had eaten heartily in the main camp. Instead, they drew from their packs skins of wine and distributed these amongst the weary warriors, and thus the evening passed in a far more joyous manner than many had known in the longest of times.
On the second day of their northward journey, it was through great copses of beech and oak that the swollen ranks of the West walked, as the surrounding vegetation grew even thicker and more lush. Warm rays of the sun streamed down to bathe their skin in dappled light. Birds twittered about in the branches high above, as if heralding their arrival. Some of the more jovial companions – especially those of Dol Amroth, who were unfamiliar with the beauty of such inland forests – raised their voices in song, praising the luxurious colors and likening the rush of wind through the leaves to the waves of their homeland seas.
Though it was hard to discern through the dense canopy overhead, the sun was just beginning to bend toward the western horizon as the company found themselves amid a thicket of white-barked trees. From spindly branches hung fragrant yellow blossoms, long racemes swaying in the gentle breeze. The soft call of a thrush lilted across the tranquility; one of the Gondorian soldiers responded in kind. The main camp of the Host was surely nearby, and they were equally as circumspect as their smaller cohort had been.
Once past the watch, the company wove through the golden maze of trees as they ever had, haphazard and unguided. Yet gradually out of the chaos trunks formed regimented lines, and ultimately transitioned into a close tunnel that meandered through the wood. Along this new path the company walked until at last they emerged onto a vast greensward.
To the west the magnificent River Anduin flowed, and a great many tents were erected upon the grassy field before the warriors. Innumerable smaller banners and pennants there were, fluttering upon the wind, yet high above these flapped the three most resplendent: Dol Amroth's swan and its sea of blue, a sable bearing the Gondorian coat of arms, and the last – the sight of which sent Truva's heart soaring – a white horse upon the Mark green.
Men bustled among the tents, oblivious to the new arrivals, for there were the injured still to be tended to, and supplies to be sorted and distributed, and meals to be prepared. Guided by the Gondorians, the small company walked in the midst of this commotion, awed by how rapidly the massive city-like camp had been constructed.
At a small crossroads in the tents, the foremost Gondorian soldier halted. "I ask that your leaders follow me," he said. "We shall go in search of Lord Aragorn, for his whereabouts are difficult to predict these days; he is busy and always in counsel with Mithrandir. The others will be shown to their tents so that they may rest and wash up."
The company divided then, the Hidlanders being led in one direction, the Eorlingas and Dúnedain another, and those from various regions of Gondor yet a third. Halbarad and Truva remained, accompanied only by Chaya and Blackbramble, as well as a trio of northern Rangers. The seven companions and their guide had not gone much further before they came upon the largest and most central of pavilions.
Two guards stood before the entrance. One ducked in to announce their arrival then quickly reappeared, holding aside the flap to bid the company enter. Halbarad politely yielded to Truva, and stepping foot within she found the interior impenetrably dim, for despite the fading light of day no lamps had been lit. As she waited for her eyes to adjust, Truva found herself folded in a familiar embrace: that of her captain and King, Éomer.
Through touch he conveyed the joy that they were still alive beyond the end of all things; a heart relieved of the burden it had borne upon their parting, though it had been but a few days prior. Truva felt also his empathy for her loss, for he knew what it was for an Eorlingas to be parted forever from their horse. When at last Éomer released her, he held her at arms' length, only to draw her back into his arms once more.
Truva broke away when she became able to distinguish the other shadowy forms over his shoulder. There was Prince Imrahil, and Gandalf reclining in a chair, with smoking pipe in hand as ever; yet Truva's eyes were drawn compulsively to the Captain of the Host of the West, who rose to greet the companions. Each bowed deeply before him, and Aragorn returned their gesture in kind.
"Our returned warriors: welcome to Ithilien!" he said, spreading his arms wide, though even as he addressed them all, he failed to meet Truva's eye. "Though our parting has been short, I trust no great ill has befallen you since last we saw each other?"
"Indeed, I do believe it was we who were the great ill that befell others!" said Halbarad. "Yet we encountered little resistance as it was."
"Your campaign was a success, then?" asked Imrahil.
"I should like to declare it so, though our triumph was due in large part to Truva," said Halbarad, laying a hand upon her shoulder.
"We were fortunate to discover siege-engines left abandoned by the retreating forces of Mordor," said Truva. Still Aragorn did not look upon her, and merely lowered his gaze and inclined his ear toward her when she spoke. "And a great weapon of fire there was also – not unlike that which Saruman used to rend the Deeping Wall of Hornburg. I had only the faintest of hopes to find such a weapon in the Land of Shadow; and yet it seems Sauron also had knowledge of its workings."
"Perhaps the two were in greater communication than we initially presumed," mused Gandalf, his pursed lips all that were visible through the haze of smoke. "Or perhaps even the White Wizard and his mind of metal and machines fell prey to the raw power of the Dark Lord."
"They are both gone now," said Imrahil, though Gandalf merely frowned to himself. "Let us not dwell on sinister shadows that lurk no longer, and look instead to the rejuvenation of our lands that is sure to come."
"I do not expect any shall be able to reestablish themselves in that desolate region again any time soon, least not without our notice," said Halbarad. "Every last stronghold we razed to the ground – all save Minas Ithil and its guard tower, for it proved too great for our limited strength."
"And the Ring-bearer?" asked Truva. "What has become of him?"
"The Hobbits are resting peacefully, and I suspect they shall make as full a recovery as might be expected, given the circumstances," Gandalf reassured her, yet so great was Truva's shock at his first words that she did not hear what followed – a Holbytla! The bearer of so great a burden! And not merely one; could it be?
"You have done well, my friends," said Aragorn, intruding upon Truva's thoughts. "But go now and rest; your tents await you. When you have settled in, we shall dine together, for upon hearing of your imminent return a great feast has been prepared."
Éomer King leapt forward at these words and took Truva by the arm. "Come, my Marshal! I shall show you to your tent," he said, leading her out into the open air. Night had settled definitively over the vast camp, the air cool and crisp off the Anduin. "Our accommodations are well prepared; even upon the conclusion of battle, the hospitality of Gondorians cannot be said to be lacking!"
Just beyond Aragorn's grand pavilion, the captains' tents had been assembled, abutted by those reserved for their second in command. While Halbarad and the other Dúnedain were shown to tents just beside that of Aragorn, it was a separate cluster – draped in cloth of emerald to indicate their occupants – to which Éomer King led Truva and the others.
"These are my own accommodations, and that of Elfhelm Marshal," he said, indicating two splendid tents before turning to a third. "Yours is here; Chaya and Blackbrable are just behind. I must keep my advisors near to me, as you must yours. Come to me when you are ready to feast!"
Though Éomer's words had raised her expectations, Truva was taken aback by the splendor of her tent, which was surely even more luxurious than that of Dunharrow. Various tapestries hung upon the canvas walls, and an ornate lamp dangled from the topmost poles; a washbasin sat in one corner, as well. The bed looked altogether enticing, yet for the first time in a long time Truva felt more ravenous than weary. Even so, she spared a moment to pull Bron's saddle blanket from her rucksack and spread it upon the bed, determining to wash it on the morrow.
She washed up quickly in the basin, beside which fresh water and a cloth had been placed, then emerged from the tent once more. Outside she found Éomer King and Elfhelm Marshal deep in jovial conversation, both laughing heartily.
"How now, warrior of the Mark!" called Elfhelm when he spied her, and laid a hand upon her shoulder when she drew near. "I daresay there are few who have exerted themselves more than our dear Marshal. Let us indulge in a well-earned pint, and hear your tales of the Dark Land!"
"And what of you, my captain?" asked Truva as they turned as three and wound through the alleyways of tents. "How fared your own excursion to clear our foes from the northern lands of Anórien?"
"We routed them, sure enough!" exclaimed Elfhelm. "The blockade which slowed our advance to Mundburg was first to fall, and before us we drove the enemy like minnows from the heron. We pursued them as far as to cross the Anduin at Cair Andros, then rode on to your succor; imagine our surprise to come upon the forces of Mordor defeated, and the standards of the Western Host raised in victory!"
"It is good fortune we must certainly drink to!" said Truva, taking in the sight of a magnificent, open-aired pavilion, where many of the fighters had already gathered in anticipation of the meal. Éomer King parted with them to take a seat at the long, elegant head table, and beside him sat Prince Imrahil. Gandalf lounged on the far side, observing with amusement the conversation between Legolas, Gimli and the sons of Elrond.
Truva and Elfhelm sat just before their Eorlingas King, at a table perpendicular to his. Chaya and Blackbramble arrived soon after in the company of Halbarad, and were quickly followed by Éomód and several other Eorlingas. The Hidland fighters also sat nearby, situated amongst the Riders, and all intermingled as one; for indeed through the heat of battle the two peoples had become like brethren.
Tantalizing odors wafted over the tables. The fighters looked about in anticipation, the scent of freshly baked bread and smoked meats causing their stomachs to complain, yet there was no movement of food to be served. The cheery babble of conversation slowly altered to protestations, until at long last Aragorn appeared at the head table. He presided at the very center, between the Prince of Dol Amroth and the Wizard Gandalf, though he did not sit, and instead addressed the warriors gathered there:
"I thank you all for your patience, as I am sure you are hungry," he said, and Halbarad in his hunger pulled faces to protest the oncoming speech. "Tonight we welcome back among our number those who have ventured into the lands of Mordor, to ensure that it shall be a long time ere pernicious spectres seek to take root there again. With deepest gratitude, I thank these warriors."
A rousing cheer went up at these words, though Aragorn was quick to raise his hands, and a hush quickly fell once more. "Their task was surely arduous," he continued, "And so must our future be; for evil does not wane, and it is only through great effort that peace is maintained. Yet for a time let us enjoy the victory that our exertions – and the sacrifices of our brethren – have bestowed upon us. Take heart, and dine in good spirit this night!"
Scarcely had he concluded than the Armies of the west fell upon the dishes, which had been distributed as he spoke. There was a most delectable variety of foods, many particular to that region of Ithilien: freshly grilled fish and roasted quail, aged cheeses and churned butter were all laid before them. Truva and the others could not help but show appreciation, yet it was the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth – accustomed to fare from the sea – who were most vocal in their awe when a spit ladened with an entire roast boar was brought forth.
With rowdy cheers and indomitable gaiety, the fighters devoured their meal, sharing many a glass of wine and tankard of ale. They shared also stories of their hometowns and adventures, loved ones and faraway places; for once the spell of Sauron had been broken, it was as though the people of the West were renewed with a heretofore unknown exuberance.
"Halbarad!" cried a Dúnadan Ranger as he strode between the nearby tables.
"Well met, my good friend, well met indeed!" said Halbarad, rising to embrace his companion, though the slight frown when this newcomer took a seat between him and Chaya did not escape Truva's attention.
"Many of us had a wager on when you would return," said the man, greeting the others who sat about the table with a quick wave. "Could you not have tarried two days more? A tidy sum would be mine, had you done so!"
"As great a misfortune as it is to your purse, we could not," said Halbarad. "Yet have a pint, and listen to our tale; then you shall know why we were eager to be gone from those lands."
Great migrations occurred between the many tables as men from one company greeted those from another, and came to learn of those whom they had drawn swords alongside. Soldiers from Dol Amroth shared a glass with the Hidlanders, who in turn exchanged seats with Dúnedain or yielded to Gondorians. Though they had begun their meal separated by origin, as the night wore on, the fighters became so jumbled it was only through livery that it was possible to distinguish who came from which area.
Truva was engaged in a discussion on farming methodology with a knight from Dol Amroth – and halfway through a roast pheasant – when she happened to glance toward the head table. There she observes Éomer King deep in conversation with a fair maiden, whose air was regal and proud as she sat between the King and Prince Imrahil. Truva turned to her companion and asked, "Do you know of that maiden there, beside your Prince?"
"Do I know of her?" exclaimed the warrior, incredulous yet not unkind. "Why, she is the Princess Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil himself! Rumor has it that she could not bear to be separated so long from her father, and so traveled to Minas Tirith; yet in finding him away, rode out to meet him upon these very fields!"
"Her beauty is beyond words," said Truva, noting with a hint of joy the sparkle that shone in Éomer King's eye when their two heads bent in close to speak over the hubbub.
"It is said that she is the fairest that walks upon our shores."
"Certainly I can imagine none fairer," said Truva. "And perhaps I might confirm the veracity of such claims for myself one day, for I should greatly like to visit Dol Amroth, having never been afforded the opportunity to lay eyes upon the sea."
"Then you must certainly come!" said the Swan Knight. "Ask for Galador, for that is my name – and I suspect the only Galador in all of Dol Amroth. It is a terribly old-fashioned name, you see, being the name of our first prince."
"It is not entirely dissimilar from being named Eorl in the Riddermark!" laughed Truva.
"Just so!" Galador smiled. "Yet I suspect that soon the most popular name shall be Truva, in honor of the legendary Marshal of the Mark!"
"I have been Marshal hardly a week, and none save jokesters would call I am legendary," said Truva, though Galador would have none of it, and little by little the conversation devolved into those around the table singing the grand praises of all their compatriots, and in this way the evening passed with a pleasant meeting of many people.
Truva retired that night feeling greatly rejuvenated, yet no sooner had she left the dining pavilion and wandered into the maze of tents than she found herself entirely lost. Each direction she turned looked identical to the way from which she had come, yet just as she was reconciling herself to making her bed upon the grass, a shadowy figure materialized before her. It did not speak, nor did it draw closer, yet in her exhaustion Truva resigned herself to her fate.
"Come," the shadow said. It spoke with the voice of Aragorn. Truva stumbled forward, unsure of whether she saw reality or an apparition of the ale she had consumed that evening.
"My lord," she said, halting an arm's breadth away, for she did not wish to shatter the illusion. "Thorongil of the Mark, Strider; Elessar, or Elfstone; heir of Isildur and Elendil, chieftain of the Dúnedain – my King."
"I am no king," he murmured, reaching out a hand to brush her cheek with gentle fingers. For a moment Truva's breath would not come, for now that she knew he was truly before her, she did not know whether he brought her joy or sorrow. "Leastways, I am not a king yet. I am, and to you shall always be, Aragorn."
"Does not that name in and of itself mean 'Revered King'?" Truva whispered, catching his hand in her own. Aragorn answered by drawing her briefly into his embrace, his touch light but reassuring. Then, as if suddenly recalling that which went unspoken, he drew away.
"You have traveled far, and exerted yourself beyond reason. I see even now you leave a wound untreated."
"We did as best we could," said Truva defensively, yet her strength was waning and sleep was overcoming her. Aragorn pulled her arm about his shoulders and supported her along the unfamiliar pathways, and before Truva could gain her bearings they had returned to the tent assigned her.
Aragorn did not speak further. In a fleeting moment, he had ducked out of the tent and returned once more, smelling of horses – a scent which Truva could recognize anywhere. She allowed the waves of lassitude to wash over her as the Dúnadan tended the festering arrow puncture in her knee.
"Sleep," he said, though already she hovered halfway between wakefulness and slumber. Even so, sorrow washed over Truva as soon as she found herself alone in the solitude and silence of her tent. Could not the em athelas heal the wounds in her heart? She pulled Bron's blanket closer to her.
The Armies of the West spent the next several days in a lackadaisical and carefree manner, for they had little other business than to await the waking of the Ring-bearer and his companions. Aragorn and the Wizard Gandalf were scarce to be seen, so busy were they in tending to their charges; and no other had laid eyes upon these mysterious beings who had played such a crucial role in the West's victory, save those of the initial Fellowship.
Despite the buoyant atmosphere, there were still duties to be carried out by even the least significant of figures. In her capacity as Marshal, Truva found herself organizing watch and patrols, and it was not once or twice that these parties were called to defend the camp from enemy intruders – though it was their good fortune that any significant conflict was avoided. Otherwise, the soldiers were tasked with cooking, foraging and hunting, supplies assessment and distribution, and all the innumerous labors running such a vast camp entailed.
In their free time, however, many enjoyed fishing in the nearby creeks, or set out in tiny canoes upon the Anduin to explore Cair Andros. The more musically inclined among them obtained instruments or set to writing songs, for the Armies' recent experiences lent great inspiration to their art. It was the ballad of one such bard that Truva listened to, lolling about in the warm sunshine of late afternoon, when the Swan Knight named Galador threw himself down upon the grassy field beside her.
"How goes your relaxation?" he asked, folding his arms behind his head and closing his eyes in a fashion identical to Truva.
"Peaceful, until now," she said, though in truth she did not begrudge the company.
"Say," said Galador, immediately sitting up again, "Have you any interest in exploring the area about the camp? There is a Ranger of Ithilien who has promised to guide a select few to the hidden refuge of Henneth Annûn. But you must tell no one! For even in the wake of Gondor's victory, the Rangers wish to maintain the mystery of its location."
"Then why do you speak of it to me," questioned Truva, "And why has he promised to reveal this secret to you?"
"Strange as it is for Men of the Sea and of the Hills to be bound by blood, it is so," he said. "As a young boy, my brother was sent to serve the Rangers, for long ago my ancestors dwelt in the lands of Ithilien ere they ventured south to Dol Amroth."
"Forgive me, I did not know you to be of such noble birth."
"It is not something I find joy in proclaiming overly much," Galador smiled. "As for you, I do not think it amiss that a Marshal of Gondor's closest ally should be aware of one additional refuge they might put to use; though I hope you shall never have need of it."
And so within the hour a small party had set out through the yellow-blossomed Culumalda trees, led by the brother of Galador. He set a quick pace, though the journey was not arduous, for they followed the banks of a stream that flowed out of the northeast.
"It is from these trees that the Field of Cormallen takes its name," said the Ranger, plucking a fragrant raceme and offering it to Truva. "The golden circle – according to the Elves of long ago."
Even as he spoke, a roar of cascading water drew nearer, and it was not long before a tremendous waterfall peeked from between the forest canopy. Truva gasped in awe at its beauty, for the stream tumbled from such a great height that the mist it sent skyward caught the sunlight above the trees, and cast a rainbow across the scene. The party's leader did not stop, however, and he pressed on until they reached a distinctive trio of boulders.
The Ranger cast his glance about, then slipped down into a tunnel hidden by the rocks and foliage. It was not so long as to be impenetrably dark, yet Truva had to be careful not to trip over the uneven ground in the dim light. Soon the party emerged into a wide cave, its ceiling low overhead and a great window opening toward the west, beyond which flowed the waters of the fall.
No sooner had all this come into view, however, than each of the fighters froze; for there, hastily scrambling to gather the contents of what appeared to be a picnic basket, stood two figures Truva recognized immediately.
"Chaya!" she cried.
"Truva!" the Hidlander exclaimed in response.
"And Halbarad?"
"Hello, Truva," said the Dúnadan of the North, somewhat sheepishly. "We sought you out this morning with every intention of supping together, yet you were so occupied in your duties we were loath to disturb you."
Truva could not recall so much as having seen Chaya all day, though she said nothing. Galador – either oblivious to or willfully ignoring the delicate mood – leapt forward enthusiastically, for he took Halbarad's words as an implied invitation.
"How the fortunes have favored our meeting, then!" He aided the pair in spreading their blanket upon the cave floor once more, and the others of the party were quick to follow his lead. The curtain of water provided an ethereal backdrop as they dined together, though the pair's provisions vanished rapidly, for indeed the fare had only ever been intended for two. Yet even as the food dwindled, the Southern Ranger procured skins of wine, and thus the company joyously watched the afternoon turn to evening, and returned to the main camp as darkness fell.
Word spread swiftly upon the thirteenth day that the Holbytla Peregrin had at last awoken, and so the soldiers spent much of their time craning their necks in hopes of catching a glimpse of the gallant Halfling who had single-handedly slain a Gorgoron troll. The first to encounter him were those on kitchen duty, for Peregrin immediately set upon the camp's food store. The soldiers quite enthusiastically applied themselves to procuring more, and it became a game to see who could please the Hobbit most with their offering – the sport of it being that the Holbytla was not in any way discriminating, and loved each and every delicacy they presented to him.
The next day, however, was when the Ring-bearer himself arose. Whispered rumors swept through the camp in the morning, for all were curious as to what their savior might look like. Yet he did not emerge immediately, and instead Peregrin collected a generous sampling of food for his friend, only to disappear into the well-guarded tents.
All morning the quiet buzz of anticipation crescendoed to a frenzy; and the soldiers' fervor was fed when just before noon they were instructed to prepare the dining pavilion for another great feast, and to organize a ceremony by which they would honor the Ring-bearer and his companion. The chefs set to work, thankful that their skills would be well-met that day.
Their preparations concluded and the bright sun directly overhead, the Armies of the West arrayed themselves smartly rank and file, dressed in newly repaired armor and with honed weapons at the ready. Truva stood between Éomer King and Elfhelm Marshal at the helm of the Eorlingas, though she paid especial attention to ensure that not a detail was amiss in the Hidlanders' presentation.
Aragorn walked before the Armies then and sat upon the throne, his sword Andúril across his knees. As Truva looked upon his kingly figure, her heart felt as if it had rent in two. Never before had the distance between them been so apparent, his destiny so clear and hers indiscernible, obscure.
Dwelling on such glum musings, she nearly failed to see when Gandalf appeared shortly after. He came through the trees on the south side of the field, leading the two Holbytlas. As the trio approached, a great fanfare of trumpets blew, and the warriors drew their weapons and cheered joyfully; for it was these two slight figures for whom all their struggle had been – and yet all the calamities the Armies of the West had faced paled in comparison to the tremendous sacrifice these Halflings had made.
Aragorn rose, and the Ring-bearer and his companion ran to greet him. Truva witnessed the Dúnadan's regal exterior melt away to reveal once more the kind, humble Man he always had been, and it was with all the higher esteem that she regarded him for it, though it caused her heart even greater anguish. He bowed to his knee before the Holbytlas, placing them upon his own throne, and called to the companies gathered there, "Praise them with great praise!"
Truva raised her voice with the others, crying, "Long live the Halflings, Frodo and Samwise!"
At last it was the chance for the minstrels to show their quality, to test the works they had composed during their time in Ithilien, and the foremost amongst them came forward to share his proudest achievement. As he sang in many languages of the deeds of Frodo and his Quest, his words recalled to Truva her own tribulations she had endured since setting out from Edoras, and indeed long before; and though her heart was filled with joy, so too was it scored by pain.
Tears coursed down her face as she thought of Théodred, whom she would always love; and of Eilif – gone so young and so quickly after gaining freedom. She thought too of Théoden King and of Éofa, both of whom she considered family and heroic leaders, and of Bron, whose parting still pierced deepest into her chest.
Yet their sacrifice had been given meaning by the actions of these two Halflings. Though small in stature, they had secured a world of peace, and ensured that goodness and happiness would flourish for those whose time had not yet come. Their bravery was what would allow Truva to return to the Mark, what had given her the impetus to rewrite the future of the Hidlanders, what had enabled them to seize that opportunity. For Frodo and Samwise, for all those who had fallen in the execution of their duty, for her loved ones and for her own self, Truva wept in a gesture of gratitude and sorrow.
The final notes of the bard's song lingered on the air, and in looking around, Truva noted that she was not the only warrior to be thus moved; indeed, there was not one among all the armies of the West who had not shed tears. And so, with great sniffling and surreptitious wiping of faces, they rose and were directed by Aragorn to the pavilion where – through some miraculous work of Men – an even more astounding feast had been prepared than when Truva's company had arrived.
They ate a merry meal, though many of the soldiers spent a great deal of time gazing in wonder upon the Holbytlas, one adorned in the mail of Dwarves and both donning Elven cloaks. These were not the Halflings Truva had heard rumours of in her lessons long ago and far away, of a withdrawn race disinclined to travel, unfond of interaction with those beyond their borders. In these tiny figures, Truva saw a new way of the world, one of openness and interconnectedness, and of acceptance.
Over the next several days, the Holbytlas were afforded time to recover as preparations to return to Minas Tirith were made. An endless stream of tasks kept Truva occupied, and it was at long last that the soldiers packed their tents and pavilions onto massive ships, which bore them hence to Osgiliath.
It was not the same city Truva had observed when they passed through on their march to the Black Gates, for reconstruction led by the skilled craftsmen of Gondor was already well underway. The streets had been cleared further, and those buildings least damaged repurposed to accommodate the Armies. The soldiers passed the night in surprisingly comfortable lodgings before arriving at the fields of the Pelennor the following evening.
Yet still it was not their fate to enter the city that night, for political prudence and tradition bade Aragorn delay his arrival until he received the blessing of the Steward, and they once more erected the pavilions upon the grassy turf of the Pelennor. Anticipation hung over the camp, for the men of Gondor were eager to be reunited with their homes, and even those from afar had heard rumors that, once Sauron had been struck down, many of their loved ones had flown the City, as to be present when the victors returned.