This is the bridge between The Lady of the Rohirrim and its sequel, The Marshal of the Mark. For any who find it has been too long since last they read the first installment and thus have quite forgotten the story entirely (but are not overeager to sift back through 200k words), there is a synopsis available on AO3 under the username "blueoncemoon," and I am working to get one up on FFN.
Recommended listening: Sibelius, The Wood-Nymph
Chapter I: The Delegation from Dol Amroth
A gentle smile rested on Truva's lips as she traipsed along the paths of Edoras. Roheryn clopped along behind, bobbing his head amicably, for he was rarely parted from Truva in recent days. The poor pony had not been taken to kindly by the Mearas, and after he was the victim of one too many sly nips Truva had elected to minimise his time in the King's Stables. In truth, she did not mind indulging his overattachment; Roheryn served not only as a pleasant reminder of his previous owner, but also a distraction from the excruciating recollection of Bron, whose absence continued to haunt her most nights, leading her down labyrinthian nightmares of those who had fallen in the War. She had spent many a sleepless dawns out riding ever since her return.
But it was a smile that now rested on Truva's lips, for training had gone exceptionally well that morning. The skills the Hidlanders had hastily acquired during the War were provisional at best; now, under Truva's thorough guidance, those who wished to pursue a military career were slowly rebuilding the foundation necessary to succeed in the Muster of the Mark. The recruits' progress had proven remarkable, and the morning's training suggested they would soon be ready to advance from slingshots to bows, far earlier than Truva had anticipated.
Other Hidlanders had no such militaristic desires, however, and instead took on more domestic positions: farmers, cobblers, coopers, greengrocers – primarily jobs overseen by Eorlingas who spoke passable Westron and could ease the Hidlanders' transition into city life. Truva waved to several in greeting as she made her way from the gates to the King's Stables, revelling in their evident cheer every bit as much as that of her soldiers.
Truva shoved open the stable gates and allowed Roheryn to saunter through ahead. As he turned directly and assuredly into his stall – separated by an empty berth on each side – Truva took up a pitchfork to provide him fresh hay.
"Bit of a bustle about, wouldn't you say, Marshal?" came a quiet voice, causing Truva to leap. She turned to see a dark head of hair mucking out a stall in the back.
"Oya, Gríma," she said, cheerful tone belying how startled she had been. "I would expect no less, a mere three days before the coronation."
"It brings me great joy to know Éomer King shall at last wear the crown," said Gríma, leaning on his shovel and regarding Truva. His pinched expression had filled out once more, and a healthy glow returned to his pallid features – though not to the extent of before the War. None of them had. "Not in all the history of the Mark has so long a period transpired between the passing of one King and the ascendance of the next."
"I do not begrudge him the desire to assume his throne within a city no longer sundered," said Truva, though the clangour of repairs could still be heard even in that very moment. "And it is only now Lady Éowyn and Lord Faramir have sufficiently established their residence in Ithilien, and foreign dignitaries likewise found the freedom to travel abroad."
"I do not suppose such 'dignitaries' might include that Wizard? I would very much like to avoid any encounter with him again."
Truva gave a brief huff, a close approximation to laughter. "I have been led to believe we can expect visitors from Gondor alone – though perhaps it would be best to remain retiring, regardless."
"I thought I might find you here!" interrupted a voice from the stable entrance. Héodis emerged from around the corner, her skirts billowing as she strode toward Truva. "I've been awaiting you nearly this past hour, yet here you are, rolling about with the horses and gossiping over the coronation! Oya, Gríma!" She paused her ranting only momentarily to greet the stablehand.
"Hello, Héodis," Gríma replied, discomfort at the familiarity of her greeting written plainly upon his face. Though he had grown passably comfortable with Truva (owing to the inordinate amount of time she spent in the stables), still his guilt weighed heavily upon him, and he could not easily bring himself to face the many citizens of Edoras.
Truva extricated a carrot from her pocket and watched it disappear into Roheryn's voracious mouth. "I'm terribly sorry, Héodis; I must not have realised how late training ran."
"Hurry along, now," she said, flapping her arms to rush Truva out of the stables. "I've still a great deal of work left to do with the King's chef before the feast, and I will have to seek out Fulmod before I can. He shows promise in the culinary arts, and I intend to foster that throughout the preparations – yet the scamp has run off to be with his father again."
"I see you are far too busy," said Truva. "We can do this another time – after the coronation, perhaps."
Héodis caught Truva's elbow as she turned back toward Roheryn. "Nonsense. I will always have time for a friend in need." Her voice was hushed, but the sympathetic look in her eye was more forceful than any words.
"It is not truly a need—" Truva began, but a single harrumph from Héodis was enough to draw her up short. They strode along the pathways until they came upon the training yard, late autumn breeze cutting sharp across its open sands, devoid of soldiers during their noonday meal.
Truva began to make for the Marshals' Quarters, but Héodis' words brought her up short. "How long do you intend to avoid the inevitable?" she asked, her tone sharp but not unkind. "I've come to help you, and that's just what I shall do."
She took Truva's hand in her own and led the Marshal across the training yard and through the rows of infantry barracks upon the opposite side, weaving expertly along a well-known path. At last they came upon a single hut, its roof slanted so steeply its eaves nearly brushed the ground. Inside was completely dark.
"Have you not entered since your return?" Héodis asked softly.
Truva stared unseeing at the barracks she had once occupied. Rather than seeing the tattered door, her eyes were obscured by the vision of simbelmynë Théodred had presented upon her moving in, her nose was tantalised by the scent of soup she had served him during their long talks, her ears deafened by Éofa's harried knocking on the countless occasions recruits were unexpectedly roused for midnight drilling.
"Once," Truva whispered. "I passed but a single night here before immediately removing to the Marshals' Quarters."
Héodis squeezed her hand in silent understanding. Though Éofa had primarily resided in his official barracks, the room reserved for him at Héodis and Éomód's home now lay empty, a memorial to one lost in War.
"Well, I reckon the Muster could make good use of this place, if you won't," said Héodis, her practical streak suddenly returning. "Would you like to open it, or shall I?"
Without responding, Truva stepped forward and pulled the door open, a breath of musty air enveloping her. The surfaces within were blanketed with an even thicker layer of grime than when she had first returned, for not only had she failed to tidy things up then, the harvest had subsequently brought in great clouds of grain dust that coated every nook and cranny.
Héodis strode purposefully into the barracks and immediately seized two buckets. "Go fetch some water from the well," she said in a tone that brooked no argument. "I suspect we shall need a great deal of it."
Before Truva even comprehended the command, Héodis had taken up a broom and begun to sweep. By the time Truva returned, water sloshing in the buckets, the sprightly Eorlingas had thrown open both door and window screen to air the room out. When Héodis commandeered one bucket of water for laundry purposes, Truva plied herself to the floor, bony knees scraping along the wooden planking as she scrubbed.
The harder she ran the brush along the floor, worn by years of soldiers' footfalls, the more perturbed Truva became; cleaning was unbearably monotonous, allowing intrusive memories to slip easily past her defences. Théodred's smile transformed into the expression of consternation he had worn when faced with a fate he had never wanted for himself or his people. She saw Eilif once more falling from the skies. Éofa's countenance when informed he would serve as Marshal. The immense monster crouching over Théoden King's supine form. Bron.
"Truva." The voice swam hazily in her consciousness, muddled. "Truva." Héodis' face floated before her vision – had she lost Héodis, too? "Truva."
The feeling of existing in the present seized Truva's arms – or perhaps it was Héodis' hands.
"I am fine, I am fine," came the automatic response, developed over more than a month of similar lapses. Though she had been forced to excuse herself from training more than once, the moments of panic struck most urgently during the quiet lulls throughout the day, when there was little to occupy her time. Suddenly deprived of the need to be constantly alert, her mind didn't seem to know what to do with itself, save dwell on that which she most desperately did not wish to dwell upon. Her hand unconsciously found the silver Star pinned beneath her tunic.
"I need you to find that dress for me," Héodis spoke clearly.
"What dress?" Truva asked, still somewhat disoriented.
"The burgundy one I gave you all those years ago. The one that started this whole business – you said you could not find it, though I suspect that is only because you refused to enter these barracks." Noting Truva's gradual recovery seemed to be improved by chatter, Héodis continued to narrate each of her thoughts. "Ought I to wash it before I alter it – for you're far skinnier than when you donned it last – or shall I alter it first, and then wash it? Time is pressing, and I reckon it's far better to attend the feast in an ill-fitting garment than a wet one…"
As her friend nattered on, Truva rose, oblivious to the spilled bucket and the drenched knees of her trousers, and moved absentmindedly toward the trunk at the foot of her bed. She laid aside the tattered remains of training uniforms and a spare pair of bracers, an earthenware water jug and several other odds and ends before the trunk lid was freed. Truva's possessions were few, but still she had to dig through several layers of winter clothes in search of the dress. As she held up a ceremonial cloak, a small paper slipped from its folds and fluttered to the floor. When she bent to pick it up, Truva gave a small gasp.
"What is it?" asked Héodis, turning sharply from the stove.
"Naught," said Truva, sliding the letter into her tunic. "Merely stood too swiftly."
"You mustn't exert yourself to such extremes," Héodis chided, but Truva wasn't paying attention; she had glimpsed a corner of burgundy fabric. Shoving aside several belts and a scabbard, she withdrew the dress at last. Héodis took it into her hands and inspected its creased and pressed fabric.
"It looks rather worse for not having been worn," she bemoaned.
"I am certain I shall manage to make it presentable," said Truva, reaching to take back the dress, but Héodis drew it away.
"I will most certainly not entrust it to your care!" she exclaimed. "Left to your own devices, you would return it to your trunk and appear at the feast in training tunic and hose."
Truva frowned in mock irritation, for in truth the thought had crossed her mind. "Perhaps you ought to go in search of Fulmod, now that we have located the dress," she said. "I can clear out the rest of the barracks unaided."
"I will also not abandon you to the remains of your cleaning; many hands make light work, and your workload is heavy enough as it is. I was talking with Elfhelm Marshal just the other day regarding all the duties you have taken on since returning," Héodis began, launching into a full oration on her interactions with all manner of Edoras residents in recent days, most of which had little relation to either Truva or Elfhelm. Soothing as it was to listen to Héodis chatter on as they returned to their tasks, however, it was the small paper that wholly occupied Truva's mind.
Théoden King's letter.
He had laid it upon her armour all those years ago when Truva had first come amongst the Eorlingas' midst. Having been unable to read at that point, she had tucked it away and promptly forgotten about it. Seeing the King's spidery scrawl suddenly appear before her startled Truva far more thoroughly than any spectre ever possibly could. His words were sure to be impersonal, for Truva had been in Edoras no more than a few months at the time her armour had been supplied her, yet there was little doubt in her mind that she wished to read the letter in private, without Héodis' audience.
Truva's reverie was disrupted by the arrival of Éomód and Elfhelm Marshal, shadowed by Fulmod. They rapped on the open door before stepping into the barracks with a cheerful chorus of hellos, or a reserved nod in the case of the child.
"Occupied or not, you've kept your barracks a fair deal cleaner than mine ever were!" Elfhelm declared.
"Where is this trunk Héodis informed me of?" Éomód asked, making straight for the object of his search even as he spoke. "Come, Elfhelm, let's shift this to the Marshals' Quarters before our new commander can object!"
"It is not so heavy I can't move it myself!" said Truva, but already the two had seized each end of the trunk and begun to convey it out the door, nearly tripping over Fulmod in the process. In a flurry of activity they had come and gone, leaving Truva rather perplexed.
"I rather think I've done all that I can here," said Héodis, examining the neatly arrayed kitchen and dining area.
"Thank you ever so much for your assistance," Truva replied. She left unspoken the way in which Héodis had helped most, for they both knew it was not cleaning.
Héodis gathered the dress in her arms and gave Truva's hand one last squeeze. "Any time," she said, with a glance to where Truva had tucked the letter beneath her tunic. She then followed after her husband and Elfhelm in order to snare Fulmod for his culinary lessons, leaving Truva alone in the quietude of her past home.
The hum of late summer insects was Truva's only company as she fell into one of the simple chairs and looked about the empty, austere barracks. Ever so slowly, she withdrew the letter from her tunic and laid it upon the table, staring at it as she lit a candle and heated the blade of her knife in the flame. She gently slid the knife beneath the wax seal, preserving it as best as possible, but even once the letter was open Truva could not summon the courage to unfold it.
She rose and swept the floor a second time (although it was still spotless), then gathered the bedding and took it outside for a thorough wash. Once it had been hung to dry, she returned to the same chair, only to leap up and reorganise what little tableware and utensils lay about. When she finally took a seat yet again, she was well and truly absent things to do.
Thrice did Truva take a deep breath and reach for the letter, only to retract her hand and frown. It was not until the fourth time that she took the delicate paper into her hands and unfolded it flap by flap. At last, Théoden King's writing revealed itself:
Truva—
It is with joyous heart we welcome you into our ranks.
May you serve the Mark with pride and honour,
bearing the work of our finest craftsmen,
and may horses run through your heart evermore.
—Théoden King
It was, as she had suspected, a simple letter, yet it was not the words upon the page that caused tears to so fiercely course down Truva's cheeks. She fought to recall his countenance as it had smiled in days of old, surrounded by his family and loyal subjects, or when his eyes had grown steely and his jaw tense when the realities of war settled into the deep lines of his face. Yet all she could see was his rigid profile, concealed beneath a golden shroud upon his bier.
Truva drew her knees to her chest, allowing the letter to fall once more to the table. Sobs racked her body as she allowed her emotions to run unchecked. As accustomed to grief as she believed herself to have become, the unexpected resurfacing of her beloved King's sentiments was all the more excruciating for its abruptness.
A soft knock sounded at the door. "Marshal?" came Elfhelm's gentle query.
Truva swiftly wiped away her tears and stowed the letter back in her tunic, rising to her feet. "Have you transferred the trunk? I will see to it shortly," she said.
"No— well, yes, we have," said Elfhelm. "But I thought you might like to know the arrival of the delegation from Dol Amroth is imminent."
Truva then turned her ears beyond inner thoughts and heard horns announcing the approach of a friendly company. Her grief abated ever so slightly, overrun by anticipation; Prince Imrahil had come from the south! In spite of knowing hope's most frequent companion is disappointment, Truva couldn't help but wonder whether Aragorn might be amongst their number.
She followed Elfhelm from the barracks and through the paths of Edoras, still attempting to shake the effects of Théoden King's letter. She longed for nothing more than to find herself in Aragorn's embrace, comforted by one who knew the depths of her loss, yet her perturbation must have read clearly upon her face, for even the typically oblivious Elfhelm walked nearer a moment.
"None are unaffected by war," he murmured, continuing to stare forward. "But the likes of you and I bear the heaviest of burdens, so that others might never know the full horrors of what we have witnessed, and have committed with our own hands. Fortunate are those Marshals who never need lead during such times; indomitable are those who have no choice but to do so."
His eyes dropped to where his feet scuffed in the dirt. "There is no shame in tears."
Truva did not respond, for there were no words to be said. Many a time she had noted the same glassy look in Elfhelm's eyes as in her own, and in the Marshals' Quarters he was as like as she to wake in the night, crying out over wounds long healed or brethren long gone.
The solemn mood was broken when a gaggle of maidens pushed past them, tittering as they skipped along, pausing only momentarily to apologise to the two Marshals before dashing on.
"It is said the sons of Imrahil Prince are handsome indeed," Elfhelm remarked. "Yet it is his daughter I am most eager to be reunited with – do you recall when she was so eager to confirm her father's wellbeing she came so far as Ithilien following our victory at the Black Gate? Was she not the most radiant being you ever set eyes upon?"
Truva thought back to the Field of Cormallen, and more significantly to the way Éomer King had looked upon the Princess Lothíriel. She made a noncommittal noise; perhaps her eyes had deceived her, or she had not interpreted the scene correctly – perhaps the princess was already betrothed. Regardless, it was not her place to interfere.
Soon they gained the front gates, where already Éomer King was striding forward to welcome a company of nearly threescore Dol Amrothinian riders. They appeared harried, their clothing and hair windswept and in disarray, horses stomping and snorting. No carts or wagons were anywhere to be seen.
"What business is this?" Éomer King asked when the riders drew near. "What mishap was it that caused you to arrive in such a state?"
"Not two sunrises ago we were set upon by a band of raiding Orcs," said Prince Imrahil, dismounting. "We were fortunate enough to stave off the attack, and have lost none of our men, yet all our supplies and possessions were lost either to robbery or fire."
"It is my great shame that you should face such misfortune within our lands," said Éomer, shaking his head ruefully. "These roving bands of villainous creatures have harassed our borders oft of late; I ought to have sent a guard to meet you."
"You knew of our coming, but not the timing," said Imrahil. "Do not fault yourself overmuch."
Éomer looked about at the company, all dressed in the livery and finery of the southern sea. "Does Lord Aragorn not travel with you?" he asked when he did not spy the Gondorian King.
"Our journey brought us to his doorstep, yet the King had unfinished business that could not be delayed. He sends his regards, as well as his assurances that he shall arrive before the ceremony itself."
"So it is for all of us in recent times; a King's duties are unending," said Éomer. "Even so, it is a fine company you travel with."
"Indeed," said Imrahil, beckoning three figures forward. "Perhaps you recall my second son, Erchirion? He fought briefly upon the Pelennor Fields, though in fearing for the safety of our lands I sent him southward upon the conclusion of that battle."
"I do not believe we have officially met," said Éomer as the young prince bowed before him. "May I introduce my Second Marshal, Elfhelm, and Third Marshal Truva?"
"We have not yet had the pleasure, my lord, Marshals," said Erchirion, bowing to each in turn. He was not so tall as his father, but a fair deal stockier, and his hair was as glistening and jet-black as that of the following son who stepped forward.
"My eldest, Elphir," Imrahil explained. "Commander of the Swan Fleet, he spent the War patrolling our shores against invasion from the Corsairs."
"It is a great honour to make your acquaintance at last," said Elphir, bowing deeply before both King and Marshals. Unlike his brother, Elphir towered over his father, his limbs long and slender; Númenórean blood ran strong in his veins, and he seemed almost Elven in the delicate grace of his movements. A shallow gash marred his cheek, the lone indication of an unfortunate skirmish. The brothers appeared as opposites in features alone, however – both adhered to the strictest code of etiquette as befitting their station, which sent flock of young Eorlingas maidens (unaccustomed to such elegance) into a frenzy.
"And I do believe our allyship would be at terrible risk if you were to not recognise my daughter, Lothíriel," said Imrahil. Elphir and Erchirion stepped aside to reveal the delicate figure of the princess. Seeing the beautiful woman nearer than she ever had upon the Field of Cormallen, Truva was reminded of the obsidian hellebore that had blossomed in the highest reaches of the Hidlands, when early spring flung its snow flurries upon the ground: simultaneously fleeting, yet substantial.
"Milady," said Éomer King, bowing low and placing a delicate kiss upon the hand she offered him. "Not even were I to live so long as the Númenórean Kings of old could I possibly forget one so lovely as you."
"You flatter me, your highness," said Lothíriel, though the phantom of an amused smile flitted across her lips.
"I will make a sweep of the outer reaches, milord," interrupted Elfhelm with characteristically maladroit timing. "In all likelihood the Orcs are beyond our borders by now, yet it would not do to leave the matter unattended to."
"Yes, you are right," said Éomer. "In the meantime, double daily patrols from now until the coronation. Truva, I ask that you personally scout the inner circuit – but be certain to return before sundown; the bulk of our forces must be within the city gates come nightfall, when we are weakest."
"I will not stray further than the sound of horns," Truva said with a bow.
"Where is Mǽgling Captain?" asked the King.
"He is disseminating tonight's passwords, milord," Truva answered.
"Seek him out and inform him that he is to maintain order in your absence."
"I will see to it that he gets word; he is sure to be thankful for the opportunity to prove himself."
With final bows to both King and guests, the two Marshals took their leave. Elfhelm began the trek back up the hill toward the stables to gather a scouting party as Truva turned toward the newly constructed gatehouse, where she discovered Mǽgling within the inner chamber. A small gathering of officers clustered about the diminutive young Captain. Truva hung back until they dispersed, greeting her with bows and lively calls of "Marshal!" before disappearing through the gatehouse door.
"Have I missed all the commotion?" the perpetually boisterous Captain asked Truva, his golden curls bouncing in excitement. "I should have liked to greet the Prince and his company from the very first moment of their arrival, for I have only ever seen them from afar. Is it true Lothíriel Lady travels with her father?"
"Yes, and I imagine they make their way for Meduseld even now," Truva answered. "Yet before you rush off after them, I have news that might unfortunately delay your meeting of the delegation."
Mǽgling's distracted focus pulled suddenly onto Truva, amber eyes boring into her. "Another Orc attack?" he asked. "Is the Princess all right?"
"None of their party were seriously harmed," answered Truva, fixing the Captain with a discerning gaze. "Yet with the coronation's proximity and the expected arrival of King Aragorn, both Elfhelm Marshal and I will personally oversee scouting sweeps; any time both he and I are absent, command shall fall to you."
"Me?" Enthusiasm veritably radiated from Mǽgling. "Oh, how my heart rejoices at this opportunity! I will demonstrate your trust in me is not misplaced!"
"I am certain it is not," said Truva, laying a hand upon the Captain's shoulder. "Elfhelm Marshal has in all likelihood already departed, and I go now to run a tight circuit. Await my return before nightfall."
"Yes, Marshal," said Mǽgling, bowing deeply as Truva made swiftly for the exit. No sooner was she out in the open beyond the gatehouse than she raised the Horn of the House of Éofor to her lips, sounding a staccato signal for her company to muster. Though she had offered the horn upon Éofa's bier, it had mysteriously reappeared several days later in the Marshals' Quarters with a letter in an unfamiliar script: "Through the horns of the living are the dead remembered, and in the valleys beyond hear the call of their loved ones." It was most likely the work of Éomer King – perhaps a wordless rebuke of her unfamiliarity with Eorlingas funeral customs, in that offerings were not made within the hall of Meduseld itself – yet she appreciated the security it afforded her.
By the time she gained the stables, already a goodly portion of the Third Marshal's Riders had gathered, tacking up their mounts. They did not speak; news had spread rapidly, and indeed it was not unexpected. The others filtered in soon after, and the entire company was cantering through the main gates of Edoras before Prince Imrahil and his contingent had removed to Meduseld.
When they cleared the residences that had sprung up around the city's walls, the sea of plains grasses spread before them, glimmering golden in the late afternoon sun. Elfhelm's party could be spied far upon the horizon, making southward along the foothills of the White Mountains at a breakneck pace. Truva and her riders followed for a time before circling east toward the Entwash, spreading wide and combing great swaths of land. The tall, parched grass of late autumn would easily reveal signs of passage, particularly of Orcs bearing stolen goods, yet even as the sun began to descend toward the Gap of Rohan, the Riders encountered nothing save the expected indications of farming and other mundane activities.
As the Entwash became visible far off in the distance, Truva gave a short blast of her horn. Without need of further explanation, the party swept back toward Edoras, banking slightly northward to expand their search. They soon came upon the furthest hamlet on the outskirts of the capital, where Truva signalled for the Riders to deviate from their tracking pattern onto the single path that led through the humble dwellings. Villagers gathered about curiously.
"Be warned there has been an Orc attack upon travellers only yesterday," Truva spoke, her voice loud enough for all to hear. "We have discovered no sign of them, yet beware. Post guard this night, and any whose fear allows them no rest will find hospitality within Edoras. I request that you spread word to your neighbours."
"Aye, Marshal," the crowd replied. They dispersed at once to organise defences or make a swift trip to the nearest hamlet as the company rode on, repeating the same announcement in each village they came upon. The sun was fully below the peaks of Thrihyrne by the time Truva spied the walls of the city looming ahead.
"Secure the gates," she ordered the gatekeepers once her Riders were inside. "Allow access only through the postern to any evacuees, though I doubt they will come – far too often have such occurrences plagued us that they seem to have become complacent."
She had not so much as finished giving the command before the gates swung forward, shifted by a dozen bulky Riders. Just as the drawbar slid into place and Truva made to follow after her Riders toward the stables, Mǽgling bustled from the gatehouse.
"What have you to report?" Truva asked, dismounting from Roheryn.
"The watch has successfully been changed." The Captain spoke at an absurd speed, scarcely able to contain his zeal. "There were no lapses or misdeeds to report, and already another guard is preparing to replace the first. Typical two-hour shifts have been replaced with a single hour to maintain alertness. Those citizens who maintain businesses or dwellings just outside the city have all been evacuated to shelters within. There have been no sightings of Orcs, nor any other beings save a herd of wild horses."
"All is quiet, then," said Truva, though the Captain was anything but. "What of Éomer King and our guests?"
"They linger still in Meduseld, I believe," answered Mǽgling.
"I see. Your service has been exemplary in such untoward circumstances. You may retire from your post if you so wish."
"Then I bid you a good night, Marshal." Mǽgling bowed and disappeared into the dusk, almost assuredly in the direction of the nearest watch post to offer support. In that very moment, Truva turned to spy Gríma flying down the hill, black robes billowing behind him. He arrived at the gates breathless.
"Marshal!" he gasped. Even in the dark gloam of late evening, his concerned expression was apparent. "Come quick!"
"Whatever is the matter?" she asked.
"You had best see for yourself." He rushed back the way he had come, Truva and Roheryn close behind. "I was just applying blue vitriol to Firefoot – for he has come down with the nastiest case of hoof rot – when I heard the door burst open and the Lady throw herself upon the hay. She was sobbing something fierce, and so I went in search of Éomer King, yet he is still locked away with Imrahil Prince. That is when I encountered the Marshal's Riders, and after diverting them to the secondary stables I sought you out."
His explanation revealed very little, and so Truva slipped into the stables entirely uncertain of what to expect.
"In the third stall on the right," Gríma whispered, pointing. Truva trod forward to the empty stall Bron had once occupied. As she drew near, the gentle sound of sobbing became audible. Truva peered around the partition, only to discover elegant white silks and petite slippers protruding from deep amongst the stores of hay piled there.
"Princess?" Truva murmured, and with a gasp Lady Lothíriel sat up, her hands lowering to reveal eyes contorted by weeping. Even so, her beauty was ethereal.
"Marshal!" the Lady exclaimed, wiping away her tears. "I am so very sorry, you must think me the worst of guests."
"On the contrary, it is my great sorrow that you should find yourself so distressed in our company," Truva replied. She drew a kerchief from her tunic and passed it to Lady Lothíriel, whose overflowing tears could easily have warranted a second cloth; yet when Truva turned to ask one of Gríma, he had vanished without a word.
The Princess sat dabbing fruitlessly at her puffy cheeks in silence a while before Truva realised no explanation was forthcoming. "Perhaps you might elucidate on why you are hiding away in our stables, so hard upon your arrival?" she asked, though she felt instantaneous regret for her words, as they brought on a renewed bout of sobbing from Lady Lothíriel.
"My most sincere apologies," she cried. "I cannot fathom why I am so terribly distraught!"
"Milady, you were attacked by Orcs," said Truva, laying a soothing hand upon the Princess' forearm. "Many a seasoned warrior would not so easily overcome such a fright."
"Yes, I suppose so." Lady Lothíriel gave a gentle sniff, causing empathy to wring at Truva's heart as she recalled how frequently she had been shaken by an unexpected assault, in spite of all her training. Even those battles which she had faced straightforwardly and knowingly had caused her no small amount of distress.
"May I sit with you?" Truva asked, though when she indicated the space beside Lady Lothíriel, the Princess waved her hands frantically.
"I would not dare inconvenience one of your station!" she exclaimed.
"It is no inconvenience, milady, and you far outrank me as it is," said Truva, settling herself into the fragrant hay. She glanced about the stall, memories flooding back to her. "You are not the first to shed tears here."
Lady Lothíriel peered at her, curious, and when Truva nodded in confirmation she said, "You do not seem one to cry, Marshal."
"Not often, it is true," Truva conceded. "Yet it is no shame to weep. I have seen even the greatest of figures succumb to their emotions of late: Théoden King, as well as King Aragorn; I have heard even the Wizard Gandalf shed a tear upon learning the Holbytla Frodo Baggins succeeded in his task."
"They weep for far grander reasons than I," said Lady Lothíriel with another sniff. "Your reassurances only serve to exacerbate my shame!"
"Will you not tell me the reason?" Truva prompted. "You will find no judgement."
The Princess buried her face in the kerchief, black hair cascading about her shoulders. "It is nothing more than the offerings we brought to present before Éomer King at his coronation," she sobbed.
"Those that were thieved by the Orcs?"
"Even so," said Lady Lothíriel, raising her eyes to bore into Truva's. "Oh, Marshal! From the first moment I returned to the halls of Dol Amroth, I began a tapestry upon which I embroidered the scene I witnessed at the Field of Cormallen: golden culumalda blossoms, and the joy of the victorious Host of the West. For months I laboured upon each minute detail, yet now it is gone – lost either to flame or foe! And now we are to attend a coronation empty-handed in a flagrant breach of etiquette."
"I do not think Éomer King could possibly fault you, circumstances such as they are. Indeed, I am certain he would be deeply appreciative of the effort you have expended for his sake."
"And it is such compassion that flames my guilt all the more!"
Truva's mind raced. There was no hope of recovering the tapestry, even if it had survived the initial blaze, yet to procure an entirely new offering at such a late hour seemed an insurmountable task. Then a sudden idea struck her and she leapt to her feet.
"Come, Princess, do not dirty your dress so," she said, offering her hand to Lady Lothíriel, who accepted it hesitantly and with supreme grace, even in her perturbed state. "Perhaps there is hope for you yet!"
"In what way?" asked Lady Lothíriel, yet Truva was already making for the stable entrance. She spied Gríma lurking just outside and beckoned him near.
"Can I entrust Roheryn's care to you this evening?" she asked quietly.
"As ever, Marshal," said Gríma. "Thank you for coming so swiftly. I thought it best to maintain my distance from any significant personage, to maintain Éomer King's assurance that I mean no harm. I am also not so adept in affairs concerning unwieldy emotions."
Truva shook her head in disagreement. "There will come a day when we address the extremity of your atonement, my friend, yet it must wait until this matter is first resolved."
"If anything, I believe my penance to be insufficient, yet I will submit to your will." And with that the disgraced advisor disappeared into the stables to tend Roheryn. Truva hurried in the opposite direction, leading Lady Lothíriel along familiar pathways until she stood before the dwelling of Héodis and Éomód. Knocking but once, Truva entered without awaiting a response, in the way she had grown accustomed to after years of Héodis' insistence. The family of three looked up from their game of tabula, spread upon the floor before the fire.
"Truva!" Héodis exclaimed, on her feet in an instant. "I heard word of yet another Orc attack – I would have thought you'd be away tonight. Did you successfully clear out your barracks? The Dol Amrothinians' arrival came so swiftly I did not see your departure. And who might this be?" she asked, pausing her narration momentarily to peer around Truva at the tall, proud form of Lady Lothíriel.
"May I present the daughter of Imrahil Prince of Dol Amroth, Lothíriel Lady?" said Truva, speaking pointedly in Westron, for though Lady Lothíriel's expression betrayed no trace of confusion, surely Héodis' barrage of Eorling was incomprehensible to her. When Lady Lothíriel dipped ever so gracefully into a curtsy, her audience stared at this peculiar gesture. Truva rushed to introduce the family in turn:
"Milady, here reside Héodis, Éomód and their son Fulmod, of the House of Eofor." Both Éomód and Fulmod rose and bowed when their names were spoken, though they continued to gaze open-mouthed once they righted themselves.
"It is a great pleasure to meet you all," said Lady Lothíriel, her composure wholly returned. Not even Fulmod's soft gasp at her melodic voice evaded her attention as her eyes flickered to him briefly, then to each detail of the house, causing Héodis to shift uncomfortably. As frequently as the Eorlingas spoke of her abode with pride, the Princess' elegant bearing seemingly rendered everything in the vicinity inadequate.
"Would that we could offer you a more comfortable rest," said Héodis.
"Nothing of the sort," said Lady Lothíriel, a pleasant smile gracing her face. "I have lived all my life in the austere halls of Dol Amroth; I find your dwelling quite pleasant and inviting."
"I thank you for such considerate words," Héodis replied, her outgoing nature unusually subdued. "May I ask what brings you here, especially at such a time of night? Surely you are exhausted from your travels."
Truva drew Héodis to one side then, lowering her voice so that the others would not hear. "The offering Lady Lothíriel prepared for Éomer King's coronation vanished in the attack, and I fear it is irrecoverable. You ought to have seen her countenance a mere five minutes ago; you would have thought the Host of the West had lost the War for how distraught she appeared. Perhaps I recall incorrectly, yet did you not intend to construct a rug for the King?"
Héodis' eyes flew wide. "Yes, over the course of many, many months! It is nigh on impossible to create even the smallest, most simple of cloths in three days."
"Surely there is some way in which we could procure a small, emblematic token," Truva persisted. Héodis appeared thoughtful a moment, then her characteristic, steely determination glinted in her eyes. She turned and seized Lady Lothíriel's hand, ushering the Princess toward the door.
"Come, my dear," she said. "There is a loomshop to be conquered!"
The three women rushed along the streets of Edoras, Éomód having elected to remain behind with Fulmod. As they neared the market, Héodis darted along a side path by which they came upon a modest home, where she pounded upon the door without rest. After quite some time, it was opened by a dumpy, middle-aged woman garbed in nightgown and nightcap.
"Good evening, Dernrid," said Héodis. "Does your sister Derngyth happen to be home?"
The greengrocer squinted with bleary eyes at the trio. "Who is not home abed at this hour, disturbing my sleep so?" she grumbled.
"Would you be so kind as to fetch her?" said Héodis, thoroughly ignoring Dernrid's question. With an additional frown, the greengrocer withdrew into her home, only for a second woman to appear, whose age and matronly figure was precisely equivalent to that of her sister.
"What is all this commotion?" asked Derngyth, not even opening her eyes against the light of the lantern Truva held aloft.
"It is a dire emergency," Héodis declared. "I beg of you to meet us at your loomshop as soon as you are able – within the half hour."
"Whatever for?"
"If you see fit to return many a favour I have done for your sake, you will meet us there. Once we are gathered, all shall be made clear."
"Very well," said Derngyth. "It is far too late at night to object. I will do whatever it is you ask of me – but first I must change." With that, the sisters disappeared behind the door, leaving the three standing beyond. Lady Lothíriel looked on with particular consternation.
"I must admit I am not entirely certain what matter this is," she said, for indeed the sisters spoke not a word of the Common Tongue. "Yet if it is on my account you rouse these citizens from their beds, you needn't go to such lengths."
"On the contrary!" Héodis reassured the Princess, already marching off down the lane. "Not a moment is to be wasted."
Without any further word of clarification, Héodis raced through the streets of Edoras, the other two in tow. They made several similar stops, sometimes greeted by disgruntled husbands or confused younglings, barking dogs or maidens in elegant nightgowns. While those that had been abed often promised to rejoin the company after making themselves presentable, many others had not yet retired for the night, and so joined the trio at once. Their company was half a dozen strong before the heavily windowed loomshop came into view, where Derngyth and two other women had already convened. Lamplight poured in torrents onto the street.
"Gather 'round, friends," Héodis began the moment she set foot into the cottage, speaking in Eorling as not all of her audience was familiar with Westron. "Please welcome Lothíriel Lady, from the distant Gondorian realm of Dol Amroth. She was beset upon by Orcs along her journey – thus the commotion earlier, and Edoras coming under watch."
A gasp of sympathy went up amongst the women. Even in the years leading up to the War, these city dwellers had largely been spared the attacks that plagued the agricultural outer fringes of the Mark. In the throes of the War itself, they had been blessedly secluded away in Dunharrow – to imagine a lady coming face to face with so horrible a creature as an Orc! The mind shuddered to think.
"In the process, the offering Lady Lothíriel painstakingly prepared for our King by her own hand was lost," Héodis continued. "Yet such an occasion as Éomer King's coronation must not go unmarked, particularly by one so eminent as the Lady, and her efforts ought to be acknowledged. I propose we aid her in creating a substitution."
Sceptical whispering crept through the Eorlingas, yet before any of them had a chance to speak outright, Héodis charged on:
"It is certain we cannot construct a full tapestry in accordance with our expected standards before the coronation, yet I have gathered you here because you are the fastest, most skilled weavers in all of Edoras, and there are nearly a dozen looms within this shop; if we ply ourselves to their treadles day and night, then stitch a patchwork of smaller panels together, surely the result will be something worthy of being presented to our Éomer Lord."
The women brooded upon Héodis' arguments for a time. "It cannot be a pattern of any complexity," said Derngyth.
"We can work in shifts," added another. "And it will go all the faster if we bring in apprentices."
"We shall have to use the colours we have – there is no time for dying."
All at once, the loomshop was set abustle as the Eorlingas women darted to their tasks, whether wrapping warp or preparing bobbins or seeking out yarn. After several cycles of translation and a brief confusion over the appearance of culumalda – which no villager save Truva had ever seen – the weavers and Lady Lothíriel came to an agreement and began to trace a pattern upon the bare warps.
Wholly engrossed in their task, the weavers toiled throughout the night, their work lit by countless lamps. And so it was the bakers of Edoras rose early the following morning, surprised to discover they were not the first ones at their industry.
This is NOT the sequel to The Lady of the Rohirrim! It is merely the intended interlude I mentioned in the final author's notes of that series. It does, however, contain material relevant to the sequel.
It ALSO means I have (finally!) wrapped up the first rough draft of the sequel! The Marshal of the Mark currently sits at 230k words and 32 chapters. I hope to have it cleaned up sometime soon and begin posting almost immediately after the last chapter of The Coronation goes up.