Author's recommended listening: Borodin, In the Steppes of Central Asia
CHAPTER XIV: NORTHWARD BOUND
Truva was thankful the next morning when the rest of camp rose as restless as she, and all riders were about by the time faint daylight began to outline the eastern horizon. Blankets were rolled, utensils were packed, weapons were shouldered, and horses were saddled long before the sun itself could be seen. All parties began to congregate in their appointed groups, but not without several vociferous complaints.
"What d'ye mean he's not coming with us?" demanded Gimli of Gandalf when he learned of Aragorn's departure northward.
"Then we shall go with him!" Legolas added.
"You cannot possibly send Truva away with this Ranger!" said Éomer loudly. Both he and Éofa appeared equally outraged, for Truva was under their command and they would not see her travel alongside one who had so blatantly disrespected all the sacrifices she had made for the Eorlingas, no matter how close they had grown upon drawing blades in battle together.
"Friends," said Aragorn, his tone conciliatory, "Our paths will diverge for but a moment; we will rejoin you soon. Each of our paths is crucial, and our numbers cannot be divided any other way."
"Still, it strikes me as wrong to be left out of a potential adventure," grumbled the Dwarf.
"Come, Gimli, we shall have our own adventure – one which they will assuredly regret having missed out on," said Legolas, turning to the Riders that gathered about Théoden.
"I suppose there will be significantly better eatings in the King's company," said Gimli.
"Your foresight is exceptional," laughed Theoden King. "I shall personally ensure that you do not come to rue your presence among the Horsemen!"
"In that case, let us mount up!" Gimli said, demanding his horse be led to a tree stump so that he might clamber upon Arod, rather than allowing himself to be aided by the Elf. Once the Dwarf was seated, Legolas leapt deftly up behind.
Gandalf and the Hobbit named Peregrin Took departed first and in quite a rush, leaving few words of parting. Éomer and his two companions set off next, quick to move as they were so few in number, yet it was not long after that the remaining Eorlingas followed, led by Théoden King and accompanied by the strange visitors Legolas, Gimli, and the second Hobbit Meriadoc. Their paths lay in the same direction, after all, and thus would travel together until the road split just before Hornburg, where The King would turn toward the fortress and Éofa would continue on to Dunharrow.
Aragorn and Truva alone remained behind, watching the last of the riders as they disappeared between the trees. When they were gone from sight, Truva momentarily fought the urge to dash after them, begging permission to remain in their company. It was with no small amount of trepidation that she eyed Aragorn, who was occupied with strapping his pack to Hasufel. Without so much as a word or a glance, he mounted up and departed northward, in the opposite direction of the others.
Truva scrambled to follow. Exhaustion tugged at her jaw, for she had scarcely left Bron's saddle ever since she had accompanied Théodred and Éomer through the gates of Edoras, and travelling with the taciturn Ranger promised to be nothing more than torturous. Even so, Gandalf had insisted upon the journey, and she had come to trust the Wizard in recent days.
The two were to ride northwest until clear of the Misty Mountains' southernmost tip, after which they would turn fully north and cling to the foothills until they reached their destination; though in truth it still was not entirely clear in Truva's mind what destination that might be. It was a simple enough trek, and Truva was certain she could accomplish it on her own were they to be making for the Hidlands, yet she felt as though there was some hidden purpose she was not privy to. Even as she looked to the taciturn Ranger, he appeared lost in thought.
They travelled at a good clip for the entirety of the day, stopping only briefly to rest and water their horses, taking quick bites themselves before pressing on again. Mountains loomed ever taller before them, and soon they veered north and it was to their right the snow peaked crags rose.
Even after deep darkness fell and Truva had to look to the stars to discern time, as Éomer had taught her, they continued on. It was approaching midnight before Aragorn guided Hasufel to a slight hollow beneath a rocky outcrop and halted. Truva dismounted and immediately set about making camp, though the Ranger stopped her when she began to gather firewood.
"No fires tonight," he said. "We know now why these barren lands in the vicinity of Isengard have been especially treacherous of late, yet it is best not to assume any unnecessary risk. Even with the fall of Saruman's forces, there is no saying what creatures might lurk about."
"Well, there is no great need for a fire, as it is," conceded Truva, noting the surprisingly warm temperature of the evening as she stretched out beside Bron, using her knapsack as a pillow. She felt neither hungry nor terribly tired, so she simply tucked her arms behind her head and watched the dark shadows of clouds scuttle across the sky, obscuring patches of stars here and there. Silence reigned, yet she could tell by the sound of Aragorn's light breathing that he, too, slept not.
At long last, the Ranger asked, "What will it take for you to forgive me?"
"Beg pardon?" said Truva, startled by his words and not entirely sure what to make of them. She turned her head in his direction but could make out no more than his outline in the darkness.
"Not that I expect forgiveness, having been so clearly in the wrong," he quickly amended. "It is merely— We are ostensibly allies…"
He trailed off and did not finish. Conflicting emotions roiled in Truva's mind, for though he had been instigator in the plot against her, his doubt had been born of a concern for the very people she herself wished to protect. Forgiveness was a great hope indeed, but perhaps not inconceivable; and then a thought suddenly struck Truva's mind.
"Teach me," she said bluntly.
"Beg pardon?" It was now Aragorn's turn for confusion.
"The Eorlingas have shown me a great deal, it is true, yet they know little beyond the borders of their own land. I see now that the world is vast and there is so much more to be learned. Teach me of the flora and fauna that we do not know, of tracking in terrain that does not exist in the Mark, of legends and tales we have never heard."
Aragorn quietly mused upon this proposition a moment. "You drive a hard bargain."
"I should hope so, for I do not see any particular need to forgive you otherwise," said Truva, though even as she spoke these words she felt a twinge of guilt, for was it not Aragorn alone who had spoken in support of her sympathy for Gríma?
"Very well," said Aragorn, wrapping himself in his Elven cloak and turning slightly from her as if to sleep. "We shall begin in the morning."
Though they fell silent then, Truva could not shake the feeling that she herself also owed the Ranger some indication of repentance. She made as if to speak several times before gathering sufficient courage to say, "And how might I make reparation for having misjudged you, in return?"
Aragorn did not answer right away, and Truva feared he had indeed fallen off into repose until he spoke at last. "Learn," was his simple answer.
Truva felt as though she had slept no more than a few minutes before Aragorn roused her the next morning. In the grey, early morning light, he led her to the sparse beech woods upon the foothills of the mountains.
"What do you see?" he murmured, his voice a mere wisp carried on air still chill from the night. Truva looked about and saw little more than last winter's dead leaves and seed pods carpeting the dry, mossy forest floor. Despite the lateness of the spring, there was little greenery to hint at anything that might be foraged; it seemed as though Saruman's ill will had seeped into the land itself.
"In truth, I think our breakfast will be limited to what we can forage from our bags," said Truva.
The corner of Aragorn's mouth twitched; or perhaps Truva imagined it, for the Ranger's face was impassive when he said, "Do not be so sure. Even in the darkness of January, the pearly blossom of a snowdrop might peek forth."
He wove through the slight trunks of beech, sweeping dead foliage away here and there as he proceeded along the forest floor. Truva followed forlornly, still exhausted from the battles and lack of sleep, and disheartened by the barrenness of the surrounding land. The grey haze of dawn had already begun to lift before Aragorn beckoned her close.
"The warmth and darkness of fallen leaves often provides the perfect conditions for mushrooms," he said, brushing aside a large drift of leaves to reveal the exposed dirt below. "Look to the base of trees, where moss grows thickly, and you shall discover a new world."
"Are they edible?" Truva asked sceptically, bending low to study the white, funnel-like fungus that sprouted there. She bristled slightly when she sensed the look Aragorn gave her then was somewhat incredulous, but was forced to admit he had found sustenance when she herself would surely have gone hungry. It would not do to so quickly unravel the truce that had been extended the previous night.
Truva reached out to assist Aragorn as he plucked the mushrooms, yet he immediately snatched at her hand. "Not those," he said, shaking his head in warning.
"Why not?" asked Truva. Aragorn took the mushroom from her hands and held it up in comparison with one of his own.
"You see how it is dark yellow in colour?" he asked. "It is false. Chanterelles must always be white; otherwise they are poisonous, and will make you terribly sick."
Truva was truly in awe of the Ranger's expansive knowledge, and she learnt a great deal as the remainder of the early morning passed in a similar manner; Aragorn found also hairy bittercress, and indicated to her what sproutlings were a sign of palatable tubers. There was even the ghost of a good-natured laugh when she experienced the painful setbacks of collecting nettle leaves.
Hardly had they finished enjoying the literal fruits of Truva's labours when they remounted and struck northward, once again hugging the foothills and any feature of the land that obscured them from view. At first they rode in silence, yet they had scarcely gone a league before Aragorn turned to her and spoke.
"What is it you wish to learn?"
"I wish to know of the Rangers of the North, and the lands you protect, as well as those from which you and your ancestors came," she said. From Aragorn's sharp glance she knew she had requested no brief fireside yarn, yet his expression quickly reverted to one of neutrality; for it would not do to squander any opportunity to make amends, and such enthusiastic students were even rarer.
"Very well," he said. "The Rangers of the North devote the vast majority of their time and energy to ensuring the security of the Shire – that is, the lands of the Hobbits – from those who would ravage it; though you must not speak a word of this to my companions, for the Halflings like to think their peace and security is due to their own reclusiveness. I would not like to shatter that illusion of safety, though it was not so long ago they took up arms against the Orcs of Mount Gram in the Battle of Greenfields."
"I should also like to hear that story," interjected Truva. Aragorn merely glanced in her direction before continuing.
"Even so, we Rangers live a largely nomadic life, and do not come together often. I spent my youth alone, roaming The Wild and learning of the peoples that traversed those lands; and so you must understand my surprise in learning that the Hidlands were not a mere contrivance of those churlish Dwarves that bartered there, but a very real place that I had not succeeded in locating."
"Did they not tell you of its whereabouts?"
"And reveal their source of riches, so that the Rangers might bring an end to such exploitation?" he said, incredulous. "No, they were no fools. The secret of the Hidlands was well kept; even those Dúnedain who came before knew little of it. They wandered the far corners of Eriador and Rhovanion, yet were likewise blind to its existence."
And so Aragorn wove tales of the northern lands as they rode, and of the Númenóreans who came from the sea to populate Arnor before fading away. For one who had hitherto been so reticent, it was astounding how loquacious the Ranger could be, given a topic to speak upon. Even so, Truva paid equal attention to Aragorn's unspoken movements as his lectures, noting the way in which he kept watch of their surroundings or navigated the difficult terrain, for she was determined to learn as much as she possibly could during their time together, however short or long that might be.
As the light faded that evening, Aragorn showed Truva new methods of tracking, revealing to her the secrets of the barren lands that stretched westward from the Misty Mountains as far as the eye could see. They quickly gave up their task, however, for a sharp wind passed that night from over the peaks, bringing with it a heavy mist of rain.
They made camp in a rocky area, and knowing that Bron always grew feisty in the rain – and made it abundantly clear he despised being wet – Truva pitched a canvas tarp off a small escarpment to ward off the chill and damp. Believing their position to be sufficiently distant from whatever shadows of Saruman's ill will lingered, Aragorn surmised they might risk a fire, and thus both warriors and their equine companions made themselves as comfortable as could be, tucked between the windscreen and rock.
The wind howled as they supped upon a simple dinner before lounging beside the fire. Aragorn observed with bemusement as Truva unlaced her soaking boots and placed them by the fire, then proceeded to peel off her wool socks and likewise hang them to dry. Though the Ranger said nothing, he hid his expression of amusement by bending his head over his pack in search of his pipe, so as not to offend.
"I have heard tell of men dying from wearing wet boots in the cold too long," said Truva sombrely, noting Aragorn's repressed mirth and nevertheless choosing to ignore it. She wiggled her toes before the flames with great satisfaction. "There are a great many noble ways to die, yet I would not count that as one amongst them."
The amusement passed from Aragorn's face then, and after hesitating only briefly, he too removed his boots and socks, setting them before the fire. They sat a moment, silent save the crackling of the fire and the eerie whistle of wind and rain through scraggly trees. Having found his pipe, Aragorn struggled to light it in the damp air.
Truva recalled a story she had often been told on similarly windy nights in the Hidlands. Inclined suddenly to extend toward Aragorn a small gesture of forgiveness, she said, "Many stories of your people and their history you have told me today; shall I not return the favour, and speak a short piece on the beliefs of the place from whence I came?"
"Indeed, I would greatly appreciate a story," said Aragorn, finally succeeding in setting fire to his pipe.
"It is said in the Hidlands that when the wind howls thus, a new slave has come into being," said Truva, her voice solemn as she gazed off into the nothingness of the night. "It is said that the sound of the wind is the crying of an abandoned baby, and that the free villager who finds it will surely grow rich. All 'found' slaves are attributed to this legend, thus allowing many owners to lie unabashedly about the birthdate of their property, and turn fighters profitable long before their tenth birthday."
Truva paused a moment before she continued. "It was not until later that I discovered there is a fissure in the rocks toward the north of the Valley, and when the wind blows frightfully, the sound of it streaming between the fissure mimics the sound of a wailing babe. I know it is no more than a tale, yet it haunts me in some inexplicable way even now."
"The Dúnedain have a similar story," said Aragorn, and as he spoke Truva gazed across the fire, only to see the precise image Meriadoc had described: Strider, reclining easily against his rucksack, wrapped in a dark cloak with his long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles, and smoking casually as though all the cares of the world could not penetrate his serenity.
The kingly air she had glimpsed upon the gates of Hornburg had fallen away, as had the sense of mystery he effused upon their initial meeting, to reveal a Man and nothing more – a Man whose simplicity rendered his deeds all the more spectacular. It was then that Truva at last felt as though she had begun to decipher Aragorn somewhat, as though his existence had gained some weight of actualization, and she felt a degree of her resentment toward him slip away.
"It is said that long ago, two Rangers fell in love, yet they were incapable of conceiving a baby for many years," he spoke. "When at last they bore a child, it was stolen away and they spent their lives in search of the babe. The cry of the wind is their lament for their lost child."
"Two stories not so similar, yet both alike in the suffering of Man," said Truva, and Aragorn stared pensively into the distance, the glow of his pipe gently illuminating the features of his face. They spoke no more, and merely settled in for what little rest they might get before the dawn.
For several days, a similar pattern of long riding and quiet nights repeated, then days turned into weeks. Whether at Truva's prompting, or upon spying some mark of the land, or even his own internal thought, Aragorn was alway quick to pick up the thread of his teachings. He avoided speaking on events of the present, choosing instead to erudiate on histories and legends, and though Truva sensed there was a great deal he was concealing from her regarding their current circumstances, she did not press.
It was thus that the two riders spied at last the river Glanduin, the first remarkable feature of land that was not mountain. Truva was glad for the promise of a thorough wash, yet the land itself was no more flourishing for the presence of water. In the distance a second arm of the river also appeared, and as they neared it Aragorn pointed toward the three peaks of Celebdil, Caradhras, and Fanuidhol.
"The Mountains of Moria," he said. "Beneath them lies the city of Khazad-dûm, which predates the very lives of Men. In the Years of the Trees Durin began its construction, and by the Second Age it boasted Dwarven smithies and craftsmen of greatest renown, who were in close alliance with the Elves of Ost-in-Edhil and the surrounding Eregion.
"I suspect we shall come upon the ruins of that city soon," he said, his jaw tightening.
"Ruins? What became of it?" asked Truva.
"Not now," Aragorn shook his head. A strange mood had overcome him. "Be wary of Orcs."
Truva was startled by his sudden reticent turn, but there was not a soul to be seen as the tumbled spires and overgrown walls of Ost-in-Edhil reared up at the meeting of the two rivers. Despite millenia of disrepair, the skill of the city's construction was apparent, for the well-laid stone meant great swaths of the immense walls and turret foundations still stood. Aragorn approached the southern gate cautiously, dismounting and moving silently among the ivy-covered remnants of guard towers and markets and residences, Truva following closely behind.
When it became clear they would not be met with any unexpected visitors that night, they made camp in the dilapidated ruins of the easternmost gate, which faced the Misty Mountains. They set no fire, and no stories were shared as dusk turned to darkness. Truva squinted to discern her companion's shadowy figure, yet he gave no indication as to what had caused his change in temperament.
Even after they passed beyond the Glanduin the following morning, Aragorn's countenance continued to alter subtly the more the land slipped by beneath them. His pace quickened, and his lectures came less frequently. Though he was ever on alert, he grew more introspective, and seemed simultaneously eager yet hesitant to travel further. The Ranger's renewed taciturnity unnerved Truva, for she did not know its reason – whether she had unwittingly caused some offence, or there was some danger she was oblivious to, or some other, unspoken source of tension.
After some days, the quiet but steady sound of flowing water could be heard off in the distance to the west. As they continued on their path, the land became more lush and the sound of water gradually grew until it became an almost deafening roar.
"The Bruinen," said Aragorn when at last the river came into view, wide and roiling and fierce. "Also known as Loudwater."
"Aptly named," Truva remarked.
"We will not have to cross it yet," said Aragorn. They followed the river northeastward then, and camped one night upon its banks. Truva caught a spectacularly large trout to prove to Aragorn that the Eorlingas had, in fact, taught her a great many things, including how to fish. She longed to wrap it in big, thick leaves and steam it as Théodred had shown her, yet it had been long since Truva had seen any plant that produced sufficiently large leaves, and chose instead to grill the fish over a low fire.
When Truva stood to clear away the remnants of their meal, Aragorn waved her away. "Get some sleep," he said, taking over for her. "Tomorrow will be a big day."
His prophetic words caused Truva to wonder whether they neared the Hidlands as she feared, and her stomach turned at the thought of returning once more to the place of her youth. Despite the length of their journey, the uncertainty of its destination meant Truva had not been afforded the opportunity to brace herself in the face of past memories. She found it difficult to sleep that night, and woke several times; yet each time her eyes opened, she could see by the light of the moon and the tiny red glow of his pipe that Aragorn still sat awake.
The next morning, Truva awoke naturally just before the dawn, having grown accustomed to rising at Aragorn's prompting, which came even earlier than Éomer's. She mechanically broke her own camp, yet even as she did so she found Aragorn in the exact same position a the previous night, already prepared to depart.
All morning they traversed the rocky banks of the river, and save a brief respite for the horses around midday, continued on even as the sun passed overhead and began to lean toward the west. The sunset was beginning to splash heated colours across the currents of the Bruinen when they came upon a well-worn road that emerged from the west before fording the river and turning north.
Aragorn turned away from the bridge and instead followed the road ever north, though a rocky arm of the mountains now lay directly before them. The Bruinen split some distance further along, and still they followed the southern stream, their path quickly gaining in elevation and rocky cliffs flying up around them on both sides. Truva could not see where the road led beyond the numerous twists and turns of the road.
This area did not look familiar to her at all; it certainly did not resemble the entrance to the Hidlands that she recalled from her momentous dash toward freedom. The vegetation that grew on the surrounding slopes clearly thrived off the waters of the Bruinen and were vastly different from the dry, alpine foliage that Truva had known to grow in her homeland. She briefly considered asking Aragorn where they were headed, yet dared not when she saw the intense, pensive look upon his face.
She did not have to wait long to learn, however, for they had hardly walked another hour ere they reached a crest that squeezed between a narrow gap in the cliffs. From that vantage point became visible a sight that Truva would have considered unfathomable had she not witnessed it with her own eyes, spread out before her in the purple twilight.
High upon all sides rose sharp mountain peaks like a crown. They encircled a deep, narrow valley carved out over millennia by the roaring waters of the Bruinen, which was fed by countless falls cascading down the rocky terrain. Nestled deep within stood a city of extraordinarily delicate architecture, the likes of which Truva had never beheld in all her life. Gatehouse and hall, ramparts and home were all woven seamlessly into the surrounding scenery, mere extensions of the trees themselves rather than intentional constructions. Even still, the entire valley felt empty and hollow, as though nature had taken over residence.
The path beneath the travellers' feet led down along the mountainside and over a smaller fork in the river. Upon the far side of the bridge, walls rose straight up from the river far below, the only entrance an arch flanked by two figures carved of stone, standing as if on guard. Truva followed Aragorn as he picked his way along the path and passed through the gate, beyond which lay a courtyard.
He paused and looked about as if searching for something, yet Truva could discern no one and nothing save the rush of water below. She jumped when a loud, clear voice called out suddenly from upon a flight of shallow stairs to their right.
"Aragorn! It is high time you arrived," said the voice, and a figure slowly emerged from the gathering darkness. Dressed in deep, earthy browns, this being towered above Aragorn, who was no diminutive man himself. Perched gracefully upon his brow was an elegant silver band, and dark as his complexion was in comparison to the ethereal appearance of Legolas, the same regal nature clearly marked the two as of similar origin.
Gríma's lessons all came rushing back, and Truva knew then where they were; Rivendell, dwelling of the High Elves: Imladris!
"Lord Elrond!" responded Aragorn. "Are you a sight for sore eyes, if you will pardon my indelicacy."
"I have heard what befell you in Rohan," said the puissant Elf, "And thus I will begrudge you no ill manner of speaking. I am happy to see you well."
"And I you," said Aragorn, and the two embraced.
"Your timing is impeccable, for there is one here who is most anxious to see you."
Aragorn's head picked up at these words, an unreadable expression flashing across his face. Was he ecstatic at the Elf's words? Did he fear them? The ambiguity suggested both.
"Ah, here he comes now," said Elrond. Within the shadows of a secondary pathway could be discerned a tall figure with an air of stateliness that Truva thought rivalled Aragorn himself. It was a Man, regal and stern-faced, garbed in an elegant grey cloak yet entirely unadorned, save a single silver clasp upon his left shoulder in the shape of a rayed star.
Aragorn stood motionless for a moment before a smile crept across his face. "Halbarad!" he exclaimed before moving swiftly to embrace the Man.
"And well it is to see you, my captain!" said the newcomer, returning the gesture. "Little news I had of you for far too long, and that which I did hear was dismaying. I was glad to receive your summons, and immediately gathered those I could find. We Dúnedain are thirty strong or so here in Rivendell."
"Summons?" questioned Aragorn. "Glad as I am of this state of affairs, I sent no summons."
"You may discuss the mystery later," interrupted Elrond. "There is supper set in anticipation of your arrival, and a great many who wish to greet you."
The Elven lord appeared almost unearthly as he motioned for servants to come forward and lead Bron and Hasufel to the stables, then gestured for the two travellers to follow after himself. Aragorn and Halbarad walked with arms about each other's shoulders, chatting amicably as Truva trailed behind, feeling entirely as though she did not belong in this elegant refuge of Elves.
At one point as they walked, Halbarad motioned his hand toward her and Aragorn turned to say, "Ah yes, I had forgotten. This is Truva, a soldier of Théoden, King of Rohan."
Halbarad turned and bowed in greeting. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Truva of Rohan." His gaze conveyed nothing save the greatest respect, yet Aragorn's dismissive attitude stung and she could not meet this stranger's eye in confidence.
"The pleasure is mine," she replied reservedly, bowing in kind then sinking back into silence as Aragorn and Halbarad returned to their conversation. Truva occupied herself with taking in the magnificent architecture as they wove their way along paths cobblestoned in moonlight to an enormous hall, illuminated as though a star shining across time. The building had seemed so much smaller from across the valley, yet it rose up to an immense height as Truva stood before its doors, and its peak she could not discern through the darkness.
When they entered, the travellers were greeted foremost by the delectable smell of food, which lay heaped upon a long table that extended from the entrance all the way to the far end of the hall. A few dozen guests were already seated about the table, almost all similar in appearance to Halbarad, though several Elves could be seen sitting amongst them.
Upon Aragorn's appearance, they all rose and gave a great rousing cry. Truva was once again reminded of the Man she had glimpsed upon the gate of Hornburg – not of the solitary warrior she had encountered crossing the plains of the Mark, nor the unguarded figure of Strider beside a campfire, but the striking image of a leader others felt inexplicably inclined to follow.
"Welcome back, my lord!" called one man from the back, a greeting echoed by many others. As the clamour petered out, Elrond moved toward his seat upon a raised dais at the head of the table, yet even when Aragorn took a place below at the lord's right hand, he appeared almost equally regal. Halbarad stood opposite Aragorn, and invited Truva toward the chair beside him.
Once Elrond was seated, all others at the table followed suit, and it was with great discomfort that Truva allowed Halbarad to hold her seat out for her. She wondered why she was not bade to sit beside Aragorn, for the chair to his right had been left unoccupied. As dismissive as his earlier behaviour had been, Truva felt she would be far more at ease in the company of a familiar companion rather than that of the new stranger, Halbarad.
She became entirely distracted, however, when upon Elrond's invitation dinner began. All guests set upon the food arranged before them with great relish, though none more so than Truva, who had for weeks been subsisting off what little the land offered. To her surprise, the fare was composed exclusively of plants: grains, fruits, mushrooms, tubers and the like; yet it was prepared with such a degree of skill that Truva considered nothing to be lacking and very quickly became sated.
Halbarad made light conversation all the while, unheeding of Truva's reticent turn – for she far preferred food to discourse. He spoke of how he and Aragorn had long patrolled the Northern lands as Rangers, and explained that those who sat about the table dressed as he was were likewise Dúnedain, gathered by ill news that emerged from the south. Despite his evident curiosity, Halbarad was respectful in his restraint and did not pry into details about Truva herself, instead filling her silence with his own blithe stories.
The meal continued, and Elrond was poised to lift his glass in toast when a side door of the hall opened, through which entered the most beautiful figure Truva had ever gazed upon. All present rose to their feet, and Truva scrambled to follow as she gaped in awe at this new arrival. She was clearly Elven, for her dark hair contrasted with luminous skin, and she was garbed in forest green robes that cascaded down her tall, lithe frame. A silver circlet rested upon her brow, making immediately apparent her resemblance to Elrond.
"Ah, my daughter!" cried Elrond. "Your timing is impeccable. Come, join us for a glass of wine and some stories."
The Elf said nothing in response, merely nodded in acknowledgement of her father and glided toward the seat at Aragorn's side, which Truva could then see was far more exquisite than any other in the hall save that of Elrond. She felt silly for having momentarily supposed that she herself might have sat there. An unfamiliar feeling crept its way into her heart as she watched Aragorn pour the Elf a glass of wine and offer it to her.
"To the future," said Elrond, raising his own glass. "May it transpire not in the manner that we fear, and better than we might hope!"
"To the future!" the entire hall echoed. Truva realised then that she had a glass but no wine. She gave her glass a perfunctory wave, made as if to take a sip from it, then returned to her seat once others did so.
"Arwen," Halbarad murmured, noticing Truva's eyes upon the new arrival as he rectified her predicament by pouring wine into her glass.
"Peg pardon?" said Truva, accepting the glass ambivalently, once more only pretending to drink from it. The memory of her first experience with alcohol was still clear in her mind, and knowing that she had gone so long eating so little, she was hesitant to repeat the experience before a great many strangers that appeared far less welcoming than the Eorlingas.
"Her name is Arwen," repeated Halbarad, surreptitiously nodding his head toward the Elf, who was now engaged in a whispered conversation with Aragorn, their heads bent reservedly toward each other. Some peculiar mood engulfed the two; an enigmatic expression lay upon Aragorn's face, for a slight smile played at his lips, while his eyes retained the storm of emotions they had taken on in the past few days. As for the Elf, Truva found her wholly inscrutable yet beautiful beyond comprehension.
"She is the daughter of Elrond, sister to Elladan and Elrohir," Halbarad continued, indicating two Elves of stunningly similar appearance who sat further down the table.
"I see," said Truva simply. Despite having so many more questions, she remained silent; the time did not feel appropriate, nor did she feel she knew Halbarad well enough to ask anything further. She allowed the Dúnadan to resume his tales, and continued to glance across the table.
It became apparent to her that it was Arwen who had bestowed the Stone of Eärendil upon Aragorn. If her suspicions were correct, however, it would be a terrible blow to Éowyn; there would be no comparison to the inimitable Elven daughter of Imladris' lord. Yet even as she watched, their expressions altered almost imperceptibly, and Truva struggled further to discern what transpired between them.
The meal went on for some while longer, and though Truva had consumed far more than her fill, she was unable to stop herself and continued to nibble morsels of food now and again. It was to her great relief that the entire party retired at last through a corridor to an adjacent hall, where tall columns reached to the lofty ceiling and seat upon seat was arranged about a cheerily blazing fireplace. Truva secreted herself away into a corner as all diners found their places, yet she did not manage to evade the attention of Halbarad, who joined her. Elrond took a seat upon a throne of woven sapling branches, positioned to one side of the resplendent hearth, and Arargorn, accompanied by Arwen, sat opposite.
A chair placed directly before the fire, however, was soon occupied by Elladan – or perhaps it was Elrohir, Truva could not be sure. The Elf's full, sonorous voice rang out in words Truva could not understand, and yet there was little need for comprehension, for meaning still somehow pierced her breast and moved her almost to tears. The melody lilted its way through the air, spinning a golden nest that enshrouded Truva and made her feel as though she and the music alone existed in an isolated sanctuary, impenetrable to the outside world.
Halbarad leaned in close. "It is the love story of Lúthien and Beren, and the heartbreak of Daeron."
"Ah, I think I have heard this tale," said Truva. "Upon falling in love, Lúthien presented Beren to her father, who disapproved of his Elven daughter choosing a mere mortal and thus set Beren upon an impossible task…"
Truva fought to continue the tale Aragorn had told her upon their travels, yet as each new wave of tender music washed overhead, her consciousness began sinking beneath the surface of wakefulness to a long-sought refuge, a haven she had not realised how desperately she desired. She entrusted her entire body and mind to the feeling, suddenly overwhelmed by a tranquillity and security that she had never known to exist.
All sense of time was lost, and all at once she found herself waking from sleep. The other brother, whether Elrohir or otherwise, sat upon the chair singing a different tune. Halbarad was no longer beside her, and Aragorn and Arwen were absent as well. Reluctant to submit herself again to a complete lack of control, Truva stood and slipped out through one of the numerous doors that led from the hall.
She found herself in a courtyard, bordered by elegant hedges and the sound of the Bruinen rushing far below. Flagstones gleamed in the clear moonlight, yet her feet made no noise as they crossed over the cool yard and down a side path that led up toward the mountains. Not knowing where to go, or where she was expected to quarter that night, Truva followed her nose to the one place she knew she would feel comfortable: the stables.
It was just as she passed over a bridge spanning a tiny creek that Truva collided with a dark figure emerging from another path.
"Oh, terribly sorry, my Lady!" the figure said.
"Ah, Halbarad," said Truva. "Firstly, I am a soldier, not a lady; and secondly, I am afraid I must seem inescapable to you tonight."
"On the contrary, my lady, it is I who must seem frustratingly unshakable," said Halbarad, ignoring her correction. "Although, in all honesty, I did believe the Elves' entrancing spell would claim you at least a little while longer."
"Why do you wander about this evening, while all the others linger in the hall?" asked Truva.
"I might ask of you the same," said Halbarad.
"I was attempting to find the stables, to check on my horse."
"Well, that is far less nefarious than my own purpose," said Halbarad with a laugh.
"Which would be?" prompted Truva.
"Come, allow me to show you." Halbarad beckoned as he guided her further along the path, following the creek that trickled over its stony bed before tumbling into a vast pond. The gentle moonlight reflecting upon the water's surface revealed banks overgrown with flowering rushes, and far upon the opposite side arched an elegantly carved bridge.
Halbarad shushed Truva, though she made no sound, and gestured for her to hide behind the pillars of a gazebo a short distance ahead. She did not understand his desire for secrecy at first, but then he indicated the bridge to her and she understood.
Peering into the dim surroundings, Truva could just scarcely distinguish two figures standing upon the slope of the bridge, awash in the diffused light of the moon. A single glance was all she required to confirm it was Aragorn and Arwen, arm in arm, talking so low that nothing save murmurs reached across the pond.
"Do you know their story?" whispered Halbarad.
"I know little of Aragorn, and even less of the Elves," said Truva.
"Many moons ago, Aragorn told me of how he fell in love with Arwen the very moment she returned from Lothlórien to Imladris, yet as he was still in his youth, it was not until a great many years later that the entrancing Lady Arwen came to return his affections."
"Man and Elf, mortal and immortal, just like Lúthien and Beren."
"It was by no accident Elrohir chose to sing that song this night," said Halbarad. So the first to sing had been Elrohir, Truva noted. She gazed out across the pond at the two figures, so close together they had become one.
As she watched, a flash of silver and green streaked across the rippling waters, as of a star willing itself to shine brighter in oppressive darkness. The light intensified for the briefest of moments before plunging suddenly into the depths of the pond, where it slowly descended ere fading from view entirely. Truva heard Halbarad give a slight intake of breath, yet all significance was lost on her.
She continued to gaze into the water after the disappeared gleam, until after a pause Halbarad tapped his fingers at her elbow. "Let us go now; there is not much more for us to see. I do believe you were bound for the stables?"
And with that, he led her back along the path by which they had come, guiding her on a convoluted route that ultimately arrived at Truva's original destination. The grandeur of the stables was in keeping with the rest of Imladris, for though the walls were low the roof came to a delicately arched peak, and carved into every beam was intricate latticework that depicted the equine history of the Elven haven.
As Truva pushed aside the elegant gates, Bron's impatient snorts were easily distinguished from the reserved silence of mounts that occupied neighbouring stalls. Her worries were placated upon seeing he had been immaculately groomed – his mane and tail even braided in the style of Elves – and she ran her hands over him admiringly. Halbarad gave words of praise, and Bron responded approvingly when he proffered countless treats.
When at last they took their leave of the contented horse, Halbarad said, "Come, you must be weary. I know where it is you are expected to sleep tonight."
As soon as he spoke thus, Truva found his words surprisingly insightful, for she was far more tired she herself had realised. Lacking the energy to so much as reply, Truva merely followed when Halbarad led her up a series of staircases to a patio that overlooked the valley. Her drooping eyes took in few details, save her meagre possessions stowed neatly along one wall and a sleeping gown laid upon a massive, enticing bed.
"I believe it is time I take my leave," said Halbarad, bowing before retreating from the patio and melting into the darkness. Even had he granted her time to wish him goodnight, Truva did not think the words would come; speaking required too great an effort. She collapsed at once upon the bed, and was fast asleep before she could summon the strength to remove her travel-worn clothes.
While trench foot wasn't so much as noted until 1812, please consider its addition a writerly whim.