Author's recommended listening: Mahler, Symphony No. 2 in C minor
CHAPTER XII: THE BATTLES OF HORNBURG
Théoden King stood just beyond the gates to give Truva, Aragorn, and the other straggling Eorlingas entrance. He took in Aragorn's battered appearance and immediately cried out, "Get this man up to the keep! That is where you shall find the infirmary."
Without pausing for ceremony, not even to admire the fortress she had so long desired to enter, Truva followed the direction of the King's pointing finger as Bron's hooves clattered against the flagstone battlements. He flew up the steps with astounding agility, and it was but a matter of moments before Truva was lowering the limp figure of Aragorn onto a field cot, under the watchful eye of the healers.
They set upon him at once, Truva watching anxiously over their shoulder. As they worked, a page came to relieve Truva of Bron and lead him to the stables deeper within the keep. Truva was loath to part from her horse, and even when the page succeeded in prying the reins from her hands she made as if to follow them.
"Please," he said, "We will treat him as the returning hero he is." And so it was with reluctance that Truva watched Bron be led away. There was nothing for her to do but stand about and get underfoot of the healers as they tended to Aragorn, tutting all the while at her clumsiness.
Truva suddenly recalled the jewel that she had stowed in her pocket, having found it floating in the shallows of the tributary when she pulled Aragorn from its waters. Withdrawing it, she allowed the pendant to dangle on its chain in front of her eyes, taking in its every detail: the eagle so realistically forged it seemed poised to claw her hands ere it flew off, and jade so richly green that the lushest of forests would be put to shame. The silver eyes of the bird pierced her very spirit, conveying a storm of emotions that threw her into an abyss of simultaneous euphoria and melancholy.
Truva gazed at the jewel a moment longer before ripping her consciousness back into reality. There was a brief lull in activity as the healers were drawn away by the arrival of another injured warrior, and Truva took the opportunity to approach the supine figure of Aragorn, lifting his head as gently as her rough hands would allow and once again securing the treasure about the Ranger's neck.
A healer came shortly to shoo Truva away, insisting that her presence was of no help. "He will be fine, I assure you. Your gloom and doom serves only to hinder us," she chided. Feeling somewhat askew, like a table with one slightly shorter leg, Truva ducked out of the infirmary into the open passageway beyond. Just outside the entryway, when looking back over her shoulder at a disturbance near the main gates, Truva collided with Éofa and sent them both sprawling.
"Oh, Truva, there you are!" he said, picking himself up and offering a hand to Truva. "Glad I am to see you alive, though I expected no less! The King said you had returned, and that I might find you in the infirmary. He requests your presence, for there is a council to be held in the main hall at this very moment."
"Very well," said Truva as she dusted herself off. They walked along the passageway, and through the stone archways Truva was finally able to look out onto the Deeping-coomb from their high vantage point. Little could be seen in the darkness, though the faint scar of Helm's Dike stretched across the gorge, illuminated by the torches of Eorlingas warriors who defended it. High above, the looming spurs of Thrihyrne were more felt than seen, their darkness swallowing up the watery light of the rising moon.
The hall was a rush of noise when Truva entered behind Éofa, for it was packed with military leaders and advisors, all of whom had differing yet equally strong ideas on how best to defend the Hornburg. The King stood collectedly amidst them, bending his ear to each argument in turn. Erkenbrand Marshal – having struck out from the Hornburg in aid of Éomer and Elfhelm, whose forces had been defeated in a second assault from Isengard – had returned and was engaged in a most raucous shouting match with his second in command over whether or not to ride out again and rally the Eorlingas that still lay beyond the Deeping-coomb.
Then, when Éofa struck out across the hall, Truva followed his line of movement and spotted Éomer conversing with a group of five men who all spoke at once. She ran to him and fought the unexpected desire to leap into the Marshal's arms as he turned; and though even so much was a great show of affection for Truva, she laid her hand upon his shoulder, and he greeted her likewise in the way of warriors.
"I knew there was no reason to worry, yet I could not help it," said Truva, patting the Marshal's shoulder once more to ensure that he was no illusion.
"It was not me you should have worried for," he said, his expression speaking fluently of his relief in laying eyes on her once more. "Save your concern for our men who did not make it."
"May Helm protect and guide them on their next journey," said Truva, clasping her hands before her and bowing her head a moment. "Elfhelm Marshal has not returned?"
"No, and many others still lie beyond our protection; you may worry for them," said Éomer. "And save some worry for yourself! I was told you went off alone on a wild goose chase in Orc-infested territory?"
"Yet I am alive and well, and found my goose!" said Truva.
"I heard also that you are a true Eorlingas now, as declared by the King," said Éomer, "Though I must admit I never viewed you in any other manner." Truva made as if to reply, but the King had been listening to their conversation and took the opportunity to bring order to the congregation.
"It is with a great debt of gratitude that we hail the return of our Rider, Truva," he called, the timbre of his voice rising easily above the hubbub. "It is thanks to her that our guest and unparalleled warrior Aragorn returns among us."
A great cheer rose among those present, yet a single voice of dissent also rang out.
"And in what state does he return?" cried the Elf Legolas, stepping forth. "Aragorn is in no condition to fight."
"Were it not for Truva, he might very well be dead," said Théoden King reasonably, though Legolas' combativeness caused confusion to creep in among those gathered. "At the very least, he would be beyond our reach and exposed to the elements."
"Perhaps," said Legolas, glancing quickly at Gimli for support, and the Dwarf nodded in reply. "Or perhaps it is in this exact state that she wished for him to return."
"What is it you imply?" demanded the King. "Speak plainly!"
"Long has it been that, with a curious eye, we have watched your fighter Truva. At first it was with confusion that we took her on as a companion, and yet confusion morphed into suspicion at the whisperings and secrecy that surround her," said Legolas, his assuredness growing with each passing word.
"What reason have you to be suspicious? What whisperings and secrets are these?" said the King, as a murmur rippled through the gathered leaders. Truva stood as if transfixed, her mind a tumble of confused thoughts and hurt emotions; panic gripped her, and the anger Éomer had warned her against threatened to ignite.
"Perhaps you were once equally unsuspicious of your advisor, Gríma," said Legolas. "But disastrous were the results of your imperception. And yet, be it though he is now gone, we faced a calamitous attack only yesterday! How is it that Isengard knew not only of our departure, but that we travelled to the Fords rather than the refuge of Dunharrow also? Is it not apparent that a spy is still in your midst? And her physical appearance marks her so clearly as some other than Eorlingas!"
"How dare you question one of our warriors!" cried Éomer as both Truva and Éofa shifted uncomfortably beside him. "If you only knew of the path that brought her to us, and to this very moment! Horses run through her heart more steadfastly than many born of our land!"
The King, however, motioned for Éomer to fall silent. "Gríma was once a loyal advisor, having rightly earned his trust," he said calmly. "And ultimately, his change in demeanour did not go unnoticed; indeed, it was the very thing that drove those most loyal from me. And yet you would accuse one who chose banishment over serving Gríma of ultimately colluding with him?"
"It is an exceptional plan of recourse," argued Legolas. "The abundantly clear deceit of Gríma draws attention from one whose loyalty in comparison is unquestionable, allowing them to continue feeding information to Isengard, and poison into your mind."
"If it were so, why would she assume the risk of rescuing Aragorn at all, rather than simply leaving him to his fate?" the King questioned.
"To mislead you, I would wager," said Legolas. "She knew he would be discovered in a state unable to fight, or perhaps even ensured it herself – explaining the reason as to why my companion and I were not even informed of the search in the first place! Finding him would reassure you of her loyalty while simultaneously depriving Saruman of a deadly opponent; for keeping Aragorn under a watchful eye is arguably preferable to abandoning him and risking his potential recovery and thus ability to run amok."
"The decision that Truva conduct the search alone was mine own. Have you no further proof for your accusations save conjecture?" said Théoden King, his gaze shifting uneasily between Legolas and Truva.
"The letter," the Elf said simply.
"What letter?" said Théoden King, though Legolas' reply was preempted by the massive doors of the hall bursting open to reveal the entrance of Aragorn. All eyes turned as one at this unexpected interruption, and the atmosphere stiffened as they took in the Ranger's haggard appearance: dishevelled clothes and matted hair, and the right leg that he clearly favoured. He paused in the doorway, glance darting between the ambivalent King and Legolas' aggressive stance, Éomer's bristling appearance and Truva's crushed countenance.
"It was Aragorn himself who first noticed the letter," said Legolas, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
"And yet we see he is alive and well, despite your claims as to Truva's intentions!" exclaimed Éomer.
"It would not be the first time the will of Aragorn son of Arathorn was underestimated!" Legolas retorted.
"Peace!" said Aragorn softly, yet with surprising strength. "Legolas, now is not the time."
"If not now, when?" cried Gimli, adding his voice to the melee at last. "If we have a traitor in our midst, would not the eve of battle be the most crucial time to expel them?"
"There is none more suspect than you three!" Éomer shouted back. "It was with great anticipation that we encountered you upon the plains, hoping that you might deliver blessing upon our desperate straits; and while it is true the Wizard Gandalf rendered unto us a great service, he is now gone, departed on some unknown task, leaving only those who would cast darkness and doubt upon us!"
"The letter," said King Théoden quietly, immediately cutting the roar that swelled in the hall to a hush. He turned to Truva. "Is it true what they speak of?"
Truva froze when all eyes turned to her. Silence enveloped the keep as they waited with baited breath for her to answer the King's question, but she was no longer under the protection of Théodred or her friends, nor was she engaging in casual conversation with those she was most comfortable; she was being asked to defend herself before a hostile audience, to speak with purpose and clarity before a gathering of so many others.
Truva felt a familiar sense of terror rise up from the pit of her stomach, clenching her chest and throat and tongue on its path to her lips, which hung open, unmoving. The image of Dregant flashed before her eyes, followed by the wrinkled features of Dernrid— Truva fought to seize the words, feeling them slipping away—
"There is a letter!" she gasped, as surprised as the others at her abrupt exclamation; once the words had emerged, however, she could not prevent herself from speaking those few that still burned in her heart. "Yet it is not what you think! I am no traitor! I have only ever harboured love for my King, Théoden of the Mark!" Even as she said these words – perhaps only possible because she spoke in the Common Tongue – Truva resisted the temptation to place her hand upon where she had tucked Héodis' letter away beneath her jerkin.
"We witnessed her holding multiple whispered conversations with an Eorlingas woman, and it was this same woman who handed her a letter just before our departure from Edoras. Is it not unusual for the Rohirrim to be learnt of their letters?" asked Legolas.
It was then that Truva understood the reason behind Aragorn's scrutiny during the feast in Edoras, when she had held a whispered conversation with Héodis; he had suspected the nature of their communion to be dishonourable, doubts which were likely redoubled when he witnessed the letter passing between them at the gates of the city – in which case his dining with her that night along the road to Hornburg had not been a friendly overture, but an investigation. She had been slow to stow the letter away then, and perhaps the Ranger's honesty regarding the Elessar gem had likewise not been merely informatory, but also a reminder of the power that he claimed lay behind it.
"Unusual as such knowledge of writing is, it was her similarly unusual upbringing and unusual potential that prompted me to task her with an unusual education," said the King.
"And who was tasked with her education in this regard?" Gimli inquired.
Truva felt trapped, for she knew her answer would implicate her in the eyes of these strangers. They knew only that which they had witnessed since she had first met them upon the plains, and though Éowyn had also assisted in Truva's linguistic education, there was clearly only one name they would consider significant. It was thus with subdued expression that Truva whispered, "Gríma."
"Gríma!" exclaimed Gimli. "A known traitor, teaching a suspected traitor the tools with which they might conduct their treason!"
"I believe there is but one solution to this quandary," said Legolas, extending his hand. "The letter, if you please."
Truva slowly pulled the letter from where she had replaced it two nights prior, yet when Legolas reached for it, she sharply withdrew her hand.
"You have not the right!" she spat. Truva knew precisely what was written upon its single page, and loath as she was for the letter's contents to be revealed, she despised even more that an outsider might have the audacity to read it. She handed the letter instead to Théoden King, who solemnly unfolded the sheet of rough paper and scanned it briefly.
After a few moments, he sighed deeply. Wondering eyes scrutinised his expression, only to be left with greater bemusement as he handed the letter to Éomer, who took it upon himself to alleviate their curiosity:
"My dearest, loving Truva," he read, "It is with great misfortune that our plans are rendered pointless for the time being. Please take Éomód into your keeping, as surely as you have kept the Mark until now. I shall try not to resent your parting too much, for I know you shall return soon, and it is at that time that we shall have a most glorious birthday celebration for our King as intended, rendered all the more splendid for your victory and safe return. May you be blessed with the strength of Helm, your Héodis."
Utter silence reigned.
"A… birthday party?" said Éofa.
"It was to be a surprise," said Truva abashedly. "To commemorate the return of the King's old self after the departure of Gríma. The whispering Lord Aragorn perhaps witnessed at the feast was our inception of the idea, yet the troops' sudden departure led us to resort to alternative means of communication. Long have Héodis and I exchanged letters, so that we might practise our letters as well as express the sentiments we are too shy to speak aloud."
The entire hall remained suspended as if in portrait; Théoden King's chin fell to his chest, and Éomer stood as one justified, ready to counter any who dared challenge his recruit's loyalty. Legolas and Gimli still appeared tense from the exchange, but Aragorn had not moved from his position at the door, caught between scepticism and regret.
"As I see I am not trusted, I shall depart first," said Truva, breaking the silence. "I will serve to my greatest ability whichever decision you come to, even be it to accept my fate at the gallows of my people, or at the hands of our enemy who bear down upon us even now."
Having spoken all that she might say, Truva stalked out of the hall, brushing past Aragorn without so much as acknowledging him. Once in the passageway beyond, a brief lull extended for an interval before the hall erupted into chaos once again. Truva did not linger to hear the multitude of arguments or their conclusion, choosing instead to seek shelter in one of the isolated lookouts along the upper battlements of the keep.
From her vantage point, she could look down upon the Deeping Wall below, hidden from the glow of fires set in tactical locations to deceive the aim of attackers. Beyond the gap in the cliffs of Thrihyrne, a stream of fiery specks rushed toward the gorge, each a single torch borne by a single enemy. Those that neared the Deeping-Coomb could almost be discerned individually, yet the torches in the distance gradually merged into one continuous string of light, winding endlessly into the darkness beyond. Their number was as unfathomable at night as it had been by day, and yet such a show of force upset Truva far less than the knowledge that she herself had – if only momentarily – also been considered the enemy.
In an attempt to bar the negative emotions from her mind, Truva applied herself to the mundane tasks of preparing for battle, beginning first with checking her arrows, though she knew that even a quiver full would be insufficient for any extended period of combat. Once she had counted the arrows thrice over, she began to methodically whet her small dagger before bending to her sword, both already sharp beyond necessity.
She was absentmindedly testing the blade of her sword, slicing the thumb of her left hand several times, when Aragorn ascended the steps to the lookout behind her. Truva intentionally ignored him, despite hearing his approach, and refused to acknowledge his presence even as he took a seat beside her.
Neither was in a rush to speak, so it was for quite some time that no sound save the rustle of marching enemy lines and the frantic shouts of Eorlingas defences being mounted could be heard. Content with the edge on her blade at last, Truva sheathed her sword and sat with her arms folded across her chest, looking ahead only, never glancing toward her companion.
Aragorn took a deep breath, then paused another beat before saying, "It was I who put such notions into the head of Legolas; that is the only reason he said what he did."
"So I heard," Truva replied curtly.
"It was wrong of me to suspect you," he continued.
"Yes, it was."
"You must understand, I had mentioned my misgivings to Legolas only in passing, before I came to see who you truly are."
"Who I truly am?" Truva exclaimed, her heart suddenly racing at the Ranger's words. Pride, dignity, fury – these were feelings she had been deprived of in the Hidlands, invalidated and beaten from her until she had bowed under the inescapable weight of submission; yet they surged now in her heart, all the more fierce for having been absent for so long.
"You have entirely no comprehension of who I am, stranger from the North!" she cried. "You were so quick to mark me as other without understanding how my presence among the Eorlingas so much as came to be!"
The confrontation in the keep had caused a tumult of emotion to erupt within Truva, for though the years had eased somewhat her sense of disbelonging, small incidents were a constant reminder of how greatly she differed from the Eorlingas. As she only ever witnessed things from her own perspective, Truva often forgot how her hair and features marked her as distinct from those born in the Mark, yet she knew it was constantly visible to others.
Nor was it her appearance alone that marked her as unalike; her accent, her vocabulary, her habits all marked her as dissimilar – reminding her of how her native tongue was not that of the Mark, of how she had no blood relatives with which to celebrate holidays, of how something as simple as swearing had at one time been unfamiliar to her. She was reminded, too, of how those around her marked her even more clearly as different in their attempts to make her feel accepted, although she knew their efforts to be guided by the kindest intentions, and for that she was eternally grateful.
Truva paused a moment to collect her thoughts before speaking, for though she had her moments of loquacity, they were not frequent and often shared only with her most intimate friends. The passing of Théodred meant the loss of her closest confidant, however, and ever since the events at the Fords Truva had allowed the trickling stream in her heart to swell unchecked; waters roiled behind the dam she had long ago constructed within: an edifice soon fit to come crashing down upon he who sundered it.
"I once believed that the stories I was told of the Rangers were naught but legend," she spoke at last, struggling to maintain some semblance of composure, "Yet of late, even legends seem to have their truth. If all that I have heard was unerring, I cannot expect you to understand, Ranger of the North, for even in your solitude the choice to pursue it was your own. Never have I been afforded such luxury."
Truva took a deep, trembling breath before continuing. "You were so quick to mark me as having a different origin than the Eorlingas – and you are not wrong, of course. But what knowledge have you of my origin?" Aragorn shook his head to indicate he had none.
"I was a slave of the Hidden Lands," said Truva, ignoring Aragorn when he started suddenly. His reaction suggested he was familiar with that region and its brutality, yet Truva felt none of her characteristic reticence; indeed, she felt overcome by the driving need to extrapolate upon each macabre, harrowing detail. Something had sparked within Truva; she knew not when this change had occurred – whether it had been the battle at the Fords, or the confrontation just then in the keep, or if it had been some gradual shift that she had not discerned until that very moment – yet she felt unable to stem its flow.
"I was deprived of any familial relations from my youngest of days. I was raised in violence, and around that violence all my relationships were oriented. The only remotely parental figures to me were those adults who trained young prospective fighters; they trained us, yet they were guided by hatred, and by fear. They loathed us, and beat us, and taught us in turn to loathe and beat each other. Their greatest fear was that they were creating their own replacements, and yet their owners would punish them should they fail to instruct us to the best of their ability.
"And when we were grown, we understood their resignation; for despite all the physical torture we endured – the beatings, the whip, the starvation, the water deprivation, exposure to the elements, boiling heat in summer and hypothermia in winter – the resignation was the worst, recognising that the elder fighters' past was our future, and the future of all those who came after. We endured day after indistinguishable day, our only company other broken fighters, gamblers come to appraise your fighting condition, and our own resignation.
"Our owners did not even need whips, nor any other form of punishment, for they had developed a system in which we beat ourselves," said Truva, pausing momentarily to catch her breath. Aragorn sat motionless all the while, ear tilted toward her and intent upon her words, yet unable to fully face the onslaught.
"Then the Eorlingas saved me," continued Truva, for there were still words left unspoken. "They gave unto me that which I had not even dared to dream of for myself, yet that which every being deserves: humanity. They acknowledged me as an individual, as someone with my own motives, my own hopes and dreams, my own spirit. You cannot possibly comprehend what it is to be granted your own self if you have never been deprived of it.
"And so, because they gave me everything, I shall return to them everything – to devote to the Mark anything less than my entire being would be unspeakably insufficient. That the Eorlingas in turn provide me with a sense of belonging I have always desired is due to nothing save their own goodwill; and perhaps it is greed on my part, yet I have come to consider Théoden King as a true father figure, and the others as the family I had never known. Am I wrong in hoping for so much?
"And still you marched in, oblivious to this circumstance yet certain in your knowledge that my physical attributes indicated moral deficiencies! Though you were not wrong in surmising that my origins differ from the Eorlingas, it is in actuality due to such differences that I could never betray those who showed me love, when I knew not what it was!
"I well know that I am 'Other'! I struggle to forget it every day! Some days I am successful – yet those are the days I delude myself. On all remaining days, I have no choice but to confront my Otherness, and prove once more to those who doubt me that it is not a weakness but a strength!" And with that, Truva fell silent, breathless from her unexpected diatribe. Never in her life had she spoken so many words at once, yet once she had opened the floodgates, she found that she could not close them again.
Her outburst had a great cathartic effect, and Truva realised her words had been spoken more for herself than Aragorn, and though she was not ashamed of the tears that had begun coursing down her cheek she turned her face from Aragorn; she did not care to see his reaction, whether it be disbelief or pity, or any other sentiment. Silence reigned between the two for quite some time as they each collected their thoughts, and Aragorn realised at last that it was his responsibility to make amends.
"It was from the first moment I became aware of you extricating me from the river that I knew my judgement of you had been wrong," he said. "In these dark times, I have grown too accustomed to attributing ill intentions where none exist, and oft has this led me astray. You yourself have witnessed this, when we first encountered Gandalf in the woods – I thought him to be Saruman, when indeed hardly a more loyal companion there ever was than Gandalf the Grey."
Truva was reluctant to acknowledge Aragorn's perspective, so she turned even further away, and yet somehow she could still sense the glint of firelight in his eyes.
"It was me who planted doubt into the minds of my companions, and I therefore do not wish to make any excuse for myself; I desire only that you might reconsider your feelings toward Legolas and Gimli. They are good, exceptional examples of their kind, and as loyal as can be when they see the truth behind your actions."
"I have little knowledge of Elves, yet I knew of Dwarves long before I ever encountered your company," said Truva with distaste. "I bear little fondness for them."
"You said you were from the Hidlands," Aragorn stated. "In my wanderings as Ranger, I have encountered many a Dwarf who traversed that territory. Most unsavoury characters."
"They trade slaves for minerals," Truva stated plainly.
"Yes," said Aragorn. "But as it is with Men, so it is with Dwarves. Do you believe the Eorlingas to be of the same stock of Men who raised and enslaved you?"
"Of course not," Truva said incredulously. "One oppressed me, one freed me."
"And it is likewise with Dwarves, and all peoples," said Aragorn. "You cannot judge an entire race by the heinous actions of a few. I can assure you that Gimli's kin have never traded in slaves; and as for Legolas, he is headstrong but just. Having proven yourself trustworthy, he will come around.
"I regret having caused them to question your loyalty; the blame lies squarely on my shoulders," Aragorn continued, "I am sorry most of all that I could not prevent them from voicing such doubts before the King you would call father, after all you had been through to aid me."
"I lent succour to you neither for your own sake, nor for my own," said Truva, turning at last to face this Man who would call himself the heir of Isildur. "There is another to whom I owe a great deal, and it is for their sake I went in search of you."
Truva saw a contemplative expression pass across Aragorn's countenance as he attempted to make sense of her words, and she desperately hoped she had not said too much. She quickly glanced away when his eyes scrutinised her face.
"I suppose it would be too much to ask for whose sake it was that you saved me," he said.
"Yes, it would," said Truva. Neither spoke further then, turning to face the great expanse before them, and it was apparent then how frighteningly close the army of Isengard had come. The sound of the Orcs' marching now swelled within the gorge, and while the torches of those closest to the Deeping Wall had been extinguished, it still seemed as though a massive sea of fire extended beyond the rocky spurs of Thrihyrne as far as the eye could see.
After some time, Aragorn asked unprompted, "How do you feel upon this precipice of battle?"
"Nervous," Truva replied frankly without pausing for thought.
Aragorn turned to her in surprise. "You do not seem as one who would be nervous in the face of a fight," he said.
"There is little that does not cause me to be nervous," said Truva. "I fought every other day or so for nigh on ten years, and still nerves plagued me before every match. Now, the stakes are unparalleled; the lives of many depend on me to perform my utmost.
"It was also once said to me that nervousness is the body coming alive, that it is horses running through the heart," she added, her voice hushed.
"Heavy is the burden you have placed upon yourself," said Aragorn, then paused introspectively before continuing, "In the past I have often sought to hide my unease, yet in hearing you speak of it so openly I am reassured. Let us join in battle, anxious but determined."
He held out his hand, asking not for forgiveness but for peace, and Truva considered but a moment before she placed her hand firmly in his, and they shook. Together they rose and returned below, where preparations for battle were being finalised. Théoden King stood grandly upon the ramparts that bordered the inner court, his newfound youthfulness raising him to renewed heights, his white hair stark in the darkness yet warmed by the golden gleam of the firelight reflected upon his battle regalia.
Beside the King stood Erkenbrand, Marshal of the West-mark, ecstatic to be reunited in battle with his commander once more. He barked out orders to the swarming forces as, one terrace lower, Éofa annoyed Éomer with his continual pacing upon the heavily fortified gate. Legolas was occupied with the organisation of an archery division along the Deeping Wall, his Dwarf friend with great axe in tow. Aragorn moved quickly to join his friends, though Truva wished to have no part of them and reported instead to Éomer.
"Shame on those who would accuse you of anything save unfaltering fealty," said the Marshal, with a pointed glare in the direction of Aragorn and the others. "I hope it is needless to say the King and captains were all quick to forgive the charges. You are, now more than ever, one of us."
"Thank you, my lord," said Truva.
"Yet it is with great reluctance that I must place you under both Lord Aragorn's command as well as my own, for your skills are required equally along the Deeping Wall and above the gate. Do you object greatly?"
"As you command, so it shall be done," said Truva, and took a position at the end of the archers' line upon the Wall, a stance that enabled her to assist wherever she was ordered. She looked not to her new commander, however, resentful as she still was and fully aware he was too preoccupied to take note as such, and turned instead to the vast nightmare that loomed.
Battle seemed imminent, for the rumble of the enemy below was distinct, echoing the rumble of horses' hooves that raced through Truva's heart. All enemy torches in the expanse from the Wall to Helm's Dike had been extinguished, yet a roiling darkness could be discerned through the stony embrasures. Anticipation heightened all senses and emotions, and just as the tension reached its climax a strike of lightning split the sky, accompanied by a peal of thunder so loud the reverberations could be felt through the air. Torrential rain began to pour down.
Truva clenched her jaw as the thick drops drummed patterns on her armour before slowly trickling through the crevices to her clothing below. Though the sensation was uncomfortable at first, energy coursed through her increasingly the more drenched she became, and it was a matter of mere minutes before Truva was thoroughly soaked; electricity seemed to crackle through the air and impart a perverse, unparalleled thrill.
Storms had always entranced Truva, and even back in the Hidlands such days had been coveted days to fight among the slaves. The practical element of rain meant a cooling effect on their strained bodies, yet there was also some unknown wildness that overtook the fighters when tempestuous weather reigned.
Down below the Wall, the deluge could also be heard upon the armour of the beasts that lurked there. Time was momentarily suspended, the drops hanging in the air as another tongue of lightning licked the sky and with its blinding light illuminated the scene: Orcs amassed within the gorge and the Eorlingas standing resolutely upon its last defences.
Tense energy erupted into action in an instant. Though Truva had heard no signal from either side, she observed as the foremost ranks of Orcs released a volley of arrows toward the ramparts; and though most of the shafts clattered harmlessly against the stone, a few found their target. A quick motion from Éomer ordered the Eorlingas to hold, so rather than retaliating Truva took the opportunity to scurry about and collect the filthy and oily yet useful Orc arrows. One could never be overly prepared, she shrugged to herself as the other fighters looked on in bemusement.
As Truva moved back into position, those stationed upon the Deeping Wall faced renewed volleys of arrows, more lethal for the enemy having adjusted their range. Aragorn prepared the ranks of archers, readying them to retaliate upon command from Théoden King, and at last it came when Éomer relayed the cry:
"Fire!"
Truva drew her bow at last. The events at the Fords and the encounter with the Uruk-Hai before the Entwood seemed but skirmishes in comparison to the conflict that washed upon the gates of Hornburg; mere battles dwarfed by the full scale of war. She breathed in deep – unhurried, calculating – then peered beyond the embrasure and loosed an arrow at the first target that came into her line of sight. She missed the target, yet her arrow glanced off the Orc's helmet only to drive through the eye of another charging behind, felling the second Orc instantly.
The act did not send a shock of horror through her as it had at the Fords, nor did it give her any sense of illogical pleasure, the likes of which she had experienced when battling the Uruks. Nevertheless, it carried a notion of finality, an acknowledgement that Truva had turned long ago from any path that would allow for the evasion of such monumental events, that her active participation signalled an acceptance of her part to be played. She grimly drew another arrow and set it to her cheek, turning once more to the task of beating back the advancing masses.
Just then, a commotion upon the causeway told of the danger that gathered before the main gate. Between volleys of arrows, Truva peered out beyond the parapet to observe a company of Orcs and Men of Dunland marching two stout battering rams forward, protected by a shell of shields.
"Éomer! The gate!" she cried, for Éomer was preoccupied with the archers before him and did not have a good vantage point of the causeway. Aragorn heard her call and quickly assessed the situation himself.
"Stay here," he ordered Legolas. "The archers look to you for leadership." With that, the Ranger sprinted along the Deeping Wall to Éomer's position.
"Please forgive me for my indiscretion and misjudgement of your warrior," he spoke to the Marshal. "As a token of my sincerity, I offer you my blade now, and hope that you will join me in the defence of your people."
Truva could feel Éomer's eyes turn to her, and although she still grudged Aragorn his actions, she also believed that in facing a common enemy it was best to set all discord aside. She wished foremost for Éomer to arrive at his own determination, however, and so she subtly cocked her head, giving him no indication of her opinion on the matter.
"Cruel as your accusations have been," said Éomer, never taking his eyes from Truva's impassive expression, "I do believe they came from a place of sincerity and concern for our cause. I know not yet whether I shall forgive you, but let us draw our swords and fight together."
As they raced off toward the gate, Truva turned back to her bow. Legolas had taken over command for Aragorn, instructing the Eorlingas to aim toward the Orcs that had begun manoeuvring gigantic ladders toward the Wall. The Riders loosed volley after unceasing volley, taking turns to reload, yet desperate as they were to fend off the enemy, the approach of the menacing war machines still did not halt, or even slow.
Despite the Eorlingas's efforts, the base of the ladders came within close proximity to the walls, and Truva could hear the cries of Uruks below as they strained to leverage the immense wooden contraptions upright. She abandoned at last her bow and drew her sword in preparation for the Uruks' attack, yet anxious to see how Éomer fared, she glanced toward the main gate during a brief lull.
It was with no small amount of satisfaction that she noted the enemy's battering rams had been all but abandoned, and Éomer and Aragorn stood upon the ramp surrounded by a swathe of slain bodies. She watched as they both turned back to the battlements, their work completed, yet even in that very moment two Orcs that had lain falsely amongst the bodies sprung up, swinging wildly at the Eorlingas commander and his Dúnadan companion.
Truva could do nothing save let out an unearthly cry; had she still held her bow in hand she might have let loose a volley in their defence, as deficient as her archery skills were – yet it was her sword hilt she clutched, useless across the vast distance that separated her and her Marshal.
Her shout did not go unheard, however. Legolas stood directly beside her, and in hearing her call his attention was brought to the situation upon the causeway. Without a moment's hesitation, the Elf drew two arrows already notched to his bow and let fly. One struck the giant Orc that leapt for Éomer right through the ear, the other plunging into the neck of the second Orc that already had its arms about Aragorn's torso.
Legolas paused but a second to confirm both enemies had been well and truly slayed before returning his focus to the rising ladders. Truva stared in astonishment for some time before she finally regained her senses and followed the Elf's lead, a wave of gratitude washing over her, for he had been able to act when she could not.
Even in the fierce rain of Eorlingas arrows that fell thicker than the water from the sky, the enemy had managed to shift their ladders into place, and anchoring hooks crashed against stone ramparts. When Orcs began to pour over the defences, Truva wielded her sword with relish, feeling far more protected with its leather-bound hilt in hand than she ever felt with flighty bow and arrow. She solidified her position, often needing no more than a swift front kick to send an enemy over the edge to the depths below.
The Eorlingas upon the Deeping Wall were quickly losing their advantage, however. The flow of Orcs up their ladders was insuppressible, and ropes now joined the ladders to allow even more of the enemy to gain the Wall. Truva exerted herself to the fullest, slashing and stabbing viciously at any adversary that appeared before her, yet it seemed as though two sprung up for every one she eliminated.
Truva was hacking through the rope attached to a grappling hook when the prongs of a ladder latched onto the ramparts with a clang beside her. She made short work of the few remaining strands of the rope – much to the dismay of the Orcs that were already ascending below – but as she turned to the new threat she slipped in the pools of blood that had collected along the entire Deeping Wall.
She suddenly found herself face down upon the battlements, and only just managed to scramble to her back as the first Orc fell upon her. She slayed him instantly with a sharp thrust to his exposed underbelly, yet as soon as she discarded his body to the side and rose halfway from the ground she was beset by three more foes, the very weight of their attack preventing her from gaining her feet.
She swept the legs out from beneath one, but was thrust once more upon her back and could do nothing save weave defensively against the assault of the other two. Behind her assailants, Truva could see even greater masses of Uruks bearing down upon the ramparts, and her line of vision was obscured on all sides by their mottled skin and clanking weapons, their numbers countless.
Arms heavy with exhaustion, heart light with resignation, Truva prepared to raise her blade in one final attack, for she was determined not to part this world without taking a greater portion of evil with her. So absorbed was she in her resolution that she did not register the gravelly roar of a familiar voice, nor the graceful, glinting arc of an axe that cut across the night sky.
It was not until Truva found no enemies stood before her that she returned to her senses and perceived a rather self-contented Dwarf leaning upon his weapon.
"See, that's the advantage of being built so close to the ground!" he said somewhat pompously. "Nigh on impossible to knock a Dwarf off his feet! Twenty-four!"
Truva stared at him in confusion, the haze in her mind exacerbated by exhaustion and the overwhelming stimuli of battle. Before her stood a being from a race she once considered the bane of her existence, the race she believed to have stripped her – or at least many of her ilk – of rights and freedom. There he stood, having not but a few hours before accused her of treason, only to contrarily save her life. The only words Truva could muster were, "Twenty-four?"
"Aye, twenty-four!" he responded. "I've noticed you're a right reaper yourself, but I imagine you've got some work to do if you expect to catch up with that!" And without another moment's hesitation he leapt down onto the staircase below, descending into the Deep behind the Wall where a new commotion was arising, his count rising with each dispatched combatant.
Truva set once more upon the unceasing flow of Orcs, still wrapped in a cloud of perplexion, when suddenly the very stone beneath her feet shook, and a blast that was decidedly not a peal of thunder roared. Fire and smoke rose from the base of the Wall, and when Truva peered over the ramparts she could see an undulating bottleneck of Orcs gathering at a singular point, and the Deeping-stream roiling at the culvert. She heard the Dwarf call out, "Ai-oi! The Orcs are behind the Wall!"
"Retreat!" Truva cried as loud as her lungs would allow, alerting the Eorlingas still trapped further along the Deeping Wall. "Retreat to the outer court! Retreat!"
Fighters flew past her as she fended off the swelling waves of the enemy, ensuring that each of her companions made it to safety. Before retreating herself, Truva glanced once more over the Wall to the Deep within, where Orcs now flowed as freely as water. She could see no Eorlingas warriors or Westfold Men, and could only hope they had taken cover in the Caves beyond.
In a single breathless moment, however, she spied Aragorn struggling to ascend the steps of the keep, pursued closely by Orcs. All progress of time hung suspended in the air when exhaustion caused Aragorn to trip upon the steps. Perched as Legolas was at the height of the stairs, he was able to react immediately, swinging his bow about and sending a shaft through the neck of the nearest Orc who reached out to attack, yet Truva could see it had been the Elf's last remaining arrow. She cast about in a panic, her eyes landing upon a massive boulder that had been dislodged by one of the Orcish ladders.
Truva threw her entire weight against the boulder, her muscles bulging and straining as she manoeuvred the boulder to a place where the battle had hewn a gap in the parapet. Glancing over the edge, she conducted an instant's calculation before shoving the boulder over the edge, right atop the pursuing Orcs below, missing Aragorn by a fraction.
When he and Legolas glanced upward to find the source of their saving grace, however, Truva ducked back behind the parapet, for she was not yet entirely ready to forgive Aragorn and his companions; saving them only complicated her emotions. She instead turned once again to beat back the Uruks that had now wholly overtaken the Wall, and in her retreat she scooped up the armful of arrows she had been collecting ever since the first onslaught, dashing along the battlements toward the barrier of the outer court.
There, Truva encountered Legolas and Aragorn leading a company in blockading the rear gate against the Uruks that stormed the stairs from the culvert. "I noticed you were in need of these," she said as she dumped the arrows at their feet.
Ignoring their speechless response, Truva rushed down to the lower levels of the outer court where the main gate lay in splinters, yet even so the Eorlingas warriors continued to defend a hastily constructed barricade that fortified it. The plight of the Mark seemed hopeless against the unceasing press of Isengard's forces; each onslaught they weathered was followed by another, and with every repetition the Eorlingas' weariness grew and the determination of their enemies strengthened.
The night seemed equally endless, for even as the rain let up the sky became no lighter. Truva strove to bolster the hearts of the fighters yet she could feel their spirit waning. Against the ramparts of the outer court, ladder after ladder was raised from the Deep, repelled again and again by Aragorn and the men he commanded there. Éomer was nowhere to be seen, and upon the battlements of the inner court Éofa struggled alongside Erkenbrand Marshal in defence of the King. The main fortress of Hornburg had not yet been taken, yet it seemed as though it were only a matter of time ere the waves of enemy forces washed over the Eorlingas' faltering defences.
Aragorn unexpectedly appeared then upon the arch above the gate, his hands extended to signal parley. Truva wondered at his actions, for compromise or even surrender clearly held no weight, nor demanded any respect from such heartless opponents; indeed, the teeming masses of Orcs mocked him and called for him to bring out the King, but Aragorn dismissed their demands.
"I look out to see the dawn," he cried out. This only caused the Orcs to deride him more, for they feared not the rising of the sun. "No one knows what the new day shall bring him. Get you gone, ere it turn to your evil."
These words whipped the Orcs into a frenzy, for they felt assured in their victory, and it seemed to them as though Aragorn's words were deprived of any meaning, driven merely by desperation. "Get down or we will shoot you from the wall!" they shouted. "This is no parley. You have nothing to say."
"I have still this to say," said Aragorn. "No enemy has yet taken the Hornburg. Depart, or not one of you will be spared. Not one will be left to take back tidings to the North. You do not know your peril."
Aragorn's words rang false even in her own ears, yet as Truva looked upon the figure who stood in front of her, he suddenly appeared as one who bore a significance far greater than that of any mere Man. An aura shone about him, lending him a strength that could not be articulated – not altogether dissimilar to the way Théodred had risen before Truva's eyes at the Fords. Aragorn's bearing was almost kingly, unreachable, and his words struck fear into her heart, though it was not to her they were directed. Any doubt Truva had ever harboured as to the veracity of the lineage Aragorn claimed evaporated in that moment.
Nor was Truva the only one to feel such a way, for the enemy beyond the gates murmured indecisively for quite some time, trapped in doubt. Their final response, however, was a hail of arrows and a blast at the gate that sent the makeshift barricade flying into the air. Truva and those few Eorlingas who remained below sped for the inner court, followed closely by the forces who defended the rear gate, and Aragorn likewise retreated from the archway.
Even as the warriors clambered over debris and up the steps, hotly pursued by a pack of Uruks, the horn of Helm Hammerhand sounded, its low tones rippling the very flagstones of the keep. The forces of Isengard quailed, as for centuries had so many other enemies of the Mark, yet the note throbbed within the hearts of the Eorlingas and instilled in them a renewed sense of hope.
"Helm! Helm!" came the cries of the Riders from the keep. "Helm is arisen and comes back to war! Helm for Théoden King!"
From deep within the fortress, the King rode forth upon his horse, resplendent in his garb of war, white hair flying on the wind that still stirred behind the storm. He was joined by the King's Riders and other lords of the House of Eorl, and was flanked by Erkenbrand and Éofa. Together, the Riders stormed down from the keep to the lower courts in a rush of hooves, and as they grew closer Truva saw that there, guided by Éofa, was Bron.
With tears of pride and exhaustion in her eyes, Truva leapt upon her horse without a second thought and followed the wave of Riders out onto the causeway, determined to make her last stand worthy of legends, even if there were to be none left to tell them.
"Forth Eorlingas!" cried the King, and with that the dawn sprung into the sky and chased away the night. Behind her, Truva could hear the horns continue to blow. Orcs fled in fear before them as the Riders cut their way through the gorge to Helm's Dike, though they pulled up short when they came upon that narrow path across, for beyond the deep gulf – filled with the bodies of their enemies – a forest had appeared overnight, unnoticed.
An unsettling gloom hung like a mist throughout the forest, and Truva could have sworn she felt it breathe in one slow, purposeful motion; and as ominous as Entwood had seemed to her, the eerie mood of this forest was even darker. The Orcs were clearly wary of the forest as well, for they resorted to scrambling about the edges of the gorge to avoid it.
Their luck was not so great, however, for it was as soon as the first Orcs slipped past the forest that a rider, dressed in pure white and mounted upon a steed of similar colour, appeared over the ridge of the nearest hill. Backed by the light of the rising sun, he raised his glinting sword into the dawn, and the sound of horns rang out around him. A thousand men also appeared, some mounted, many on foot: the forces of Marshal Elfhelm, scattered by the second battle at the Fords, rallied together once again and led by the Wizard Gandalf.
As Théoden King's Riders leapt across the breach in the Dike, the fighters Gandalf had gathered descended from the east, and the forces of Isengard knew not where to turn. The wild Dunlending men threw themselves down upon the ground in surrender, while the remaining Orcs fled into the menacing forest, never to emerge again.