Author's recommended listening: Dvořák, Symphony No. 9 in E minor
CHAPTER II: FIRST DAYS OF FREEDOM
The next morning, Truva was roused by a rough prodding. She was certain it had been but a few moments since she had fallen asleep, yet dawn tinged purple the mountains in the east. Truva lifted her head, though her body screamed in revolt when it struggled to follow. Every single fibre of muscle in her lower body was aflame with excruciating pain.
Her prodder, the Riders' leader, wordlessly handed her a whole biscuit and a waterskin, then went off to attend to his duties. Truva longed to enjoy her first breakfast of freedom as slowly as possible, though the fear of being caught preoccupied when they broke camp was much stronger. She consumed the biscuit with alacrity and was licking the last few crumbs off her fingers when the leader returned.
"Have you ever ridden a horse?" he asked.
"No, my lord," said Truva, not wishing to reveal that it was only on the very rare occasion she had so much as seen a horse, let alone touched one. Slaves riding horses? It was laughable! And yet she was startled when the leader did indeed let out a brazen, sonorous laugh.
"Why do you laugh?" Truva asked, entirely confused and rather hurt.
"Why do you call me 'my lord?'" he replied.
"That is what the other rider called you, is it not?"
"That is correct," said the leader with a smile, then offered his hand to help her to her feet, though Truva knew the outstretched hand of another not to be a sign of help, but a threat rather. She struggled to her feet on her own, and though the leader looked on in bewilderment, he then led her to the tree where the mount he himself had ridden yesterday was already saddled, and gave the creature a fond slap. "Let us see if we cannot get you on this boy."
"I can run on my own feet; I do not wish to be a burden," Truva said, eyeing the horse with apprehension. Though it was true she did not wish to cause undue difficulty to these Men, the more pressing issue on her mind was that, while horses did not outright scare her, they certainly made her uneasy.
"Yesterday must have been terribly trying for you; therefore, you shall ride today, and I will run. In riding, you will learn that your body can hurt in wholly unfamiliar ways," the leader chuckled. "We shall alternate in this way from here on out, for it will speed our progress."
"I have never ridden a horse before," was the only excuse Truva could conjure.
"As you said," laughed the leader, though gentler than before. He guided her to the horse's head, and allowed the creature to sniff and tickle her hand with his whiskers before leading Truva toward the saddle. "This is Firefoot, my steadfast Mearas; he will bear you loyally. Put your foot in the stirrup, right there, yes. I will lift you on the count of three; simply swing your back leg to the other side."
Truva's entire body tensed when the leader made as if to lift her, yet his earlier offered hand had clearly been a friendly overture, and in truth Truva was in desperate need of assistance; for there was not sufficient strength in her legs to mount without his aid, and she would have certainly slid back off had he not braced her. Once perched in the saddle, Truva clung with all her might, knees clamped trembling against the beast's sides. Firefoot shifted beneath her, causing her weight to sway this way and that, and Truva felt certain she would fall at any moment.
"Now take hold of the reins," said the leader, easing her white-knuckled hands from their deathly grip on the pommel and placing in them the leather straps. "Do not pull too tight – allow him to lead. Firefoot is a gentleman of good manner, and will serve you well. Simply remain in the midst of the company and he shan't lead you astray."
The other Riders looked dubiously upon the scene that played out before them as they packed their things into saddlebags and mounted up.
"Are you sure you wish to do this, my lord?" the second Rider said to the leader quietly.
Rather than respond, the leader instead turned to Truva and said, "This is Éofa, my cousin."
"I wish the conditions of our meeting were fairer," said Truva.
"As do I," said Éofa, then paused before adding, "Yet we still do not know your name."
"I am Truva." Silence and anticipation hung over the listening Riders, as though they were waiting for her to say more.
"Have you— have you no other names?" Éofa asked.
"Have I need of any other names?" Truva asked. "I know no father or mother, nor have I any rank or respectable trade, and I hail from a place I do not acknowledge as my own; I do not know of any other names by which I might refer to myself. Ergo, I ask again: have I need of any other names?"
"I suppose there is no need," Éofa admitted.
"Let us ride out," the leader called to the group, effectively ending the unsettling conversation, and the riders took to the road one by one.
"What of you, my lord?" Truva asked the leader as he jogged along beside, seemingly unperturbed by any aspect of the situation. "What is your name?"
"You may call me 'my lord,' for it pleases me," he said with a smile.
The entire day passed in much the same way as the afternoon prior. It eased Truva's guilt to see the leader unbothered by the exertion of running, for she was quite convinced that she would not have been able to endure another day on foot. Nor was riding a far improvement at first – for not being firmly on ground made Truva uneasy – yet true to the leader's words, the horse Firefoot proved dependable. Over the course of the day, Truva even began to enjoy the activity somewhat, despite unfamiliar muscles in her body growing fatigued and sore.
When they made camp as the dusk of early evening descended, the Riders again repeated the same pattern as the previous night. Truva was accustomed to living by a rhythm back in the Hidlands, consisting of nothing more than fighting and resting; but this new life brought its own rhythm, one that was equally exhausting yet significantly more thrilling. She now had a destination, a goal beyond one thousand fights, an end that she could not fathom yet had chosen herself. For such a conclusion, she could bear anything.
Truva knew nothing of keeping watch or foraging or cooking. As a fighter, she had been fed scraps and expected to eat them, for fighting slaves were not trusted with food preparation. Nevertheless, she was determined to be useful. The leader raised his eyebrows in surprise when she offered to help, though he merely said, "If you are not too exhausted, assist Éofa with dinner preparation."
"Yes, my lord," said Truva, and walked to the fire over which Éofa was hunched, peering sceptically at his new assistant. As Truva crouched beside him, he pointed vaguely toward a small heap of plants the foragers had gathered and said, "Pass me that leek."
Truva reached for the plant she believed Éofa to be pointing at, for she didn't rightly know what a leek was.
"No, no, no!" Éofa said exasperatedly. "That's a potato! The one next to it! No, the other side! Yes, that is a leek. Thank you."
"I am sorry, I—"
"That is all very well," Éofa cut her off. "It does not surprise me that a slave should be ignorant of the proper ways of cooking." Truva ducked her head in an attempt to conceal her hurt expression, though she knew his words to be true. After some consideration, Éofa appeared regretful for having had such a short temper.
"Here, would you cut this onion for me? Take this knife and follow my demonstration." He handed Truva a bulb and sat down next to his new companion, first explaining that she had to peel the onion before showing her how to cut it.
"What is this?" Truva cried as her eyes began to sear and tears streamed down her face.
"Ah, now you know the pitfalls of cooking!" Éofa laughed, in a similarly tearful state. He proceeded to show Truva the proper way to prepare all the ingredients that would go into the stew he was preparing, displaying patience all the while, for he was forced to acknowledge that however slow Truva worked, having assistance was faster than cooking on his own.
The next morning, it was Éofa who led Truva to his horse rather than the leader.
Their journey progressed for several weeks in this fashion. As each of the riders took turns running, they observed as Truva's sceptical wariness of their horses flourished into at least nominal tolerance, and she ultimately developed the ability to ride even the most skittish of mounts – though her companions knew it not to be such a grand accomplishment, for the Mearas and their ilk that populated the lands of the Riddermark bore their riders with such ease that it spoke more to the horses' nature than the skill of any rider.
Along their journey, Truva learned not only how to stay atop the intimidating creatures, but also many skills she did not even know existed. The company taught her of all the care horses entailed, of cooking a variety of basic meals, as well as foraging in the desolate terrain. She glowed with an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment when she was at long last asked to participate in watch, and her heart soared from the sign of growing trust.
How long they travelled, Truva could not be certain. There was no real marker of the passage of time in a Hidland slave's life beyond single fights and individual days. It felt to her as though she had doubled in age since her departure from the Valley, yet she cherished each passing moment.
To someone who had spent their entire life watching a small, mountainous valley from the inside of a cage, every experience was precious. Any type of tree was fascinating – save the scraggly pines she was already familiar with – and a copse of such unique trees was doubly so, for it also housed all manner of animals she knew nothing of. Every rising of the sun brought new, unexpected pleasures for her.
As they continued on their journey, Truva also grew increasingly close to the Riders, who were thankful for her growing culinary competence and amused by her unceasing awe of the ordinary. Self-conscious in her lack of knowledge, Truva did not ask questions frequently, yet the others could not help but notice that their new companion found the simplest of things befuddling. Even the mere concept of jokes was unfamiliar to her – a fact they gradually determined by her failure to laugh at a single one. This discovery brought about an attempt to explain jokes, which ultimately only served to confound her further, and their explanation gradually devolved into no more than a joke-telling contest, and all hope was lost.
One day, the Riders lounged upon the ground during a noontime rest, leaning against their untethered saddles and watching with particular curiosity as Truva waded along the shallows of a river, another new and joyful experience for her. "What a glorious river!" she cried to the world, arms splayed wide.
"Truva," Éofa called out.
"Yes?" she replied.
"If you have never seen such things as forests or rivers, how is it that you know what they are, and what to call them?" he asked.
Truva emerged from the river, wiping her feet dry upon the grass as she walked, then took a seat amongst the group. "Well," she began, "When I was young, before I was locked in an isolated cage in the market, I lived in the Fighters' Quarters with the other slaves. Sometimes at night before we slept, the older trainers would narrate all kinds of stories. We learnt of many things we never thought we would see, yet simply imagining them made us happy – or at least less miserable."
"Is that how you came to speak so properly, as well?" asked one Eorlingas. "By listening to the stories of your elders?"
"My habits of speech are due to my owner, Dregant," said Truva. "He insisted all his slaves speak to him as though he were a king, for it pleased him to be addressed so. Some owners had no concern for their slaves' way of speaking, so long as they fought well, yet most of us were held to absurd standards of eloquence. Often we did not even comprehend the words that we uttered, yet should we fail in our deference – and oft did it happen, in our masters' opinions – were we beaten."
"You were told stories, but not jokes?" asked another Rider, after a long, uncomfortable pause.
"I suppose it simply did not occur to us to view life in such a way," said Truva. "The people of the Hidden Lands are a fairly angry lot." The Hidland fighter herself appeared unaffected, though her words sent a shiver of sympathy through the Riders, and they felt somewhat guilty for having been so amused by her interest in seemingly ordinary things.
The company continued southward for some time before crossing another river, the land beyond which was barren and uninviting, stretching endlessly unbroken to the horizon in the west, even as white-capped mountains reared up before them to the south. Truva's enthusiasm began to wane, and it seemed then in her mind that they would never reach any destination at all, and nothing save emptiness and mountains lay before the riders.
Her exuberance was at long last restored when, after a great many days, they came across a wide, well-worn road. The Riders' pace quickened as they turned east along this route, signalling some sense of purpose unknown to Truva. It was the following morning that she rose to observe the sun ascending almost directly before her through a gap in the mountains, and the road led them to the ford of yet a third river.
After crossing, the road bent to the southeast, and later that day the company was greeted by a most astounding sight: off to their right, tucked between the foothills of a towering mountain, was a prodigious monument to the industry of men. Truva knew not what to make of the awe-inspiring construction of earth and rock, for she had no context by which she might compare it; she merely gazed with open mouth upon its massive, sleek walls and staggering towers.
"That is Hornburg," explained the leader, riding up beside her. "Our stout fortress, and base of the West-mark. Long has it protected our borders and served as refuge in time of need."
Truva had no words with which she might voice her wonder, so she remained silent and continued to stare as they rode past at a distance.
It was but two days later, as the Riders ascended a slight rise amid the great grassy plains rolling in the late afternoon sun, that the leader brought the company to a halt. He signalled for Truva to approach him.
"There, do you see?" he said, pointing far off into the distance, where a rocky outcrop lay at the base of the southerly mountains.
"Perhaps?" said Truva, unsure of what she was expected to see.
"That is Edoras; our home."
Truva's heart convulsed. Home, yet a place unfamiliar, one she had never been. Infinite promise brought infinite dread. Despite the great length of their journey, Truva had never devoted much time to considering what might occur once the Riders had reached their destination. Would she be expected to travel on, or would she be allowed to make their home her own? Would it even be a place she desired to make her home?
With great trepidation, she followed as the Riders pressed on. In their excitement, their pace increased further, though even the horseless Rider seemed not to mind. They progressed swiftly across the plains and were soon within hailing distance of the tremendous walls.
Truva could see a great many wooden buildings clustered about the base of the hill, and a particularly grand hall perched atop its crest. In comparison to the makeshift huts that littered the Hidlands, built haphazardly of salvaged materials, this structured city spoke of purpose and intent. Where the Hidlanders had relied on secrecy and the mountainous terrain to protect them, the people of Edoras had constructed intimidating fortifications of wood and stone.
A horn was blown as the Riders approached the gates, causing Truva to start and nearly fall from the saddle. Its sound was very different from the ring of a fight bell, yet it sparked in her the same sense of unease and anxiety. Instead of coming under immediate attack as she would after a bell, however, Truva watched as the gates swung open and allowed the Riders to enter.
A massive swarm of people gathered, raising their voices in an unintelligible clamour as Riders rode by, yet even when they had passed from view, Truva could still feel the stares of curiosity and suspicion upon her back as the people noted her bedraggled clothing and dark, braided hair. She rushed to follow the others along a path that cut switchbacks up the hill toward the great hall, her sense of misgiving growing the higher they ascended.
The Riders dismounted at the peak of the hill and handed the reins of their horses to guards that awaited there, each greeting the other in the same melodic language Truva had heard the Riders use back in the Hidlands. During their journey, her companions had politely deferred to Truva and spoken only in the tongue she understood, so it was with a start that she recalled it was not their primary language.
With quivering heart and legs, Truva followed the others up a wide flight of stone steps toward the immense wooden hall, its pillars adorned with ornate and intricate carvings, incomprehensible to Truva's uneducated eye. The doors were opened before them by the guards, only to reveal a chamber of unspeakable beauty beyond, the history of which lay tangible upon the air.
As the riders entered, a group of men broke off their conversation and glanced up. The one nearest them, a tall Man whose head boasted radiant golden locks lightly flecked with the silver of age, and whose proud shoulders bore a splendid velvet mantle of the deepest green, turned round with a welcoming smile upon his face. This was a man whose very presence emanated a regal air and demanded respect, and without knowing who he was Truva felt veneration for so grand a figure.
The Man spoke a greeting in the Riders' language, and immediately all members of Truva's company bowed deeply, and she quickly followed suit. The Riders replied in kind to the Man, yet caught unawares, Truva concluded it was better not to say anything at all than to speak out of turn and draw attention to herself.
It was then that the leader of the Riders stepped forward and indicated Truva. "She does not speak our tongue, my lord," he said.
"I see!" remarked the Man, changing at once to the Common Tongue. "I see also that, while you rode out eight, you now return as nine – what an interesting development!"
"This is Théoden, our King," whispered Éofa to Truva. A king! She had heard the word before, yet such titles held no real significance in the Hidlands. The free villagers were so averse to cooperation that they proved simply incapable of choosing a leader. Any individual who attained any modicum of power was immediately challenged by an endless stream of other ambitious villagers, the ultimate result being that no single person was ever able to solidify leadership. The Hidlanders therefore lived by a loose set of generally accepted rules, and settled any conflict with violence – often by proxy. Truva had won Dregant many disagreements, though what those disagreements were and what advantage he gained through them, she knew not.
But a king! To see such a dignitary before her very eyes was the most shocking of all Truva's recent experiences. "It is an honour, my lord," she said, bowing her head deeper. The King laughed.
"I am not your lord, at least not yet!" said the King, though his laughter was not unkind. "'Your highness,' certainly, but 'my lord' implies possession."
It was upon hearing this explanation that Truva at last understood why the Riders' leader had been so amused by her term of address, and she felt ashamed.
"I appreciate the gesture, as it is," the King continued. "Now, tell me your story."
"Your highness," the leader spoke, to Truva's great relief, for she did not believe herself capable of speech before such a magnificent audience. "Her name is Truva; we came upon her in the Hidden Lands."
"The Hidden Lands! So their existence is real," mused the King, though the look of concern that followed was immediately apparent. "It is said to be a nasty, brutish place."
"She was a fighter," the leader continued. The King's expression did not improve. Indeed, his concern seemed rather to grow.
"A fighter, you say? Every tale that emerges from that dark place warns that to take anything from a Man of the Hidden Lands, let alone something of such great value, will prompt him to exact ferocious revenge. Not only will he take back what is his, but also destroy everything that belongs to he who took it. To bring a stolen fighter here—"
"She won her freedom," the leader interrupted, and in the momentary pause that followed, the King's countenance transformed immediately to one of astoundment.
"So it is true – one thousand fights in a land famed for its brutal fighters. Incredible," he said.
"Upon our arrival, she had just reigned victorious in her thousandth fight, and begged for us to take her," said Éofa. "We felt it only right. She has proven to be a great asset on our return journey, for she is a quick study, though it has taken her quite some time to grow comfortable with the horses."
"Absolutely incredible," the King said, still ruminating internally. An enigmatic expression lingered on his face as he studied Truva in silence for a few moments before clapping his hands suddenly. "Well! It seems as though you have had a most intriguing adventure! Truva, is it? I welcome you wholeheartedly to Edoras, and invite you to linger here for as long as you desire."
He then turned to the others and said, "I am sure you are all exhausted from your journey. You are free to take your leave, see to your horses and families, and rest at long last."
The Riders turned to go, though the King motioned to the leader as they did so, saying, "Éomer, a word, please." The leader motioned for the others to proceed, falling back to speak with the King, and yet it was through this minor interaction that Truva at long last learned the name of her saviour.
When all save the leader had exited the hall, Éofa turned and asked Truva, "Have you ever visited a stable?"
"A what?" she responded, to which Éofa simply laughed and gestured for her to follow. The Riders accepted the reins of their mounts back from the guards, and led the horses to another building just beside the great hall. When Éofa shoved the doors aside, row after row of the giant creatures snorted and craned their necks to observe their visitors, to Truva's great wonderment. The extreme rarity of horses in the Hidlands meant such an assemblage had been unthinkable to her mere moments before.
"These are the mounts of the King and his Riders, many of them Mearas, the descendants of Felaróf," Éofa explained. "Though they are but a small sampling of the pride of the Mark, they are certainly its most distinguished."
"So there are yet more? Does— does Éomer keep his horse here?" Truva asked, surreptitiously attempting to confirm the leader's name.
"You mean 'my lord'?" Éofa laughed, still amused by her unwitting gaffe. "Yes – his horse abides here, for Éomer is a Marshal of the Mark, thus one of our highest leaders; he is sister-son to our King, and not unlike the King's own child since the passing of his mother, the King's sister."
Truva gasped at this trove of information, for even in her greatest estimations she had not supposed the leader to be so significant a figure. "So it was incorrect to call him 'my lord?'"
"It is a form of address typically reserved for other Eorlingas," explained Éofa. "I do believe his acceptance of your usage indicates – by extension – an acceptance of you in and of yourself."
Truva flushed with joy to hear Éofa's words, and it was therefore with unparalleled enthusiasm that she assisted the Riders in untacking and rubbing their mounts down. Their tasks were finished all the faster for it, though a sudden realisation caused Truva's exuberance to wane: the Riders all had families and loved ones to return to – but where was she to go?
"Do not look so glum," said Éofa, as if he had read her thoughts. "We will not abandon you! Now come meet my family, and we shall find you a place to stay!"
It was then as he led her from the stables that Éofa motioned as if to throw his arm casually about Truva's shoulders, yet without conscious thought she found herself flinching and shying away, and she ducked away from his touch before it ever reached her. Images flashed in her mind – horrifying memories, sharp yet indistinct, that brought with them an overpowering terror – of the countless times a far less friendly arm had similarly held her for a far more sinister purpose.
Éofa held his hands up, yielding to her. "I am sorry, it was presumptuous of me."
"No," said Truva, her heart still racing painfully in her throat and her hands trembling. "I greatly appreciate the gesture. I was startled, that is all."
Éofa gave her a curious look, though he did not question her further and simply led her back down the hill, waving goodbye to the other Riders as they parted along different paths. Before long, the two of them stood before a prim, respectable wooden house with a thatch roof. Éofa strutted right to the door and pounded upon it a few times before entering without waiting for a response.
When Truva peered into the tidy home, she glimpsed a man and woman sitting at a large table with a tiny toddler perched between them. Their heads snapped up, startled by Éofa's entrance.
"I'm home!" Éofa cried, arms wide. There was instant pandemonium as the two adults leapt to embrace him, spilling the food they had been eating in the process. All three spoke at once in a riotous mix of tongues, the end result being that not one could be heard and – not wanting to be left out – the little child joined in by simply bawling. Truva observed the entire scene from the entrance, smiling and shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.
Éofa pulled away after a few moments, creating a brief pause in the chaos. "I would like to introduce Truva, a rescue from our recent ventures! This is Éomód, my brother, and his wife, Héodis. This little bubble of trouble is Fulmod, their son of two years."
The pandemonium renewed, with a great many welcomes and greetings and nice to meet yous being exchanged, and Truva was thankful that they all spoke intentionally in the Common Tongue so that she might comprehend. The spilled food was set upright and cleaned, Truva was dragged to the table and bade to eat her entire weight in food, and Éofa was placed opposite and demanded to do the same.
Such a situation was entirely unfamiliar to Truva. Even among free villagers, family units did not form frequently in the Hidlands. Children were fed, expected to work, then sent out on their own as soon as their needs outweighed their usefulness. Occasionally they would settle in the same village as their parents, though far more often they left, never to return.
Confusion Truva as she observed the joyful interactions of the family, causing her to question her very understanding of humanity – whether people were truly meant to lead brief, miserable existences as she had come to believe, or if happiness was perhaps what all others save Truva considered normal. She was lost in a web of such thoughts, staring unseeing at the cheerful family, when she realised Éofa was calling her name repeatedly.
"Ah, yes, sorry. I must have been distracted for a moment," said Truva, shaking her head clear.
"Poor thing," Héodis cooed, "You must be exhausted!"
"It will be dark soon," said Éofa, with a concerned glance at Truva before turning to his sister. "I was wondering if she might not stay here for the night?"
"It is the least we can do for a guest of the Mark!" exclaimed Héodis.
"You may make use of my room," said Éofa, depriving Truva of the opportunity to interject. "I have business to attend to with Éomer as it is, and I expect we will make a very late night of it. Even if that be not the case, I can abide in my quarters on the training field."
"It is settled, then!" said Héodis, drowning out Truva's protests. "First, let us get you cleaned up, then I shall find some things for you to wear," she said, eyeing Truva's rather pitiful garb, which had been cobbled together from what few items the riders could spare once her Hidland uniform had disintegrated.
"Excellent! I will draw a bath," Éomód volunteered as Héodis bustled into another room to raid her dresser.
"A bath?" Truva questioned. The only washing she had ever undergone was when Dregant splashed a bucket of cold water through the bars of her cage and ordered her to scrub with her hands. It was an occurrence that happened after every few fights, when even the free villagers – not overly fond of hygiene themselves – began to complain of the stench.
Éofa gave a knowing look to his brother before quickly saying goodbye and edging toward the door and ducking out, presumably to meet with Éomer. Truva felt almost abandoned at Éofa's sudden departure, though the young couple did their utmost to make her feel at ease. After some time, Héodis led her to a side room, where a wooden tub stood filled with steaming water. Truva presumed that must be the bath.
Héodis kindly did not assume any knowledge on Truva's part, and thoroughly explained how to bathe, indicating soap and how to use it, as well as towels to dry off with. She also placed a sleeping gown on a stool just beyond where it might get splashed, then left Truva to her privacy.
It was the most wonderful feeling Truva had ever experienced. Though her knees stuck out of the small tub, her body still melted in the heat of the water, and all the pains of her journey and beyond were soothed. The smell of the soap was a luxury, recalling the scent of springtime blossoms.
It was then that Truva realised she had never been truly clean in the entire expanse of her memory, not even on her journey from the Hidlands. She held out her arms before her and examined them closely, noting the slight angle of her right forearm where a broken bone had not healed properly, her perpetually swollen knuckles, a few scars from glancing kicks – a fighter's body that suddenly seemed newly and wholly her own.
Emerging from the bath, Truva dried off as she had been shown with a cloth of unfamiliar softness. She easily donned the sleeping gown afterward, for though even women in the Hidlands rarely wore anything save tunics and trousers, its construction was not complicated. Once robed, Truva emerged hesitantly into the main room at last, where Héodis and Éomód sat conversing quietly before the fire.
"Ah, don't you just look like a new person!" said Héodis. "Come join us by the fire and let your hair dry out. Even in this warm weather you'll catch cold should you sleep as you are."
Truva trod over to the fire and sat upon a rug next to Fulmod, then proceeded to play a quick game of peek-a-boo with the toddler, as she had with the young children of fighters in the Hidlands. Fulmod giggled drowsily at her antics for a few minutes before sleep overtook him. Truva sat then silently, gazing about at the cosy dwelling littered with objects whose purpose she could only guess. "What a lovely house you have," she remarked.
"In comparison to others in Edoras, it is quite humble," Éomód replied, amused.
"Your floor is not made of dirt," said Truva, and Éomód and Héodis both laughed good-naturedly at her bluntness.
"Well, I suppose that is true!" said Héodis.
"Shall I tell a story?" suggested Éomód as he drew Fulmod onto his lap.
"That would be lovely!" Héodis cheered, echoing Truva's internal sentiments. Éomód launched into a traditional Eorlingas tale as Fulmod rustled fitfully in his arms. Truva did not understand much of it, for the story was full of names and places and events that she had no familiarity with, yet she enjoyed it nevertheless, and was greatly disappointed when the tale was brought abruptly to an end by a deafening snore from Fulmod.
As Éomód rose to put his son to bed, Héodis remarked, "Your hair is dry. If you would like, I can show you to Éofa's room now. He is typically beastly and never cleans up after himself, but I've had time to clean since he has been away, and I think you shall find it quite tidy."
Héodis showed Truva through the door to a room beside the bath. Inside the simple, sparse room beyond was what she could only assume was a bed, though she had never seen one. A window, yet another object unfamiliar to her, gave vantage unto the nearby mountains, purple and black in the dusky evening.
"I wish you goodnight," said Héodis as she closed the door.
"Goodnight," replied Truva, "And thank you," though she knew words could never fully articulate the all-encompassing gratitude she felt in that moment. She climbed onto the bed then, and upon the discovery of layers of blankets, supposed that she was expected to lie beneath them. The bed itself diminished the softness of the towel from her bath by a thousandfold, almost rendering it so soft as to be uncomfortable, yet Truva was resolved to experience genuine rest for the first time in her deprived existence.