Author's recommended listening: Rachmaninoff, Isle of the Dead
CHAPTER XX: THE RED ARROW
Truva tossed and turned in the darkness, feeling as though she would never sleep after all she had overheard of Aragorn's conversation with the King. Even so, she must have succumbed to fitful slumber at some point in the night, for soon she was waking in the dim light of early dawn. When she listened carefully, Truva heard no indication of the camp waking beyond her tent, and yet she knew she could sleep no longer. She rose and emerged from her tent to find a thick fog settled upon Firienfeld. Not a single soul moved about in the stillness.
Truva threw a cloak over her shoulders to ward off the early morning chill and went in search of the place she knew would always calm her nerves. In the hastily erected stables, Bron was mischievously nosing his slumberous companions, looking particularly presentable after a stable hand had given him a wash. Truva raided the snack bin and approached her companion with an outstretched apple, which he consumed voraciously despite the early hour.
Truva smiled to herself as she began to groom Bron, who leaned into every stroke of the brush. She paused every now and then to feed him a treat, sneaking one to neighbouring Hasufel as well. Their long, strenuous journey had left both horses looking somewhat gaunt, and it upset Truva to see the way their sinew and muscles appeared so clearly defined.
"Like rider, like horse," a voice spoke softly in the morning tranquillity. Truva glanced behind her to see Aragorn leaning against the entrance post of the stables.
"Whatever does that mean?" said Truva.
"It has been a long while since any of us have had sufficient rest or sustenance," Aragorn explained, running his hands along Hasufel to inspect the horse's condition. "How is your body healing?"
"Astoundingly fast, thanks to your expertise and the surprising efficacy of athelas. I feel almost as though I had never sustained any injury at all," Truva replied. She arranged her posture in a way that minimised how apparent the pain in her leg was, though it was clear from the Ranger's expression that he remained unconvinced. Truva made as if to speak several times before finally summoning the courage to ask, "Why do you insist on departing so hard upon your arrival?"
"That which must be done, must be done; the pressing nature of events that lie before us cannot so easily be dismissed," said Aragorn. Truva allowed silence to fill the void for a time before he continued, "Will you not join us?"
"And find myself yet again in the company of three Elves, a Dwarf, and a handful of madmen?" she quipped. "I would sooner walk the Paths of the Dead!"
Aragorn smiled wryly and ducked his head. "I understand that preferring to 'walk the Paths of the Dead' is a common phrase amongst the Rohirrim, but will you not seriously consider my offer?"
Truva paused to carefully select her words before she replied. "There is nothing I desire more than to journey beyond the Dimholt with your company."
He looked hopeful at these words, saying only, "I sense there is a caveat."
"My duty lies elsewhere," she said.
"The Hidlanders," he sighed.
"Yes, the Hidlanders."
"Would that others viewed their duties with equal sacrosanctity," Aragorn muttered, and Truva knew he spoke of Éowyn.
"The path of the warrior is one both you and I have chosen," she said, "Thus all possible ends that lie within the scope of our duties are ones we must accept – whether it be our will or otherwise. Yet there are others who were denied this path and forced upon another not of their choosing; who are we to judge their discontent in fate?"
"I suppose you are right," said Aragorn. "It was callous of me to look unfavourably upon those who desire nothing more than to serve their people as best they may."
Truva knew that Éowyn desired a great deal more than serving the people of the Mark, yet said nothing. She had convinced Aragorn to form a positive conception of Éowyn in his mind, and that had been her hope.
A strange expression stole then across Aragorn's face, and he began fidgeting in a manner most unlike him. "Is there truly no way I might convince you to accompany us? It is madness, I know, for death almost certainly awaits; yet our hope would surely be brighter were one of your fortitude to ride amongst our number. Are your people not undoubtedly safe with the Rohirrim?"
"It is not fear that stays me, for I suspect that death awaits upon all paths we might take in these dark days," said Truva. "Yet I cannot abandon the Hidlanders, to leave them without a leader of their own kind to guide them on their course, safe as they might be under Eorlingas care."
Not even the stony countenance of Aragorn could conceal the disappointment in his eyes as he murmured, "Then may we pass unharmed through the shadows that obscure our paths, to fight side by side upon the battlefield once more."
At that very moment, Halbarad ducked through the flaps of the temporary stables, as agreeable as ever and oblivious to the brooding atmosphere that hung between Aragorn and Truva. "Here to join us, Truva?" he inquired enthusiastically.
"I am afraid not," said Truva, "I am here only to see you on your way, and wish you a fruitful journey free of misfortune."
"That is a shame, for a fighter such as yourself would be a great asset to us," Halbarad cajoled.
"Let her be," said Aragorn. Halbarad raised his eyebrows at the subtle sharpness that cut through the Ranger's words, yet his sanguine countenance did not alter. Aragorn glanced away suddenly, and with one last pat of Hasufel's withers, he moved to the next stall. The horse that stood there was far larger than Hasufel, sturdy and rough-haired, similar to those ridden by the other Dúnedain.
"Come, Roheryn," said Aragorn, clicking his tongue as he took the horse's lead and led it away without so much as a goodbye.
"Do not mind him," said Halbarad to Truva with a gentle smile. "Uncertainty weighs most heavily in the minds of those who are depended upon to demonstrate unwavering conviction."
"Will he not ride Hasufel?" she asked, desperately casting about for any topic save the internal conflict of Aragorn.
"Hasufel has borne Aragorn far and served him well; he is deserving of a long rest in his homeland. These past many years in the north, however, it was Roheryn who kept Aragorn company, and it is time the two were reunited."
"Why is it then that Aragorn did not ride his horse from Rivendell?"
"He thought it best to ride Hasufel as far as Rohan, ensuring that Roheryn remained fresh for whatever unknown journey lay beyond. And it is to that journey we must now go," said Halbarad, laying a hand upon Truva's shoulder and looking upon the peculiar, proud figure that stood before him with only the faintest glimmer of despondency in his eyes.
"Though I cannot evade the path that lies before me now," he continued, "I would embark with a lighter heart if I had but some assurance that you would reappear upon it at some later juncture."
"Whether it shall be soon or in the distant future I cannot say, yet we will meet again, Halbarad, Ranger of the North; of this I am certain. In profound darkness, even the faintest of lights shines bright."
Even as his hand fell from her shoulder, a trickle of Dúnedain warriors began to stream into the stables and set about preparing their mounts. Truva could do little more than stand aside and observe as the Rangers and those who would accompany them – the three Elves and Gimli – drifted in and out on their various tasks. All displayed surprise to see Truva about so early, and reacted with polite dismay when informed that she would not be joining them.
As the company made ready to depart not even an hour later, Théoden King appeared, accompanied by all three Marshals and a handful of his captains. Chaya arrived soon after; for the Dúnedain had paid great honour to her brother in his passing, and she wished to bid farewell to the stately warriors she had come to respect.
The Eorlingas looked on, apprehension etched deeply into their faces. Despite Aragorn's unyielding determination, the King took it upon himself to make one last appeal to the Ranger in the hopes that he might abandon his path, for it would most certainly end in death – not only that of Aragon and his companions, but also that of the Riders they might otherwise have aided.
"Will you not reconsider?" implored the King, gazing with trepidation in the direction of Dimholt. "Death is all that you will find on that road. They do not suffer the living to pass."
"They may suffer me to pass," replied Aragorn, and in these words the King sensed such unwavering spirit that he relented and said no more.
From behind the King approached Éowyn, clasping a bowl in her hands. She brought the bowl to her lips before offering it to Aragorn, who sipped in turn, saying, "I drink to the fortunes of your House, and of you, and of all your people. Beyond the shadows we may meet again!"
He bowed deeply before Théoden King, then leaped into the saddle and set off under the imposing shadow of Dwimorberg, never once looking back. The Grey Company followed, passing from those who remained behind. Each bore a resolute expression that veiled their melancholy thoughts. Halbarad turned and held his hand aloft in parting, then all were lost from sight within the crevasse of the Haunted Mountain.
Théoden King sighed. "There is naught we can do for them now save hope they fare better than legend portends."
Truva gazed for some time toward the space from which the company had disappeared, rooted in place by conflicting emotions. It was not until Éomer linked his arm in hers that she regained any corporeal awareness with a slight start.
"Come, let us have breakfast," he said, leading her away. Together, they wandered down to where the tables still lay from the previous night's feast. Riders chatted here and there over morning toast, blissfully unaware of the peril a subsection of their host had of their own will subjected themselves to.
"I spoke with the King early this morning," said Éomer as he took a seat across from Truva, pulling toward him the basket of bread that had been set out, spreading a slice liberally with butter and berry preserves. "He has requested that you hold training for the Hidlanders a short while after breakfast. We will run combined drills with the main forces in the afternoon."
"Do we not ride immediately for Gondor?" she asked, accepting the bread he offered her.
"I suspect we will not break camp unless an official request of aid from the Steward himself is received," said Éomer, lowering his voice. "Long have the relations between our two lands been strained, and so Théoden King is reluctant to take any action that might be misconstrued by our ally as aggressive.
"The Wizard Gandalf has come and gone in counsel several times since your departure, and always he promises the Steward's mind will sway favourably; yet ever is it on the cusp of being so, and never is it actually so."
"I was astonished by our force gathered here," said Truva, her voice equally hushed. "It is far greater in number than I had dared think possible, with chieftains from every corner of the Mark. Even so, the time that allowed us to muster such an army is the same by which our enemy too grows strong – as is clear from the foul creature that skulks in our skies. I fear the advantage time once gave us slips away and now works against our designs."
"And so you must be prepared to depart at any moment," said Éomer. "See to it that your Hidlanders are likewise. Gondor's call will come swift, and their need will surely be dire."
"Yes, my lord," said Truva. An ominous mood sat heavy in her heart and mind, yet try as she might she could not pinpoint its source. It was in this distracted state that she roused the groggy Hidlanders – few of whom had taken her advice on drinking water – and led them through light exercise and drills.
In a strange reversal of roles, it was Éomer and Éofa who assisted her, alongside Chaya and Blackbramble, and the Eorlingas leaders spent a great deal of time assessing the unfamiliar fighters' skills. Truva's heart swelled to see their nods of approval even as they observed the progress of the free villagers.
"You have taught them well," said Éomer to Truva as the three ate a light lunch after training, seated upon the ground beneath an alder tree whose fresh green leaves soughed in the gentle afternoon breeze. The Hidlanders cavorted about upon the banks of the Snowbourn, or lounged in the grass of Harrowdale.
"I had little influence," said Truva. "They were skilled enough ere they ever came under my tutelage."
"Your modesty is transparent to us, for we have known you far too long," smiled Éofa.
"And it was not so long ago that you yourself were in their position," Éomer reminded her.
"Still, as proficient as they are, I fear for their safety," said Truva, her mind harkening back to the horrors of their ride south from the Hidlands.
"As does every great leader," Éomer reassured her.
"They are far more prepared than those who fought alongside us at Hornburg," said Éofa. "Farriers and stable boys they were, most who had seen too many summers, or too few. Your Hidlanders, however, are fighters through and through."
That doubt continued to erode Truva's confidence, despite her captain's reassuring words, was more than apparent to Éomer. Desperate to distract her attention from unalterable circumstances, he drew everyone that sat nearby into a game of steal the ribbon; and all too quickly Truva's frown transformed into smiles and laughter as the various tribes of Eorlingas attempted to explain the rules to the Hidlanders, even as the game was in progress.
Éomer then skilfully transitioned from merrymaking to training, and with the assistance of Éofa and Truva, guided the Eorlingas in refining their new companions' skills. As the afternoon wore on, Marshals Erkenbrand and Elfhelm observed for a time, and even Théoden King graced them with his presence. The entire congregation paused in unison and bowed upon his arrival, though he waved them off, saying, "Please, pay me no mind. Continue as you were."
Continue they did until shadows crept down from the heights of the mountains to deepen the gentle shade of the tree cover, and the soldiers' stomachs began to complain of hunger.
After the evening meal – significantly more sombre than that of the previous evening – Truva returned to her tent with the intention of entertaining the unsettling musings that had distracted her all day, for the departure of the Grey Company had left her ill at ease. Suddenly overcome with the desire to write, Truva felt about her tent for the lamp, stubbing her toe upon the table in the process.
"Where in Helm's name—?" she muttered, then her fingers came upon the object of their search. A feeble light pooled out into the tent, washing the canvas walls with warmth and throwing shadows deeper into the corners.
Once she could see, Truva rummaged around for paper and writing utensils. She had not taken any with her upon her departure from Edoras – an event the reality of which seemed questionable in her mind for all that had happened since – yet Truva hoped that whoever had prepared her tent had been gracious enough to provide her also with such materials.
In her thrashings, an unexpected glint caught her eye. Truva cast about the tent, unsure of its source, wondering if perhaps she had not properly stored away some weaponry or armour. It was then that the object caught her eye, laid conspicuously upon her pillow: a brooch of silver shaped like a rayed star; the emblem of the Dúnedain, beneath which was tucked a tiny slip of paper.
Truva sat upon a camp stool and scrutinised the bauble, not daring to touch it. She could easily guess how it had come to her, and its intentional placement indicated it had not been discarded haphazardly. Its specific origin, however, was far from apparent.
Truva slid the paper from beneath the jewel, unfolded it, and read the six simple words scrawled in a delicate hand upon it:
To promise of a safe return.
Truva did not recognise the script, though that was of little surprise – for never had she seen the handwriting of any Dúnadan warrior. Her first inclination was to attribute it to Halbarad; the extensive conversation they shared the previous night was a clear manifestation of how close they had become since their first meeting in Rivendell. Even so, there was but one member of the Rangers who was aware of Truva's literacy.
Truva did not dare entertain such thoughts. She returned to her original task of searching for paper, yet even when she located a store of several sheets, she found herself engrossed in contemplation of that which still lay untouched upon her pillow. The doubt and discontent that had been building in her mind all day was swept away by this inexplicable curiosity.
She turned once more to the brooch, seizing it suddenly in her hands and running her fingers over the finely-wrought details. She observed every crevice and polished ray, and took in its silvery light, which seemed to put the moon's beauty to shame. She acted on impulse when she abruptly pinned it to the inside of one trouser pocket – where she might keep it with her, but out of sight, and would be sure not to lose it.
Truva extinguished the lamp and threw herself upon her cot, yet she could not sleep for some time, for unruly thoughts trampled about in her mind and staved off slumber.
She awoke early the next morning and felt immediately for the brooch in her pocket, though even as she did so, the same inescapable concern of the previous day came rushing back to perturb her yet again. Throughout the day, Truva performed her duties with a certain automatic habituation, leading the fighters absentmindedly through their training and taking her meals in silence, torn between agitation and curiosity.
Two days passed in this way, locked in uneventful routine. It was on the eve of the second day, as the fighters stretched together after having concluded combined training, when a chill fell over the dale. In her naiveté, Truva momentarily allowed herself the illusion that it was nothing more than the natural briskness of encroaching nighttime, yet a commotion upon the Firienfeld soon rectified that misconception. In a flash, all fighters throughout Dunharrow were scrambling to locate their bows and race to the succour of the watch that sat high upon the mountain.
"The fellbeast! It has returned!" a voice cried from above. Truva cursed herself for foolishly leaving her bow in her tent. She had believed there would be no immediate need for it after delegating the instruction of the new Hidland archers to those Eorlingas who were far more skilled in the craft than she. As an unfortunate consequence, the only weapons at hand were her rapier and mock sword, neither of which would serve any use against a fellbeast.
"Stick together! Do not move from the shelter of the forest!" Truva shouted to the panicking Hidlanders as she dashed toward the Stair of the Hold. Each switchback infuriated her, seeming to be yet another barrier between her and the protection of her people. She glanced skyward whenever she altered direction – spying once the brief passage of inky blackness, at which the bowmen upon the precipice of Firienfeld aimed – yet no sooner had the fellbeast appeared than it vanished southeastward, becoming once again indistinguishable from the night.
The watch sat tense upon Firienfeld, arrows at the ready. Truva sprinted to collect the bow that Arwen had gifted her from her tent, though even in the span of her absence the fellbeast did not make another sweep. The entire camp peered breathless into the night, anticipating the return of the nightmarish creature at any moment, yet the darkened horizon remained undisturbed. An eerie hush followed in place of the frantic commotion.
Truva stood among the soldiers of the watch, who remained poised for another attack for quite some time ere Théoden King called council to the pavilion on Firienfeld. Recalling her charges with a start, Truva raced down to the Hidland fighters below, who still crouched beneath the trees of the training ground.
"Return to your tents directly!" she ordered them. "And remain vigilant; for though it appears the immediate threat is over, there is little telling what is yet to come."
The fighters scrambled to obey as Truva bolted back up the Stair of the Hold and ducked into the King's pavilion. All significant figures had gathered there, and at their helm stood Théoden King, flanked by the Marshals Erkenbrand and Elfhelm. Éomer and Éofa sat facing these three, with the King's Riders circled behind them; Truva therefore took an inconspicuous position along the tapestries that draped the canvas tent walls, far to the back.
"This beast continues to haunt us; its attacks grow more frequent, and more brazen," Théoden King declared into the bleak air that hung over the Eorlingas. "Though we were fortunate yet again to fend off its assault, the creature seems indeed some harbinger of ill news. That we must now decide how best to proceed is increasingly apparent."
"If I may, my lord," said Erkenbrand Marshal, and the King motioned for him to speak. "Our enemy gathers in the East, and so it is that our eyes predictably turn there, as well. Yet Gondor has sustained well enough without our aid for all this time, nor have they ever conveyed any official summons. To what purpose would we ride to the assistance of those who do not wish for it?"
"If I may offer a counter-argument, my lord," Éomer interjected, rising from his seat to be met with a similar gesture of invitation from the King. "To Helm with official summons! The very fate of our people lies in the action we choose to take – or forego – now, for should Gondor's defences fail at last, so shall our own! Such is an outcome we cannot risk, and I believe a show of arms will be interpreted as supportive rather than insubordinate to our southern allies."
"In times gone by, I would not doubt it were so," said Théoden King, whose eyes, though they lay upon his brash Marshal, were unseeing. "Yet it is said the mind of the Steward has become warped, and—"
In that very moment, he was interrupted by a particularly bold captain of the guard who swept through the entrance of the pavilion and addressed the King unbidden. "A man is here, lord," he said, "An errand-rider of Gondor. He wishes to come before you at once."
A tall man entered, taller even than the Eorlingas, yet not so tall as the departed Dúnedain. He bore himself proudly, wide shoulders thrown back and head held high beneath the hood of a dark green cloak, his mouth a grim line of determination upon an austere face. At the entrance of the pavilion he bowed low, then straightened once more to an impressive height.
"Hail, Lord of the Rohirrim, friend of Gondor," he said. "Hirgon I am, errand-rider of Denethor. First, please grant me pardon for bringing the fellbeast upon you; it descried me but a few leagues from here, and were it not for the speed of my horse and the acumen of your patrol's archers, I would surely be unable to deliver the message I bear from the Steward."
"There is no need for pardon," said the King kindly, beckoning the newcomer forward. So the fellbeast had come upon the Eorlingas in pursuit of another prey, in the hopes that it might prevent some message being exchanged between the two nations; yet having failed in its task, where had it winged off to? Truva shook these concerns from her mind and bent her ear to the King once more as he continued, "The fellbeast has been a frequent visitor to these parts for some time now, and it did not tarry here this evening. Now what is this message you speak of?"
The errand-rider bent upon one knee before Théoden King and produced from beneath his cloak a single arrow fletched with black feathers, the steel tip of which was painted red. All present gasped upon its reveal. Gríma's face once again loomed before Truva's eyes, lecturing her on the ancient histories of the Eorlingas, when they resided still in Éothéod and were called by that name. Legend suggested the arrow Borondir had presented to Eorl the Young was that of an Orc stained with the blood of a fallen Gondorian, though the one Hirgon presented before them was clearly symbolic.
"I bring you this token of war," said Hirgon. "Gondor is in great need. Oft the Rohirrim have granted us succour in time of need, and now the Lord Denethor asks for all your strength and all your speed, lest Gondor fall at last."
"The Red Arrow!" whispered Théoden King, lending voice to the thoughts of all. He held out his hand, into which Hirgon placed the tremendous burden. "The Red Arrow has not been seen in the Mark in all my years! Has it indeed come to this?"
"Ere long it may come to pass that Minas Tirith is surrounded. It is reported to us that many kings have ridden in from the East to the service of Mordor. From the North there is skirmish and rumour of war, and in the South the Haradrim are moving. Fear has fallen on all our coastlands, so that little help will come to us thence."
Truva thought suddenly of Aragorn and the Grey Company. A dire threat encroached from the south, the Ranger had said – thus the path he took, leading straight through the White Mountains to the lands of Gondor and its shores beyond.
"Dark tidings," said Théoden King, interrupting her thoughts, "Yet not all unguessed, for we are already at war, as you may have seen, and you do not find us all unprepared. We will come, and set out on the morrow; go now and convey to Denethor that in this hour the King of the Mark himself will come down to the land of Gondor, though maybe he will not ride back."
Denethor's emissary rose then and bowed deeply once more, before disappearing as swiftly as he had come. The King turned to those gathered and said, "Go now each to their rest, and be ready for my call as soon as the sun is risen. Éofa, if I might have a word." The captains shuffled from the tent – all save Éofa and Erkenbrand Marshal, who remained behind to consult with the King.
"It looks as though things turned out as you had hoped," said Truva to Éomer as they emerged onto the grassy field beyond the pavilion, now cloaked in heavy darkness.
"None hope for war," Éomer chided, "Yet it is true this path is that which I counselled."
"You are correct; forgive me for having misspoken," said Truva, bowing her head.
"There is nothing to forgive," said Eomer, wrapping his arm about her shoulder which, for all her height, was perfectly situated to his significantly taller frame, and Truva had come at last to nearly enjoy the affectionate gesture. "There are none here who could rightfully accuse you of being overly eager for bloodshed. Come, let us inform our troops of these new developments."
They walked together down the Stair of the Hold to reassure their soldiers, and inform them of what was to come upon the morrow. Éomer turned to the tents of his éored, and Truva to her Hidlanders; yet once she had finished her rounds, it was with heavy heart that she approached the tent of her old friends.
"Come in, come in!" Héodis whispered when Truva ducked her head through the entrance flap, though she held her finger to her lips and indicated a sleeping Fulmod as to advise Truva against making excessive noise.
Truva stepped just inside the tent, but moved no further. "We depart tomorrow," she said, her voice hushed. Éomód, rising to greet her, froze.
"When shall we return?" he asked.
"I know not," Truva answered honestly. "We ride for Gondor, and to whatever fate might await us there."
"You mean to say you do not know if you shall return," said Héodis. Her words trembled, and tears spilled down her pale cheeks. Truva strode across the tent and folded the Eorlingas maiden into her arms; how many times had Héodis comforted her so! She wondered if in those times Héodis had felt as hopeless and unavailing as Truva herself felt now.
Éomer entered in that moment, followed closely by Éofa, and from the occupants' sombre expressions they were quick to discern that Héodis and Éomód had been informed of the news. Each took their turn embracing one another in wordless goodbye, and Truva gave Héodis' hand an additional squeeze, renewing her promise to keep Éomód safe. The three soldiers then slipped silently out into the night, desperate to conceal from the anxious family the tears that threatened to fall.
"What was it that the King wished to speak to you of?" Truva asked, once they had grown more composed and put some distance between themselves and the tent.
"Erkenbrand Marshal is to return with a small force to Hornburg and maintain our position there," Éofa explained. "Elfhelm shall replace him as Marshal of the West-Mark, and I in turn was ordered to assume Elfhelm's vacated position, as Marshal of the East-Mark."
"That is not entirely unexpected, for it would not be wise to leave our lands wholly undefended, and there is none more deserving than you to take on such a role..." Éomer's voice trailed off as he and Éofa angled toward the provisions tent, in search of one last drink and commiseration.
Unable to bring herself to spend what was most likely to be her last night of relative peace in such a way, Truva wandered back up the Stair of the Hold to Firienfeld, where she encountered the little Holbytla looking particularly glum outside the entrance of Théoden King's pavilion.
"Why, whatever is the matter, Master Meriadoc?" she asked.
"I will not be left behind, to be called for on return!" he moaned. "I won't be left, I won't!"
"That seems to be quite a common sentiment in these times," mused Truva to herself. She then spoke aloud to Meriadoc, pointing toward a tent just beyond the King's, beside the lodgings that housed the royal guard, "I suspect if you inquire over there, you might find one sympathetic to your cause rummaging about within the armoury."
"Do you think?" said the Hobbit Meriadoc, near tears. His hopeful lilt caused Truva's heart to constrict – yes, he and Éowyn made a fine pair, indeed.
"I know not; you shall have to see for yourself," Truva said with a wink, and walked off in the direction of her own tent. With a glance back, she watched the Holbytla hesitate no more than the span of a breath before determinedly marching off in the direction indicated, toward the tent into which she had observed Éowyn slip just moments prior.
Once returned to her tent, Truva packed her ever shrinking rucksack. Aside from her freshly laundered clothes and a few remaining rations of lembas she had kept tucked away, Truva found a place to store all her remaining belongings in the tent, on orders from Théoden King to travel light. She knew not whether she would ever return to collect that which she left behind, yet it seemed a trifling matter. As she lay upon her cot, unseeing eyes fixed on the inky black canvas of the tent roof in a futile attempt to sleep, Truva ran her fingers along the edges of the star still pinned within her pocket.
"[The Rangers'] horses were strong and of proud bearing, but rough-haired; and one stood there without a rider, Aragorn's own horse that they had brought from the North; Roheryn was his name."
-The Return of the King, LoTR Book 5, Ch 2, "The Passing of the Grey Company"
This passage immediately put me in mind of the Bashkir curly horse, which not only physically matches this description, but is also similar in temperament.