Recommended listening: Tedeschi, Suite for harp, violin and cello
Throughout the first night of their craftwork, Truva's offers of aid were soundly rejected by Héodis and the other weavers. In spite of her insistence, her ability to provisionally stitch up a wounded soldier in the field was of no use to them, and a hindrance rather. And so Truva instead found other ways to lend succour: she orchestrated meals and brought a constant stream of refreshments.
To Lady Lothíriel herself Truva devoted a great deal of effort in convincing to rest, which proved the most difficult task of all. Touched by their efforts, the Lady did not wish to abandon the Eorlingas to their work. Indeed, the elegance of her own weaving proved unparalleled – though she was a great deal slower than the craftswomen, and her pace flagged as she grew increasingly exhausted. It was only by invoking the name of Éomer King, and the devastation he would surely endure should one of his honoured guests succumb to illness while under his hospitality, that the princess retired in the wee hours of the morning.
Once Lady Lothíriel had been escorted to the chambers set aside for her especial use, Truva consumed a hasty breakfast and sent word to the Third Marshal's Riders to assemble in the stables at top speed. Dawn was just beginning to filter through into the stables when she arrived, swiftly followed by the others.
"Apologies, today shall be a far longer ride," said Truva as they tacked up. "We must cover the same southern loop as yesterday before pushing northward to ensure the Orcs did not evade our main defences in that region."
Not a grumble was heard from the Riders as they mounted up and rode from the city at a pace far more relaxed than it had been the day prior. Their task was made all the easier for the visibility of the morning sun and being unpressed for time. Anxious for news of the Orcs' whereabouts, Truva stopped to confer with the villagers at each settlement and with Riders out on standard patrol, only for her inquiries to come up empty. It could not be said where the Orcs had vanished to, yet it appeared that they had well and truly vanished.
No sooner had the Marshal's Riders made their way back to Edoras that evening – once again just before dark – than Mǽgling dashed from his post. He wore a grin even more exaggerated than his typical expression, and many of his blond tresses came undone from their braids as he bounded about. Truva prepared for another onslaught of unremarkable details regarding the city's activity, but before she could request his report the Captain blurted out:
"Marshal, the Lady Éowyn has arrived!" he exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. A smile to match Mǽgling's own blossomed on Truva's face, yet her response was metered.
"Thank you for informing me," she said. "Has she been here long?"
"The hour has not yet passed! You may find her in Meduseld, together with Éomer King and the Dol Amrothinians – though there is another in their midst; perhaps you might surmise who?"
Truva's heart leapt. "Aragorn King?"
"No, Marshal," said Mǽgling, shaking his head. "The King it seems still lingers in Gondor. No, it is none other than Gimli, come from Glǽmscrafu – though he is unaccompanied by his brethren."
"Very well." Truva strove to keep her expression impassive. "Have you anything else to report?"
"Nothing of any significance, Marshal."
Truva made as if to turn, then paused momentarily and laid a hand upon Mǽgling's shoulder. "I feel a tremendous sense of reassurance knowing it is you who commands the troops when both Elfhelm Marshal and I are away, Captain. I do not think any other would devote so great attention to the security and wellbeing of our people."
Mǽgling placed his own hand atop Truva's, reduced to speechlessness at last. With a final pat, Truva passed Roheryn's reins to the nearest Marshal's Rider and made toward Meduseld. When the doorwarden gave her entrance, she slipped into the sparsely lit hall, where several parties sat at various tables for a simple evening meal. Truva greeted the first cluster of advisors with a bow, yet even as she turned to the royal table, Éowyn was already on her feet.
"Truva!" the shieldmaiden cried from across the hall. Éowyn appeared as if swathed in a golden aura, glowing in the dim shadows of the hall, radiant features all the more beautiful for her long absence. Truva rushed to embrace her.
"Oh, Éowyn! How well you look."
"And yet you appear as though you have spent more hours on patrol than in the mess hall, or in your bed," said Gimli, giving a nod of acknowledgement from his seat.
Éowyn nodded in agreement, holding Truva at arm's length. "How is it that you have grown even more gaunt since the War?" she chided.
"My duties have kept me busy," said Truva with a wan smile. "Elfhelm Marshal has similarly taken on a rather haggard air; even amongst the gilt tresses of our illustrious Éomer King have a few additional strands of silver sprouted."
The Eorlingas King laughed over Éowyn's shoulder. "It is true," said he. "Though the affairs of the Mark are far less tumultuous than they have been in years of late, still there is a never-ending parade of worries. Thin bellies and grey hairs are inescapable, it seems."
"Never fear, milord," said Prince Imrahil, whose own grey hairs were distinct amongst his dark locks. "You join an august company."
"That company also includes my dear Faramir, who has likewise aged considerably in a short span of time," said Éowyn, retaking her seat. Truva joined her, gratefully accepting a still-steaming loaf of bread.
"Has Lord Faramir sent no word of Aragorn's movements?" Gimli asked. "Though I had high hopes of seeing my friend sooner, it seems unwarranted for the Steward to remain behind should the King have no intention of travelling abroad."
"You would know as well as I," said Éowyn as she cut Truva several thick slices of slipcote cheese. "I have heard nothing since departing Ithilien – save that King Aragorn lingers still in the White City."
"I doubt his intentions are known, even to himself," Prince Imrhil laughed.
"Lord Faramir's absence aside, it is well to see you again," said Truva to Éowyn. "And you, Gimli Glóin's son. How fared you on your journeys?"
"We are well and truly neighbours, now that my people have begun exploration of the Glittering Caves," said the Dwarf. "And thus it was a delightful traipse across safeguarded lands that brought me to your doorstep."
"My passage was likewise uneventful, though I heard the Great Road has not been so quiet of late," said Éowyn with a nod to the Dol Amrothinians. Elphir's hand hovered above his cheek, where the laceration stood stark against his pale skin.
"And I trust all is well in Ithilien?" Éomer King asked of his sister.
"We have established a small settlement just south of Osgiliath, and work to construct a more permanent burg there," Éowyn began, and thus the happy company continued to exchange news of their realms as they broke their bread, elated to be reunited under such auspicious circumstances. As the evening wore on, however, Truva noted that Lady Lothíriel, seated between her brothers, began to grow somewhat restless. She did not engage in conversation as the others did, and her eyes continually shifted between Éomer King and the doors of Meduseld.
Her hunger sated, Truva exchanged a glance with the King before rising. "As delightful as this conversation has been, I must ask that you all be so kind as to excuse me, for I must make my nightly rounds."
"I will join you!" said Lady Lothíriel, leaping to her feet. Her exuberance clearly roused the suspicions of those seated about the table.
"Whatever for?" asked Erchirion, bereft of any hint of circumspection due to his youth. "What business has a Lady going about nightly rounds?"
"Our time in Edoras is limited; I wish to make the most of it, and learn all that I can about the Eorlingas and their way of life ere we return south," said Lady Lothíriel – for despite being several years younger than her brother, she possessed a great deal more prudence.
Erchirion paused a moment in thoughtful contemplation before standing, as well. "You make a convincing argument, sister," he said. "I will join you in a turn about the city."
"No!" Lothíriel exclaimed, to the great surprise of all save Truva. Glancing frantically about at the curious faces turned toward her, she added, "Do you not wish to rest a while longer, to discuss politic amongst the elders?"
"I think I would greatly enjoy a stroll, especially following such a hearty meal. Ever since our arrival, the elders' talk has been nothing but a repetition of the same unchanging circumstances – I do not think there is anything to be gained but vexation." This raised several eyebrows.
"I think I will join you, as well," Éowyn added.
Truva gave a furtive shrug toward Lady Lothíriel and began to make her way toward the doors of Meduseld. With a resigned sigh Lothíriel followed, joined by their unanticipated companions. No sooner had they exited onto the terrace than Truva turned sharply left, making for the kitchens with the others in tow.
"Are we not making rounds?" asked Erchirion.
"No," was Truva's simple answer. The others lingered outside as she ducked into the kitchens, which were a bustle of activity despite the late hour in order to provide for the influx of guests who had come for the coronation. Immediately upon spying Truva, the King's Chef retrieved a tray piled high with pies, fruit, and several carafes of wine from the corner.
"I know not why you continue to make such peculiar requests," he said, passing the supplies to Truva. "Yet if the Marshal wills it, so shall I prepare it."
"Your generosity is tremendously appreciated."
"You protect the city, I feed it," said the Chef with a wink, yet in the next moment Truva was gone, striding down the pathway with the tray balanced upon her head. Rather than continuing to follow, however, Erchirion stopped dead in the middle of the street.
"What is the meaning of all this?" he exclaimed. "Not going on rounds? An entire ship crew's worth of rations? There is something odd afoot, and you offer only the hint of secrets as explanation."
Sensing no other alternative, Lady Lothíriel relented at last; dark lashes fluttered against alabaster cheeks as her gaze fell to the ground. She chose to address Éowyn before fully answering Erchirion.
"As you have heard, Lady Éowyn," she said, "our caravan came under attack a short distance from Edoras, resulting in the complete ruin or theft of all our supplies – including those offerings we had intended to present at King Éomer's coronation; yet what even my brother is unaware of is that – amongst those offerings – was a gift of my own creation."
Éowyn reached out to lay a sympathetic hand upon the Princess' arm, though Erchirion's confusion only deepend. "I still do not understand," he said.
"Marshal Truva took it upon herself to recruit a warmhearted friend, who in turn gathered a bevy of Eorlingas weavers to create some nominal token that could be offered in my own creation's stead – though I do believe it is already far grander than the term 'nominal' indicates, and is indeed a veritable work of art."
"Is that where you were, all those hours you were not in our company?" asked Erchirion, astounded. Lothíriel nodded gravely in response. "What a splendid notion! In truth, I was feeling wholly downtrodden to arrive at a coronation empty-handed, yet now we might feel no shame!"
He drew his sister's arm into his and strode off in the vague direction they had been headed. Truva and Éowyn exchanged a significant glance as they followed behind, amused by the young Prince's oblivious yet good-natured spirit.
They soon found themselves in Derngyth's cosy manufactory, warmly greeted by weavers eager for refreshments. Lady Lothíriel swiftly relieved one woman at the loom furthest from the fire, and once Éowyn gained an understanding of their plan, she too took the place of a weaver.
All atwitter over their handsome foreign guest, the cluster of Eorlingas explained their process to Erchirion, guiding him to each portion of the tapestry with many wild gesticulations and Truva's occasional assistance. Their chatter mingled with the steady rhythm of looms to cast a lulling spell over the scene, and so Truva settled herself into a corner; fires warded against the biting autumn chill of night, and exhaustion soon washed over her, dragging her into its insensate depths.
A new shift of weavers was hard at work by the time Truva awoke the following morning, sitting bolt upright in a panic before she recognised her surroundings. When she stumbled blinking onto the paths of the city, she was immediately met with an atmosphere entirely changed from that of ordinary times. The coronation was not until the following day, yet already a great many revellers had descended upon the city: troubadours and acrobats, conjurers, jesters and mummers all cavorted about the streets, sending strains of music or play upward upon the air. A sense of joviality permeated the scene, and so Truva was all the more rueful for summoning the Marshal's Riders to their duties. Nevertheless, it was with good spirits that they gathered within the stables.
"I've already lightened Elfhelm Marshal's purse ten coins at knucklebones," boasted Gamhelm, Truva's second in command, as they descended the hill toward the gates.
"Ach, you're sure to regret that come training!" countered another Rider who went by the name of Gódring.
"Will you abstain from the wrestling tournament again, Truva Marshal? The lads are beginning to talk – they think you're afraid of losing."
Truva smiled at Gamhelm's attempt to goad her into participating. "The tournament is inherently unfair," she said. "I ought to allow others the possibility of victory."
Motivated by their banter, the company rode out into the rolling hills of the north one last time. Hamlets along the Great Road all had as little to report as the previous day – not least of all because the villagers' numbers were far fewer; any capable of laying aside their work for a brief time had already removed to Edoras for the coronation.
Their morning having proven uneventful, the Riders circled around the eastern reaches of the capital before drifting southward as the sun shifted toward the Gap of Rohan. They were just sitting down to a lunch of bread and cold cuts when Gamhelm sent up a cry from a nearby hilltop. All thought of lunch immediately forgotten, the remaining Riders scrambled up to the crest to join their Captain. There, flying along the Road from the south at a headlong pace, was a single horseman.
"What can you make of it?" Truva asked, her vision far inferior to even the most ordinary of Eorlingas.
"It does not appear to be an Orc," Gamhelm replied.
"Nor one of our own," added Gódring. "And he wears not the livery of Dol Amroth. His mantle obscures his features."
"I suppose we shall have to delay our luncheon, then," said Truva. "Let us ride out to meet this mysterious traveller."
Yet even as she spoke these words, Truva's heart lilted, for she suspected the traveller was not mysterious at all. After a brief calculation, she guided the Marshal's Riders on a direct path to intercept this horseman, taking cover from the natural contours of the land. When they drew within sounding distance, Truva ascended a rocky prominence and raised her horn to her lips. Hearing its blast, the horseman diverted his course toward the Company, yet before he could come close enough to distinguish each Rider, Truva cried out a greeting:
"Milord, these lands are not safe to traverse unaccompanied, even for one such as yourself."
The horseman pulled up his mount and threw back his hood, revealing he was none other than Aragorn. "Éomer King keeps as tight a watch over the Mark as his father did," he called in return.
"Tighter, perhaps," Truva answered, allowing a smile to overtake her face. When they drew nigh, the two clasped arms as Marshal and King. "Well met, milord."
"And you, Marshal."
"Tell me, did you encounter no obstacle along the way?" asked Gamhelm. "The delegation from Dol Amroth were waylaid by an unfortunate brush with marauding Orcs – hence the very reason we ride patrol now, rather than make merry in Edoras."
"I saw the offending party in the distance," said Aragorn. "Yet even as I contemplated giving chase, I spied Marshal Elfhelm and his company upon the horizon. It was fortunate timing, for the Orcs' numbers were too great to confront alone, and I would have in all likelihood spent a fortnight picking them off one by one, and thus arrived late to the coronation."
"It would not do to insult Éomer King so," said Gódring.
"Aye, it would not, and so I make with all haste to the capital of Rohan," said Aragorn. Truva was certain she caught the hint of a gleam in his eye.
"Even if Elfhelm Marshal pursues one band of Orcs, there is no certainty another does not roam without our knowledge," she said. "And while the patrol cannot be abandoned, I cannot allow such a noble personage to traverse our lands unescorted. Gamhelm?"
"Yes, Marshal?"
"See to it that the last remaining stretches of the inner perimeter give no indication of Orc activity. I will accompany the King as far as Edoras."
"With pleasure!" Gamhelm gave a sharp whistle and turned his mount about, retaking the path the company had been following before they encountered Aragorn. In mere moments, the Riders were visible only when they crested the tallest of hills. Aragorn and Truva guided their horses toward the Great Road and took off at a swift pace. When at last Gamhelm and the others had faded entirely from view, however, Aragorn brought Shadowfax to a halt and dismounted.
"Whatever is the matter?" Truva asked in panic, following suit. "Have you spied Orcs?"
Before she could finish her question, Aragorn wrapped her in his arms, pulling her tight to his chest as though they had been parted for several lifetimes, not mere months. Truva felt the pounding of his heart against her chest, and held him even tighter with her own embrace. Then Aragorn drew back, but only slightly, and pressed his lips to hers with fierce passion.
When their lips parted, he rested his forehead against hers. "Oh, how I have missed you," he breathed.
"And I, you," said Truva. For a moment, they were content to stand clasped in each other's arms, the corporeal world fading into unheeded nonexistence. Each new inhalation washed peace over Truva's worn spirit and applied a healing salve to wounds she had forgotten existed, having grown accustomed to them in the days following the War. She sensed Aragorn, too, bore dreadful burdens weighing heavily in his mind.
The reluctance with which Aragorn extricated himself was palpable. "Come, let us press on," he said. "I have no unexpectedly troubling news to convey, yet I would prefer to speak with King Éomer this night, and not darken the glorious day that is to be his official ascension to the throne."
"There is also another dear friend who awaits you in Edoras," Truva added. "Not a full day has passed since Gimli has come from the Glittering Caves."
"Then let us make swifter than haste, and arrive all the sooner," said Aragorn, with a disarming smile.
With one final kiss, they mounted up and continued along the Great Road. Yet in spite of their intentions they were waylaid at each village they came upon, for word of their passing somehow spread even faster than their progress, and residents clustered about roadsides in hopes of catching sight of the esteemed Gondorian King. Nor was Aragorn willing to dismiss their curiosity, greeting each in turn and accepting their flowers and other offerings; indeed, he devoted so much time to the Eorlingas villagers that it was a harried dash to reach the gates of Edoras before nightfall.
A clamour of fanfare rose up to greet Aragorn as he rode through the high archway, and throngs of citizens and visitors alike gathered to witness his arrival. Éomer King stood at their forefront, flanked by the delegations from Dol Amroth and Ithilien. Truva spied Gamhelm amongst the crowd – the Marshal's Rangers being able to move far more swiftly without a foreign dignitary amongst their number – and they exchanged a quick nod even as Éomer King stepped forward.
"Brother!" he cried, and he and Aragorn embraced as if true brethren by blood. "When Imrahil Prince spoke of your remaining behind in Mundburg, I feared some grave situation detained you, and you would find yourself unable to join us."
"How saddened I am to discover you think so little of me, that I would be absent on such a propitious day!" jested Aragorn. "I consider any pretence by which I might return to your hospitable halls a welcome one."
"It is our own good fortune that sees you come into our midst. Let us adjourn and share a draught of ale, and perhaps a story or two – for though our time apart has been brief, a great many events have transpired in that time."
In that very moment, Gimli burst from the crowd. "Aragorn!" he cried, rushing to embrace his dear companion. Banter between the two sprang up at once, and so the party ascended toward Meduseld, joined by a great many minstrels whose strains of ballads and reels picked up before they even gained the hall. A troupe of acrobats was likewise eager to perform, and they bounded up the trail to set the stage as swiftly as possible. Éomer King and his cohort were welcomed into Meduseld with a tidal wave of spectacle, and though it was a simple meal they dined upon, the ale and wine were free-flowing, as was the conversation.
"Seeing as you travelled in our Marshal's care, I trust the road held no peril for you?" Éomer asked of Aragorn as he filled the Gondorian's wine chalice.
"None at all," said Aragorn. The most surreptitious of smiles pulled at the corners of his eyes as he glanced briefly at Truva.
"Aragorn King spoke of having spied Elfhelm Marshal bearing down upon the Orcish raiding party," she added. "If all goes well, I expect the Marshal shall return upon the morrow."
"They set out in numbers enough," said Éomer King. "Let us hope we shall be so fortunate – I would not have our most prominent Marshal miss the coronation. And what was it that delayed your coming, Aragorn Lord? Nothing so disagreeable as Orcs, I hope?"
"No, no, though our outskirts have not gone unassailed," Aragorn reassured him. "It seems the Orcish forces that fled east following their defeat at Morannon have not fared terribly well; we have discovered them sneaking about as far south as Osgiliath, stealing food and causing chaos as they might."
"And so it is with us," said Truva. "Their sorties into our lands are not frequent, but often enough to be troublesome."
"I am afraid what drives them is a dilemma we ourselves are not immune to," Aragorn sighed. "The ravaging of Pelennor Fields means Gondor must be particularly resourceful with regard to our food supply come this winter. That is the matter that delayed me: little more than bookkeeping."
Éomer shifted in his seat, seemingly quite eager to change the subject. "And how goes the reconstruction? I hear you have enlisted the succour of the greatest artisans in Middle Earth!"
Gimli beamed to hear his skills described thus. "Proposals have been made based on my own assessment of the damage done, but it will not be until we return to Minas Tirith itself that any conclusive strategy can be devised."
"And Legolas is yet away in the north," said Aragorn. "It will take some time ere proper restoration can begin in earnest."
And so it went, guests and hosts alike discussing the varying states of destruction their lands were in, and the challenges they faced in the wake of the War, and the small joys too. Content to do no more than listen, Truva allowed the conversation to flow around her, soothed by its eddies and currents. The music caught her in its flow, as well, for it was as lively as the leaders' discourse was sombre, and the acrobats' astonishing feats provided much-needed levity.
When one minstrel's particularly farcical attempt to replicate the inverted hand-walking of an acrobat diverted the company's attention, Truva noted Lady Lothíriel stealing furtively from the table. The Princess sent her a fleeting glance and, when Truva responded with a twitch of the corner of her mouth, slipped out of the hall otherwise unnoticed. Yet Truva was not inclined to follow and sit helplessly in the stifling loomshop that evening; for she was entranced by Aragorn's recounting of his days as Ranger in the north, and by each gesture of his hands, and the murmur of his voice as he told of news he had gleaned regarding the Holbytlas' recovery in Rivendell.
Finding herself suddenly sleepy, Truva took up residence upon a chaise near one of the fires. Holde the wolfhound came and laid his heavy head upon her lap, and with his wiry fur beneath her fingers, Truva's awareness of the surrounding antics faded. Even as the conversation grew louder and the wine flowed faster, her eyes fluttered until sleep wholly overtook her. Surrounded by those who radiated assurance and security, the slumber Truva succumbed to gave unto her a restfulness that had been absent in her nights of late.
It was not a nightmare that awoke her, and indeed Truva could not be certain she was even awake in the wee hours of the night. Only the beams of the moon streamed in through the windows of Meduseld, for the torches had long been extinguished and the fireplace embers had fallen so low they cast no light.
Or perhaps Truva dreamed of the Hornburg infirmary, for a hazy visage floated before her eyes as it had all those months ago, following her encounter with the fellbeast. Warmth enveloped her, warding against the chill of night that had overtaken the hall. Truva drew the blanket to her chin before failing to resist the allure of sleep once more.
When she next opened her eyes, the wan light of dawn cast a soft pallor over the disarrayed tables and chairs. The hall otherwise lay undisturbed – all save Aragorn, who sat at a table just beside Truva, regarding her thoughtfully.
"Good morn." His voice was hushed even in the quietude, for he was clearly reluctant to break the peaceful spell that lay upon the scene.
"And to you," Truva mumbled in response, sleep still thick on her voice. She sat up and examined the blanket in her hands, then quickly glanced about.
"Did you linger the whole night in this frigid, uncomfortable hall?"
"I passed a brief while in a certain loomshop, observing the final, frantic rush to complete a rather peculiar coronation offering – but otherwise, yes."
Truva's heart stuttered to think Aragorn had watched over her, as he had at Hornburg. "Is it not improper for us to be alone and unaccompanied? Someone might see and discover the truth of things."
"As far as all others are aware, I departed Meduseld in the revellers' company yesterday evening." Though his face appeared impassive, Truva had learned to discern the slightest hints of his mood: the minute creasing at the corner of one eye, or the twitch of a muscle in one cheek. "And now, I am but breaking a simple fast. Surely none can fault me for that?"
"Indeed, they cannot," said Truva with a sheepish smile. She rose from the chaise and took the seat across from him. Aragorn extended a pear to her, then pushed a jar of clotted cream across the table. It was a simple breakfast, and they were soon joined by the golden sunlight of progressing morn and the caretakers of Meduseld as they built the fires back up, righted the tables and chairs, and gave the hall one final cursory sweep.
Then the earliest of diners arrived, shattering the stillness that enshrouded Truva and Aragorn. The King's advisors and inner circle came in ones and twos, then threes and fives as the enthusiasm for such an auspicious day roused even the most lethargic of residents from their slumber. They filled the hall with their chatter and laughter, the gentle strains of music filtering through the scene as ever it had in the past several days.
"Perhaps I can interest you in a brief examination of Edoras' expanded defences, milord," said Truva, when the atmosphere in Meduseld offered not a breath of peace.
"Gladly," he said, relief apparent in his response. As he and Truva exited the hall, each advisor they passed leapt to his feet, bowing. Once the doors were closed, Truva sighed heavily and began to lead Aragorn toward the newly-established eastern garrison.
"Does it never unsettle you, the way in which your every movement is noted by others?" she asked of Aragorn as a trio of captains drew aside to allow them to pass. "Is the unfaltering deference not taxing?"
"At times," he admitted. "Even so, I have had many years to grow accustomed to the expectations placed upon me; it was but this summer I became King in name, yet long did I guide the Rangers of the North, and come to understand my purpose of reuniting the sundered kingdoms, and taking my place as the leader of its people."
"Would that I possessed your assurance," said Truva ruefully. "You are a grand and glorious King, your destiny writ by blood and birth, whereas my own advancement was swift, no more than the result of circumstances in battle. I cannot help but feel the Eorlingas' respect is misplaced; that it is not me but Éofa – or any other – who ought to be Marshal in my stead."
Her gaze dropped to the earthen path and the dust that her feet scuffed up to coat the cloth of her boots. "And my greatest worry is that these sentiments will never subside."
Aragorn drew near, though he dared not display any overt affection. "Éofa is gone," he said, his voice hushed. "And though you never intended to become a leader, that is by no means an indication you lack the capabilities of serving your people well. Doubt is ever present in the mind of all: from the humblest farmhand to the most eminent of kings. It is not something that must necessarily be shunned – so long as you do not allow it to cloud your judgement."
Truva fell silent. Where the border between reasonable uncertainty and that which interfered with her ability to execute her duties lay, she could not even begin to suppose.
Their arrival at the garrison served as a welcome distraction, and Truva seized the opportunity to devote the entirety of her focus to the newly improved battlements, the reconfigured gate system, and Elfhelm's particularly clever development for embrasure shape – the man himself greeting them with unbridled enthusiasm as they neared the guardhouse.
"There you are!" cried Elfhelm. "Truva Marshal, why do you dally here? Have you not heard? Héodis has been searching for you half the morn!" His admonishment delivered, Elfhelm turned quite suddenly to Aragorn and added, "Salutations on this glorious day, milord!"
"Good morn," Aragorn replied with a great deal more reserve than the boisterous Marshal.
"For what purpose does Héodis seek me?" Truva asked.
"I know not – some business regarding the coronation, I suppose," said Elfhelm.
"I see. Where might I find her?"
"Marshal's Quarters, in all likelihood." Elfhelm's answer was distracted, for his full attention was focused upon Aragorn. "Have you seen the floor we have installed in the gatehouse, milord, which runs above the path? It is most cunningly constructed…" he began, motioning for the King to follow as he took over Truva's duty and left her in their wake. Aragorn glanced back once, and Truva gave a sympathetic smile in response before retreating up the hill with a sigh.
The streets were chaotic with revellers, and tremendous garlands of anemone and aster had been strung up overnight, criss-crossing overhead or swooping from door frame to rooftop. Petals fluttered down upon the wind like springtime snow, catching in Truva's hair and piling up in corners. She filled her lungs with the earthy scent off the plains; it was both unchanged and an eternity away from the welcoming fragrance she recalled from a year ago.
The Marshals' Quarters were empty when Truva entered, as they so often were in recent days. One bunk bed was shoved in a corner, a single bed in the other. Truva's trunk sat at the foot of the latter, where Éomód and Elfhelm had placed it. Though she had passed several days in residence, the trunk remained untouched. Upon the bed lay a neatly folded pile of burgundy fabric.
Ignoring the dress, Truva paced to the window and propped open the screen to allow fresh air to fill the stifling room. She supposed there was a time in the Mark's history when the Quarters were occupied by a singular Marshal as intended, yet it had never been so ever since Truva's arrival in Edoras. Théodred and Éomer had occupied the barracks in those days, for it had been believed the Dunlendings proved the Mark's greatest threat – thus the western defences had been redoubled and the eastern defences at Aldburg left skeletal. But how wrong they had been! And now only Truva and Elfhelm remained.
Surely one of them would be sent eastward soon. Elfhelm, as the highest ranking Marshal, would almost certainly remain in the capital – or perhaps Éomer King would determine such expertise was most needed in the Eastfold. A smile threatened to surface on Truva's face at the prospect of remaining in Edoras in Elfhelm's stead, only to dissipate under the notion that the Muster was still short one commander; any newly appointed Marshal was most likely to remain under Éomer's watchful guidance.
Truva pondered the enigmatic strength of Hornburg, for it was at once both reassuring and terrifying. Though the Fords of Isen featured most prominently in her nightmares – the darkness, the helplessness, the first taking of a soul, the image of Théodred's lifeless body ever present at the foggy border of slumber – the Hornburg was also the frequent cause of her midnight wanderings. Only the open and unfamiliar lands of Aldburg and the Eastfold terrified Truva more.
"No purpose in fretting over what lies beyond control," she murmured to herself.
"What nonsense is this now?" said a voice behind her, and Truva spun around to spy Héodis mounting the rickety wooden steps of the barracks. It was only then that Truva recalled her original task.
"Ah, Héodis! I was just on my way to find you."
The woman gave a good-natured harrumph. "On your way, Helm would laugh! You look as though you have slept in the stables again."
Truva cast about desperately to avoid discussing where she had spent the previous night. "Why do you seek me so desperately?"
"The ceremony is mere hours away, my friend." Héodis strode over to Truva's bed and took a seat on the floor before it, her back to the frame. She was already dressed in her most entrancing blue frock. "I would ask that you braid my hair."
"I beg your pardon?" asked Truva, taken aback. While it could be said that she was adept at braiding, the results were typically utilitarian and unbecoming. On such occasions, it was always Truva who sat upon the floor as Héodis' fingers wove elegant patterns.
"I would ask that you braid my hair," Héodis repeated, each word slow and intentional. Truva hesitated only a short moment longer.
"Very well," she said, taking a place upon the bed behind Héodis, who produced a comb and handed it to her. Truva began the task of dividing Héodis' thick golden locks with methodical accuracy, attempting to recall the patterns she had seen Héodis and other Eorlingas women employ.
"Is it not strange to lodge with a man?" Héodis asked with a nod to Elfhelm's bunk. Truva glanced toward the Marshal's immaculate corner of the barracks.
"It is not so strange as you would think," she answered. "In this space I am not a woman, and Elfhelm is not a man; we are but Marshals, executing our duties. We have slept beneath the stars together while on campaign, after all, and have seen each other in battle, when we are at our most base." She paused, a gentle sigh slipping from her lips. "It all seems so inconsequential now."
Héodis' attempt at discussion stuttered to a swift halt. In the following silence, Truva unravelled the mess that had begun to form and started again. Feeling guilty for having brought gloom to their conversation, she attempted to strike it up again. "Where is Fulmod?" she asked.
"Off with Éomód again, I suspect," Héodis answered. "I can never find him when I need him these days – yet when he is most likely to be bothersome, there he is, underfoot!"
"Even so, it seems he has grown somewhat less willful of late," Truva said in Fulmod's defence, though she immediately sensed she had misspoken, for Héodis' shoulders tensed and she grew quite still.
"I think Éomód's absence proved too much for him to bear," she whispered. "Particularly the second parting; for it was following the muster at Dunharrow his behaviour altered so dramatically. And then to have news of our victory, but not know whether Éomód himself had lived or— And Éofa—"
As Héodis inhaled several sharp breaths to steady herself, Truva laid a hand upon her shoulder, fighting her own surge of emotions. Oftentimes the misery of her experiences felt isolating, overwhelming, yet there was the occasional flicker of a reminder she was not alone in her grief. None had gone unaffected by the War; it was an insurmountable force, always drawing them back to that which they so desperately wished to leave behind.
The two women sat in silence a while as Truva's fingers resumed their work. A band of troubadours passed, their music growing louder then gradually fading. Truva mulled over several topics of conversation, certain there must be at least one that would not lead directly to shadow.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, startling Héodis. "How fares the tapestry? Will it be completed, do you suppose?"
"They were weaving in the warp threads when I left this morn," said Héodis, her enthusiasm returning.
"That is great fortune for Lady Lothíriel," said Truva. "She was in such a pitiable state when I found her."
"I have yet to see her anything save composed, yet there was an air of agitation about her this morning – though perhaps it is an affectation of the inhabitants of Dol Amroth," Héodis began, proceeding to detail the Princess' peculiar reactions. And so their lighthearted gossip traipsed from one topic to another as some semblance of braids gradually emerged, after which Héodis insisted upon returning the favour. The disquiet Truva had felt earlier fell away, as Truva suspected was Héodis' intention all along, and it was with a much lighter heart she donned the burgundy dress.
Then, just as a tower bell sounded, Elfhelm Marshal burst through the door. "Come, Marshal! Our King summons us."