Recommended listening: Glass, Sommerliv
The feast masters swiftly filtered in and began to draw tables away from the walls where they had been temporarily stored, aligning them in their typical formation. The onlookers were quick to array their seats about these tables, and a river of food and drink streamed in from the kitchens. Truva spied Héodis and Éomód staking claim to a table in the corner, yet no sooner had she begun to make her way toward her friends than she felt Elfhelm's hand at the crook of her elbow.
"No such freedom, I'm afraid," said the Marshal, gently retaining Truva at the dais. Already the head table had been brought forth, where Éomer King, Lady Éowyn, and all guests of honour settled themselves – though Lothíriel was nowhere to be seen. It was toward a secondary table, just to the side of the King's, where Elfhelm led Truva. They sat amongst Beáda and the other advisors, Mǽgling soon joining them.
When the diplomats' talk turned immediately to policy – particularly those topics which the advisors were far too stubborn to reconsider – Truva gratefully accepted a pint of ale from a serving master to mask her lack of involvement in the conversation. Warm chatter filled the hall, lending an ease to the atmosphere that had so recently been tense with anticipation. It felt as though the disquietude plaguing the Mark after the War had dissipated all at once, as though a step of forward progress had been made – perhaps the first since Truva's very coming to those lands.
Hunger sated by excitement, Truva contented herself with a serving of steamed cabbage and stewed beans, noting the selection was otherwise surprisingly limited. Absent was the large assortment of roasted meats (though the sheer variety of poultry dishes in its stead was no less impressive). Loaves of bread were few in number and replenishments were slow to emerge from the kitchens. Gregarious displays of exotic fruits and other delicacies had been replaced by those which could only be gathered locally in season, cut in elegant patterns to hide their spots. It was a feast, to be certain, but one with far fewer offerings than Truva had come to expect in years past – yet she felt no disappointment, for ever in the back of her mind were the food scraps of her youth.
Then, as she reached for the steamed potatoes, Truva cast a glance at the head table in time to spy Lothíriel mounting the steps of the dais. Already Éowyn had vanished into the crowds, as had Aragorn. The sons of Prince Imrahil were deep in discussion with their father, though their attention lapsed when they noticed their sister's approach; Erchirion gave a particularly puckish grin. But it was toward Éomer – his head bent in conversation with Gimli – the resplendent Lady of Dol Amroth made, gliding across the dais with gait ethereal.
Lothíriel knelt before the Eorlingas King, raven locks tumbling about her shoulders until her face was obscured to the hall. In her hands she held the magnificent tapestry, all the more glorious for the short time in which it had been prepared, its faults all the more endearing. Éomer King bade her rise immediately, taking the tapestry into his hands with indisputable reverence. Though the words they exchanged were not audible from Truva's position, the subtle tilt of the Lady's head as she took a seat beside Éomer, and the attention he paid in offering her a selection of fresh autumn fruit was apparent to any who cared to take notice.
As Truva looked upon the charming scene at the head table, she sensed a figure draw near, though she did not need to turn to know it was Aragorn; he alone could move so stealthily, yet with consideration for the unease nearly all the warriors now felt at being approached unexpectedly.
"Do you suppose I shall ever find one who loves me so deeply as that?" he whispered in her ear, nodding toward where Éomer examined the emerald tapestry. The King turned it first this way and then that, admiring the horsehead emblazoned upon it with golden thread, his eyes twinkling in delight. Lady Lothíriel scrutinised him as closely as he did the product of the weavers' labour.
"I believe you shall one day find a companion who loves you as deeply as an Eorlingas warrior loves his horse," Truva murmured in return.
"That is a grand promise, indeed," said Aragorn, taking a seat beside her at last.
"Yet a promise nevertheless." Truva turned to examine the Gondorian King in full, noting the knowing smile and the words unspoken, those written clearly in his eyes. Aragorn's gaze flitted over every idiosyncrasy of her face before he spoke again, voice so low as to not even risk being overheard.
"I have arranged for a rather oblivious yet circumspect messenger to serve as liaison between our two kingdoms," he said. "If it so please you, I shall be able to direct him to gather reports from both Éomer King and Second Marshal of the Mark without arousing suspicion."
Truva observed him scrupulously. "Reports which would relay only the most necessary items of state, surely?"
"It matters not what contents they relay, for no eyes save mine would read them." The beard that Aragorn had allowed to grow thick along his jaw twitched with a smile, yet Truva was unconvinced.
"And you would return these reports?" she whispered.
"As frequently as you send them."
"You once charged our beloved Marshal with secret dealings," boomed the voice of Éomer King directly behind, causing them both to start in their seats. A brief glance revealed only Gimli and Elphir now sat at the head table. "You denounced her for partaking in whispered conversations and the exchange of letters – and now you would do the very same, in my own halls, on the day of my coronation?" Éomer's tone feigned accusation, yet the twinkle in his eye belied any suggestion of displeasure.
Truva stuttered in surprise, yet Aragorn was swift to regain his composure. "For no other reason save I, too, have come over time to appreciate her loyalty and discretion. I find the observations of officers from varying ranks to be indispensable, for they often make note of things too trifling for a king's attention."
"Verily, and the observations of each of our officers are ever at your disposal, my Lord Aragorn," said Éomer. "Though I wish to assure you there is no matter too inconsequential that you may not bring it to me."
"Well I know it, and offer like in return." Aragorn raised his chalice of wine, and all those within the vicinity toasted to the newly crowned Eorlingas King.
When the hubbub had subsided and the audience returned to their various conversations, Éomer set his own drinking horn down upon the table. "With regard to your proposed line of communication, I believe it will lend itself splendidly to developments long in coming," he said as he laid a hand upon the shoulders of Elfhelm and Mǽgling, who were engrossed in playing with a gangly deerhound pup.
"And what might those developments be?" asked Aragorn.
"It is time we begin to resettle the Folde," answered Éomer, his voice dropping so low Truva strained to hear it. "There are simply insufficient resources to sustain throughout the winter all those who fled to Edoras during the War. We must encourage as many as possible to relocate to the east and west – now, while there are yet days long and warm enough to construct settlements and sow what crops might emerge in winter, or early in spring."
"None will want to venture far from the capital, or the defences," said Elfhelm. "Fear still reigns in their mind."
"And so it should," said Éomer. "Let them linger close to Hornburg and Aldburg, but impress upon them the need to live off the land and not the aid of the capital. More distant farmlands can only be established come spring if we survive the winter first."
"You mean to reinstate the Marshals' residence in the Folde," Elfhelm stated flatly. Perhaps he was equally as unenthusiastic as Truva to leave the comforts of Edoras.
"Yes," said Éomer, his voice returning to a more natural volume. "Though I would not have you separated from me just yet, Elfhelm. The First Marshal ought to remain in the capital, to guide new recruits and advise me in this transitory period."
It was nearly imperceptible, yet Truva caught the sigh of relief Elfhelm loosed. "What of the other Marshals, milord?" he asked.
"Mǽgling I will send west to the quieter sector, for he is yet inexperienced – Erkenbrand might be persuaded to guide the Third Marshal in his management of Hornburg," said Éomer. Mǽgling positively beamed at this suggestion, seemingly too enthused for words. Truva's heart sank.
"And I am to go east, to Aldburg," she concluded, only scarcely keeping her tone even.
"That is where your prowess is needed most." The way in which Éomer looked upon her then spoke volumes. Sheer necessity guided his decisions; personal desires had to be set aside.
"I understand, my King," Truva said. Éomer laid a comforting hand upon her shoulder.
"And in such a position, you will lie directly between Edoras and Mundburg, and thus comprise a portion of the line of communication between us. Then you may freely continue your treasonous whisperings which you had begun earlier."
Truva opened her mouth to protest this mischaracterisation – no matter how humorously it was intended – but Aragorn preempted her. "May your horsemen only ever bear blessed news along this road during your reign."
"Such optimism is unlikely to find its counterpart in reality, yet I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless," said Éomer, taking up his glass once more and raising it in a quiet toast amongst the three, for already Elfhelm and Mǽgling had turned and begun eagerly discussing their new assignments.
"I ask that you forgive me for speaking so promptly on such topics, and bringing rain clouds to a sunny day," Éomer continued. "By rights, I ought to have reserved this discussion for counsel some days from now, yet it is my understanding the presence of our august Gondorian King is limited."
"That is correct," Aragorn confirmed.
Truva turned to stare at him. "But you have only just arrived!" she exclaimed.
"As you know, Gimli and the Dwarves of Glǽmscrafu have offered to aid in the reconstruction of Minas Tirith," said Éomer. "They kindly delayed the development of their own citadel in favour of ensuring the southern defences remain capable of warding off any potential threat."
"And I shall go with them when they come from the Glittering Caves," said Aragorn.
"What of the delegation from Dol Amroth?" asked Truva breathlessly, attempting to mask her surprise.
"They will linger a while longer," said Éomer. "For they have come from further afar, and greatly desire to learn much of the Mark and its people."
Truva cast about for the questions that were expected of her. "When do you anticipate the Dwarves' arrival?"
"Who can say?" Aragorn shrugged. "They abide by their own time in the darkness of their subterranean dwellings – though I imagine it shall be soon, for I very much doubt they would be so discourteous as to fail in offering obeisance to their newly crowned neighbour – not after he bestowed upon them such a benevolent gift as the Caves."
"I would ask that you and your company ride with them as far as Aldburg," said Éomer to Truva. "Begin preparations for winter there; the town is little more than an outpost these days, and it must be readied for a great many more residents than its current handful of Riders."
"Very well, milord," said Truva. "I will inform the others." She stood from her seat, yielding it to Éomer as he sank into conversation with Aragorn. Truva was thankful for the opportunity to excuse herself from their presence, for the announcement of the visitors' sudden departure had caught her entirely off guard. She was able to hide her stuttering breath within the ebb and flow of the feast.
Gamhelm provided her with an excellent distraction, drawing her in for a toast and jovial conversation. Gódring soon joined the two, and a series of intensely competitive tæfl games broke out, inviting a crowd of observers, bettors, and participants. Several foreign dignitaries tried their hand at the games; and though he had almost no familiarity with the rules, Elphir proved adept at strategy, winning several rounds against the Eorlingas' most renowned players.
During the spirited contest, Truva relayed to Gamhelm and Gódring the news. Unlike their Marshal, the two warmly welcomed the transfer to Aldburg; to them it was merely the next venture, a new home in the string of residences they would inhabit as military leaders. As she watched the captains chatter excitedly, occasionally challenging and losing to Elphir, Truva longed to be as blithe as they – and at last she understood Éomer's comment about wherever she might find home to be.
Politely declining Elphir's offer of a tæfl round, Truva instead sought out Héodis and Éomód, who remained tucked quietly into a corner near the main doors.
"Truva!" Fulmod called when he saw her approach. "I made this for Lady Lothíriel. Do you think she will like it?" He thrust forth a bouquet of needle-bound flowers: iris and delphinium, orchid and daffodil tumbled from his fingers, eternally unwilting.
"They are even more lovely than she," Truva smiled, inspecting the bouquet and feigning a sniff.
"How dare you say such things! Lady Lothíriel is the most beautiful being I have ever laid eyes upon!" declared Fulmod, snatching the bouquet away and darting off to present his gift to the Lady in question herself.
"It seems his skills are numerous," Truva remarked as she took a seat upon the bench beside Héodis.
"Fulomd's abilities in the kitchen far exceed those with the shepherd's hook, yet he rejects anything associated with the labours of his parents – whether it be cooking or horses," sighed Éomód. "Though he is ever in the stables when I am engaged."
"He is headstrong and quick-witted," said Truva, pushing to the back of her mind the dearth of opportunities afforded her in her own childhood. "He will do as he pleases, and hopefully find one day that what he pleases earns him coin."
"One can only hope," said Éomód. In silence, they filled each other's cups and passed a tray of sliced apples from hand to hand, though Héodis' gaze soon came to fix quite intensely upon Truva.
"You've been assigned to Aldburg, haven't you?" she said, discernment sharp as ever.
Truva forced a smile to allay her friends' concern. "I have," she said. "I am to initiate a migration to the Eastfold and reestablish the settlement there before winter sets in."
"When do you depart?" Éomód pressed.
"I do not know," answered Truva. "I fear it shall be far sooner rather than later; the Dwarves are said to come anon from Glǽmscrafu, and I am expected to accompany them as far as the fortress."
"Aldburg is not so far from Edoras," said Héodis, taking up Truva's hand in her own. "Surely you will not be long absent from the capitol. And I shall be thankful for the excuse to refresh my memory of letters; we have rather fallen out of the habit of sending notes ever since— in the past year."
"I will happily welcome any cheer you deign to send me," said Truva, her smile now genuine.
In that very moment, the minstrels struck up a merry jig, and the entire hall leapt into motion. Tables and benches were once more relegated to the sides as the open space was flooded with revellers, tripping and leaping in dance. Seeing her friends' feet tap to the lilting notes of the tabor pipe, Truva ushered them off, only to have a tankard of ale thrust into her face.
"I hear you're not one for dancing," said Gimli, taking Éomód's newly vacated seat across from her. "We've not much in common, I imagine, but I suppose that's one."
Truva accepted the tankard and raised it in toast. "And how do you find your new residence?"
"I cannot think of a more wondrous and fitting place for Dwarves than – how do you horselords call it? – Glǽmscrafu. Already I imagine many generations delving into its caverns and passageways, crafting the most excellent structures in reflection of and complement to the Caves' natural beauty."
"We are thankful to find ourselves neighbours to such a steadfast community," said Truva diplomatically. She cast about desperately for any question she might ask; conversation did not flow naturally with the Dwarf – for though they had grown to be amicable, still they were not companionable. They were at last rescued by Elfhelm who, equally unfond of dancing, came to challenge Gimli to a game of tæfl.
Song followed song, game followed game, tankard after tankard, and so the celebrations of the Eorlingas and their guests extended deep into the night. All were happy participants in what they hoped to be a lifetime event. The moon cast its wan light against the window panes of Meduseld, drowned out by the unfading blaze within until the moon, too, was outlasted by the revellers.
Truva's mind grew hazy from sleepiness and ale, yet even in the wee hours of the night (or perhaps early morning), Éomer King had still not retired. Though no custom dictated such, Truva felt it respectable for his departure to precede hers. Truva looked to the others: Elfhelm continued to struggle in earning back his coin lost at tæfl, and Mǽgling sat wedged between a bench and the wall, entirely lost to the world. Even Beáda, the most wizened of advisors, had not succumbed to tiredness and sat in quiet counsel with the others.
It was Héodis and Éomód who sought to depart first, with the intention of putting Fulmod to bed – much to the youngster's chagrin – when a low hum could be heard from the doors opened by their exit. It was faint at first, scarcely detectable over the minstrels' song, but as the hall fell hushed and instruments were lowered, it grew more distinct.
Aragorn was the first to his feet, striding toward the entrance. Éomer was close behind, as were Truva and Elfhelm and the King's advisors, tumbling down the steps onto the path beyond. The entire congregation poured forth from Meduseld, the hum growing louder all the while. Gradually it could be discerned as a song, its words incomprehensible – for it was neither the language of the Eorlingas, nor was it Westron.
The Eorlingas and guests came as a wave upon the main gate. They ascended to the battlements and looked out into the darkness where there stood, amidst constellations of bonfires and torches that illuminated celebrations beyond the walls of Edoras, a company of Dwarves.
"'Tis the coronation song of the House of Durin," came Gimli's voice as he huffed up the steps in their wake. "Never has it been heard by any outside of the Longbeards. They sing for you, Éomer Dwarf-friend."
The King closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Truva allowed the low vibrations to rumble through her chest as the Dwarves' voices eddied and swirled in the heady autumn night air. Their song was the sound of the very earth itself, the depths of caverns and the pulse of rock and root. Surely the Dwarves sang for only a brief while, yet it felt as though their notes encompassed all of eternity, and when the hum faded away, the silence that followed was heavier and more poignant even than the music that had preceded it.
"My most heartfelt thanks," spoke Éomer, but before he had an opportunity to continue, the Dwarves faded into the crowd of villagers who stood about, listening in awe. The visitors were gone just as swiftly as they had come.
Gimli was the first to disturb the pensive mood, clapping the tall Eorlingas King on the elbow. "Your gratitude is warmly noted," said he. "Now come, let's indulge in one final nightcap before I depart on the morn!"
"Will your brethren not dine with us?" Éomer asked. "Ought we not to send them food from our tables?"
"I do not wish to bring unexpected guests down upon your feast," said Gimli as the party filed down from the battlements. "We Dwarves are not near so voracious as the Hobbits, yet we would still eat you out of a winter's worth of salted pork, and that would not do."
As the revellers ascended back toward Meduseld, Truva exchanged a glance with Elfhelm, who wove through the stream of onlookers until he was at her side. "I suppose that means you're off, then," he remarked.
Truva nodded shortly. "I had best go pack."
"It will be nice to have the Marshals' Quarters to myself at last," he quipped, giving an amused huff and tossing his head back to gaze at the brilliant stars.
"I'll not return too often, as not to disturb your privacy."
"No need to go to such lengths for my comfort," he laughed. "We shall miss you, after all, and I suppose I could endure the occasional invasion of the Quarters in order to have your presence among us again."
"I will return when Éomer King's orders call for me, and no sooner."
"Ever the soldier." Elfhelm gave a brief wave before following after the main company. Truva deviated instead toward the training ground, and when Gamhelm and Gódring fell in beside her they did not speak a word, for none were needed. In silence they gathered only their most essential belongings, assembling with the remainder of the Marshal's Riders in the stables a mere hour later as the first haze of dawn threatened to emerge over the eastern horizon.
They did not ride, instead leading their mounts by the reins along the path toward the main gates of the city where Truva spied Éomer, Aragorn, Gimli and Imrahil clustered together in hushed conversation.
"Go well, Second Marshal of Rohan," said the Lord of Dol Amroth when the Riders drew near. "It brings me great joy that our reunion was not upon the field of battle, but rather the resplendent fields of your homeland."
"May you discover even greater joy upon further exploration of those fields," Truva replied.
"I am certain I shall," said the Prince with an affable smile. "My daughter likewise offers her greetings, though she is yet abed – I rather fear her indulgences were not modest during the celebrations last evening, nor those of my sons."
"It would be the mark of a poor host were it otherwise. Please be sure to pause a while in Aldburg when you do choose to return southward; Lady Lothíriel may extend her personal greeting then."
"I anticipate we shall be reunited ere too long," said Imrahil.
"In the meantime," Éomer cut in, "see to it that our eastern flank is once again reestablished to its fullest possible strength. When settlers have been sufficiently gathered to warrant an escort, I will send word."
"Your summons shall be eagerly awaited," said Truva, bowing low.
A roguish grin spread across the Eorlingas King's visage. "Or perhaps you will grow overly fond of Aldburg and not wish to return, if even for a moment."
"My greatest desire is to be wherever I can best serve you, milord," said Trurva. "Whether that be Aldburg, Edoras, or elsewhere."
"And from Minas Tirith comes the service of the Gondorians," Aragorn interjected. He was not so discourteous as to reveal his impatience, yet Truva could sense it simmering beneath the surface – in part because she herself was unfond of protracted goodbyes.
"You have also the service of my people," added Gimli.
"And though we be but distant neighbours, Dol Amroth's support shall ever be unwavering," said Imrahil.
"Bright does the future look in which those who harbour good in their breast come together in harmony," said Éomer, clasping his brethren upon the shoulder. With a final series of bows and parting words, those who made for Aldburg took their leave of those who would remain behind in Edoras. Horns sounded as Truva and her small band strode through the gate, yet the company had disappeared from view before the notes had died away.
As they made their way through the provisional city beyond the walls of Edoras, some revellers still sat drinking at tables beneath awnings while others slept propped up against unsteady hut walls. More than one Eorlingas called out in greeting to Truva or the Riders, while others stared at the stately Gondorian King and his Dwarvish companion. Unsettled by such scrutiny, each member of the party was glad to gain the outskirts of town and turn southward upon the Great Road.
There, settled into a shallow dip in the grasslands, sat the company of Dwarves who had appeared quite unexpectedly the night before. These reclusive visitors did not waste a moment, for already their packs were upon their backs; when they spied Truva and the others, they stood as one and fell in behind Gimli. With a wordless gesture, Truva ordered Gamhelm to take the lead beside Aragorn while she fell back to the rear guard with half of the Marshal's Riders.
The pace was slow, for the Dwarves had no need of haste. In the half-light of dawn, they appeared stony-faced and unwilling to make conversation, for which Truva was thankful. Gamhelm and Gódring alone chatted animatedly at the head of the column, but otherwise a taciturn mood settled over the company as they made their way along the dusty Road.
Truva set Roheryn loose, allowing him to amble at his own pace – grazing all the while – until he discovered he had fallen behind and trotted to catch up. Aside from the pony's antics, there was little else to occupy her; even as the sun seeped its warmth across the land, her unceasing scans of the horizon disclosed nothing of concern, and each Rider she sent scouting afield returned with further confirmation that Elfhelm Marshal's party had truly flushed the area of any threat.
The company stopped quite early for lunch, though there were few complaints to be heard from the Riders. Just as silently as they had begun their journey, the Dwarves sat and pulled waybread and dried beef from their packs, which they kindly offered to their Eorlingas companions. When the Riders presented leek pies in return, the Dwarves politely accepted them, but set the pastries aside; not one could be seen indulging in the renowned Eorlingas delicacy.
Even as she watched this exchange, Gódring returned from his patrol and immediately set upon his own noon meal. Nodding to Gamhelm to indicate she would go in his stead, Truva summoned Roheryn with a whistle and mounted up, turning southward to scout further along their path.
"Wait!" Aragorn called after her. Truva halted at once and turned to see the Gondorian King mounting up on Shadowfax. "I will accompany you."
Truva delayed momentarily, allowing him to draw even before she continued on. They rode a time in silence, eventually breaking toward the White Mountains, where the greater potential for enemy cover lay in the craggy foothills. Not until they were certainly beyond hearing did Truva speak.
"Do you not think two leaders scouting simultaneously will strike any as odd?" she asked, her eyes surveying a ridgeline midway up the mountain of Ealhwít.
"If any care to take note, I imagine they will dismiss it as the two most restless members going about a necessary duty, and be thankful the task did not fall to them," said Aragorn as he diverted toward a thicket of gorse. "And our remaining time together is not long; I am thankful for any time spent in your company."
Truva repressed a smile. "As am I," she reassured him. "Though the journey to Aldburg ordinarily takes little more than a day. At our current pace, I would be astonished if we arrived before late tomorrow evening."
"Most likely noontide the day after. As I said, not long." He circled Shadowfax back around to where Truva sat upon Roheryn. Her scrutiny finally diverted from the tree line and fell upon Aragorn, who appeared the reflection of her own sorrow. In his discerning look she saw he already knew the words she wished to say, but also that she wished to say them anyway.
"I shall miss you," Truva whispered. "I do not question myself so thoroughly when you are by my side; I feel as though my position has purpose, as though it has not merely come to me by unfortunate happenstance."
Aragorn nudged Shadowfax forward, drawing even nearer to Roheryn. "And I shall miss you, and the assurance you give me in each and every decision. In my youth I thought myself indomitable, as though each challenge was placed before me for the sheer purpose of being overcome; yet to watch the world dissolve around me, and feel as though I could do nothing to stop it…"
His gaze fell to his hands, which gripped Shadowfax's reigns with such ferocity the knuckles blanched. Truva bent far over Roheryn to take those hands into her own. "It was your decisions that realised our victory upon those fields of battle," she assured him.
Aragorn turned his grey eyes upon her, their chill belying the passion that lay beneath. Leaning in, he closed the remaining distance between their horses. "And you will write?" he murmured.
"As frequently as your own 'reports' – more perhaps, for I've the tim—"
Truva had not finished speaking before Aragorn swept a palm across her cheek, lowering his head to draw her in for a kiss. She sensed desperation in the rough press of his lips, the desire for solace, the despondency of knowing they were soon to be parted once more; she knew not whether they were his sentiments, or her own.
When their lips parted, Aragorn released a sharp sigh, though his fingers lingered upon Truva's face, brushing along each of her features in turn. "And I shall miss touching you, for it is only then that I can know you are tangible, and real, and not some fabrication of my imagination."
"Then take my first letter," said Truva, drawing from beneath her tunic a note she had hastily penned in the brief time she had to prepare the night before. "Perhaps it will serve as some small testament to my existence."
Aragorn stared a moment at the paper she held out to him, too astonished to accept it. He pulled her back in for another kiss before ultimately taking the letter in hand and tucking it beneath his own tunic.
"Come now, the others are sure to be waiting," Truva said then, urging Roheryn forward. Indeed, when she and Aragorn returned to the company, the Riders had already finished their meal and stood about with their horses. The Dwarves still had not taken so much as a single bite of their pies, and several disappeared into rucksacks or horses' mouths, though the Eorlingas feigned not to notice.
The company renewed its leisurely pace along the Road, and the afternoon proved equally as uneventful as the morning had been. Townspeople who had warmly greeted Aragorn on his journey toward Edoras once again amassed to witness the passing of such a motley band of travellers. Many hung back upon spying the mass of surly Dwarves, however – that is, until the company came upon the third settlement.
Truva and the others passed through the heart of the village, exchanging no more than the perfunctory greetings with the residents who stood clustered together, staring. Yet even as the company made for the outskirts of town, a young girl darted forward with a basket of purple asters.
She first offered one to Aragorn with a mumbled, "Milord," averting her eyes shyly. Gimli was next to receive a periwinkle blossom. Then, before either could so much as thank the girl, she began to weave through the ranks of Dwarves, offering each a flower in turn. Nor were the Eorlingas exempt (or their horses), yet when the girl stood at last before Truva, still there were a good many stems in her basket.
These she gathered in her hands and, extricating a ribbon from one of her braids, tied them into a nosegay. "For you, Marshal," she declared, her voice strong and assured.
"Thank you," said Truva, accepting the flowers. Then, in a split moment, the girl leapt forward and wrapped her arms about Truva's waist. With equal suddenness, she raced back to the crowd and buried her face in her mother's skirts, refusing to look as the company set out once more. Only at the last moment did she turn to wave goodbye, a gesture the Eorlingas enthusiastically returned. Even a handful of Dwarves joined in.
It was well before dark – and beyond sight of any settlement – when Gimli diverted from the Road and bore toward the White Mountains. Confused, Truva made her way toward the head of the column.
"What is the meaning of this?" she asked. "Do you intend to take a brief rest for evening before continuing on into the night? Why do we deviate so far from our path?"
Gimli pointed off toward a rocky outcrop in the distance. "We Dwarves do not like to sleep in the open, and much prefer stony defences. Though last night's open field sleeping arrangements were unavoidable – as we had no knowledge of the precise time of departure – I was still subject to a great many complaints from my brethren. I do not wish to hear such protestations two nights running."
"If we pass by this secure position, who is to say when we will come upon another?" Aragorn added, the corners of his lips ever so slightly upturned.
Truva pursed her lips but did not argue. She was as eager to gain Aldburg as she was loath to part from Aragorn, and as the Dwarf's expression brooked no argument, Truva resigned herself to their early retirement. The company swiftly settled in for the evening, lighting small fires to ward off late autumn's encroaching chill. Far fewer pies were shared, though the Dwarves were still generous with their own fare.
Observing these peculiarities as she tucked into her own modest meal beside Aragorn and Gimli, Truva asked, "Pardon my asking, but do Dwarves not eat pies?"
"Vegetables, Marshal," said Gimli. "We're not overly fond of vegetables. Most like pies well enough, but prefer to stuff them with tender beef or pork, and only as many carrots as absolutely necessary; then wash them down with a pint of ale and a hearty word of thanks!"
Truva surprised herself by giving a short chuckle. "I think you'll find yourself in agreeance with many Eorlingas in that regard."
"There are a reasonable few amongst you lot, to be sure." Gimli leaned back against a grassy hummock and pulled out his pipe contentedly. Truva stretched out as well, her eyes tracking movement throughout camp as Riders executed their duties. Night had quickly fallen about them; Truva struggled to rest, for the comfort she had learned to take in being outdoors was now tempered by the War. Her heart raced as memories of sitting about camp upon the eve of battle choked her mind and set her hands trembling.
Folding her arms across her chest to hide the tremors, Truva propped her back against a small boulder and closed her eyes. The image of sleeping forms in the Grey Wood before the attack on Mundburg immediately arose in her mind and would not dissipate no matter how she strove to waft it away. A feeling of disconcertion burgeoning in the depths of her stomach, Truva rose and approached the bulky form of Blackbramble, yet he did not stir when she gently shook his shoulders. The figures surrounding her were eerily still; there were so, so many of them, stretching endlessly into the darkness across the shale fields of the Black Gate – the Grey Wood had vanished entirely. Then in front of Truva arose a small hillock with an immense boulder upon it: Bron's grave.
Truva fell to her knees and laid a hand upon the stone, eyes already awash in tears, only to leap up in terror at the sound of shifting shale. From behind the grave lumbered a tremendous Gorgoroth Troll – the very same that had eviscerated Bron, moving with lighting speed. Truva felt as though she were submerged in a jar of ageing honey, limbs thrashing sluggishly, paralyzed by indecision whether to fight or flee. The Troll wrapped its talons about her arms and torso with ease, squeezing her lungs as she struggled to inhale viscous air—
"Marshal, Marshal!" Gamhelm whispered urgently, hands clutched vice-like about her elbows. "You'll wake the whole camp!"
Truva sucked in a desperate gasp, the cool night breeze jolting her into wakefulness. After several panicked moments of confusion, her breathing evened and her racing heart slowed. She patted Gamhelm's hands thankfully and he released her, though even in the feeble light of the fire's dying embers she could see his expression remained deeply concerned.
"Thank you," she croaked by way of reassurance.
"It's your turn for watch," said Gamhelm warily. "Though perhaps I'd better rouse Gódring instead."
"No, some activity with purpose will do me good," Truva answered. "Now get some rest."
Gamhelm hesitated, but Truva shooed him away. With a final uncertain glance back over his shoulder, the captain sought out his pack and tucked in for the remainder of the night. Truva rose and made a wide circuit about camp, ultimately taking a position just below the lip of the rocky outcrop Gimli had so carefully selected.
Not a quarter hour had gone by before the gentle rustle of movement caused Truva to leap – senses heightened from her nightmare as they were – but in the very next instant she recognised the steady, sure pace. Aragorn's figure emerged in the dark to wordlessly take a place beside her, and together they passed the remainder of morning watch in silence, each comforted by the mere presence of the other.
The second day passed perhaps even more unremarkably than the first, for the hamlets petered out and disappeared, leaving the company to progress without event. Scouts returned throughout the day with nothing to report, and come evening the Dwarves were eager to pitch camp just as swiftly as they had the previous night.
In contrast with the company's untroubled atmosphere, however, Truva's unease only increased. She knew not what tasks awaited her and the Marshal's Riders at Aldburg, yet it was a definitive destination, and she longed to gain it; the dawdling pace of their current journey frustrated her. Determined to make her unruly agitation useful, Truva moved to take first watch as the others sat down to their evening meal, but Gamhelm caught her by the arm.
"You took morning watch, and scarcely slept the night prior, Marshal," he said. "Let the lads keep us safe tonight."
"I shan't sleep, as it is," Truva countered. "They can rest."
"Nay, Marshal, I've something that might be of aid to you," Gimli interrupted. Setting aside his waybread, he dug around in his rucksack and extricated a leather pouch.
"I thank you, but I do not smoke," said Truva politely. This only caused the Dwarf to chuckle.
"'Tis not pipe-weed, lass," he said, pulling spidery tendrils from the pouch. "Nothing save simple valerian root. Brew it strong enough and your sleep is sure to be dreamless."
"What if I am unable to wake, should some misfortune befall us in the night?"
"Were it that effective, my rest would have been far better these past few months," he muttered, as if to himself. Truva caught the hint of a frown through the thick mass of his beard. Startled, she observed the Dwarf carefully. She knew of her own struggles, and had spoken – albeit however briefly – of such things with Aragorn and a select few Eorlingas; yet Gimli had always appeared steadfast to her, unperturbed by the emotional upheaval of Man. What she saw before her now was a glimpse of the stalwart Dwarf was not as insouciant as he would have others believe.
Truva accepted the mug of tea with a word of thanks when it was offered her, and drank its bitter warmth down all at once – for the Eorlingas were notoriously unfond of herbal drinks. It did not immediately lull her into sleep, but when she settled into the grassy tussock of her makeshift bed, Truva's heartbeat did not accelerate uncomfortably and her mind did not succumb to overwhelming thoughts. The quiet rustle of the company soothed her; she did not notice when it fell away, and when she awoke seemingly in the next moment, it was in actuality the following morning. As Gimli promised, she had been subject to no night terrors, and her body felt mildly refreshed as she stretched each limb in turn.
When Truva stood, a small object fell from her lap to the ground. Bending to pick it up, she discovered it was the pouch of dried valerian root, the leather embossed with incomprehensible Dwarvish runes and tied with a thin string.
"Don't go drinking it all at once, now," said Gimli, appearing behind her. "Make a single mug only when you need it most, otherwise it'll come to be no more helpful than drinking hot water."
"I shall keep that in mind," said Truva, tucking the pouch into her rucksack. "Thank you."
Gimli gave a short nod and noncommittal grunt before stomping off after Aragorn, who was already forging a path back toward the Great Road for the day's travels, followed by a string of Dwarves and Riders. The sun was still only four fingers above the horizon when a forward scout returned looking particularly pleased.
"You'd best keep a sharp eye, Marshal," he said. "We'll be at our destination before too long." Even as he spoke, the modest spires of Aldburg appeared from behind a rocky promontory, bleak and foreboding. What few dwellings remained along the road all showed signs of abandonment. No residents came to greet the company as they had outside Edoras.
Intimately aware the peculiar composition of their company could be cause of concern – regardless of how widespread knowledge of the Glittering Caves' new residents was – Truva raised the Horn of the House of Éofor and signalled their approach. From the gates came the answering call. The company pressed on.
Just as Aragorn had predicted, it was noontide before they drew even to the Burg. With a cursory wave to those they had escorted, Gamhelm and Gódring led the Eorlingas through the gates of Aldburg and into the bailey. Silent as ever, the Dwarves merely returned a nod before continuing on without so much as a pause. Aragorn and Gimli alone lingered to speak with Truva.
Gimli eyed the Burg's dilapidated battlements and its ramshackle surroundings. "Perhaps my people ought to return here after we have completed construction at Minas Tirith," he remarked. "Aldburg is, after all, the secondary defence of Glǽmscrafu – following the White City."
"I am certain Éomer King would eagerly welcome any pretext by which he might strengthen relations between the Mark and her new neighbours," Truva replied. "I fear my Riders and I did not prove to be the best of company upon your journey."
"It was but two days," said Gimli. "There are yet ages in which the cantankerous Longbeards might be coaxed from their shell. In the meantime, I wish you the best of luck – for I believe you shall need it."
"And may you be met with equal fortunes, Gimli Lord of Glǽmscrafu," said Truva. The use of this title seemed to please the Dwarf, for he marched off after his kinsman, smile visible even behind his beard.
Aragorn and Truva stood in his wake, neither moving closer to the other, intimately aware of several guards peering down from the wall. The two commanders' eyes roamed from their grazing mounts to the Dwarves' departing figures, from the bobbing heads of yarrow and chicory blossoms to their own hands gripping sword pommels – everywhere save upon each other, for neither wished to begin. To begin meant to part.
It was Aragorn who at last broke the silence, saying, "It is at such times, when I wish most desperately to speak upon the depths of my heart and mind, that my words fail me."
Truva smiled ruefully. "Conversely, I have never been particularly adroit with regard to speech in any situation." Aragorn's fingers twitched; a nearly imperceptible indication of the desire to reach out, to hold. Instead, he withdrew a neatly folded paper from the breast of his tunic.
"As I cannot speak the words, perhaps you will read them instead." At last his gaze fixed upon Truva, boring into her with an intensity the Eorlingas' honeyed eyes could never achieve. Truva's breath came sharp.
"When did you have time to prepare such a thing?" she asked, heart soaring.
"Last night, as you lay asleep." Aragorn held out the letter, yet when Truva reached out to take it into her hands, he did not immediately release it. "It now falls to you to send the first letter upon our parting."
Truva's eyes flickered up to meet his squarely. "You have my promise," she whispered.
"And you mine." Aragorn allowed the paper to slip through his fingers at last, though his hand hung in the air before falling to his side. He hesitated but a moment longer, then turned to follow Gimli and the others without a word; to speak of goodbyes was too definitive, too agonising.
Truva stood unmoving before the gates of Aldburg until the last vestiges of the Ranger disappeared into the land.