Author's recommended listening: Lyapunov, Ballade, Op. 2 and Howells, Elegy, Op. 15
CHAPTER XXIII: WITHIN THE WALLS OF THE WHITE CITY
The ground was churned to mud by the trample of a thousand feet in frantic, rainy battle. Truva allowed the dampness to seep up her back for she knew not how long, wispy clouds skittering across the sky on the sea breeze above her, unseen by her glazed eyes. Exhaustion dulled her senses, and all else save the utter weariness that ached in her bones fell away. It was a great while before her mind regained its ability to fathom the world about her once more.
Truva rose to one knee and laboured to look about her. Fires that had been set in the trenches now smouldered and smoked, absorbing the light of the setting sun and shrouding the grassy fields in a rosy haze. Unburdened horses grazed or wandered the area aimlessly, content to be free of their riders. Pairs and groups of familiar faces struggled back across the battlefield toward the main gates of Mundburg, yet there was not a single foe to be seen, having either been slayed or run off in defeat.
Bron approached from behind, nudging Truva gently with his nose and nearly sending her sprawling. She clung to him as she pulled herself to her feet, though she lacked the strength to move further and simply wavered for a moment, knees unsteady beneath her. Then, at great last, she sheathed her sword and inhaled deeply.
"If you are the death of me in the way Snowmane was of Théoden King this day, I swear I will haunt you until you join me," Truva joked darkly to her companion. In spite of the fact that she knew it was not possible, Bron head-butted her lightly as though he understood.
It took several attempts – with an extensive rest between each – for Truva to drag herself into the saddle. She slouched forward, unable to sit fully upright as Bron picked his way across the plain and toward the White City. In the gathering darkness, men were already about their busy tasks of clearing up after the battle, scurrying here and there with canvas litters for the wounded or casting the debris of Mordor's siege-engines into the still-flaming trenches. The bodies of the enemy were to be similarly disposed of, though the trolls were far too large and so were burnt where they lay. The oliphaunt carcasses proved a similar problem, yet even through her fatigue Truva was overjoyed to see that more than a few of the immense, spectacular beasts still meandered solemnly along the river.
A large array of tents had been erected before the gates of the city, and as Bron wove through this maze, Truva encountered several members of the Dúnedain darting to and fro. She slowed his pace even further, and at last found a face she was desperate to see.
"Halbarad!" she called out weakly, and the stoic warrior's visage broke from stern to smile.
"Truva! So you live!" he said, approaching Bron.
"Only just, it seems," she said with an attempted laugh as she struggled to dismount. She veritably fell off Bron, only for Halbarad to catch her arm and steady her. "And yet it is I who should be making such declarations! How is it that you came to pass unharmed through the Path of the Dead?"
"That is a long tale to tell, and there are more pressing matters," said Halbarad, taking in her enervated figure. "You must get to the Houses of Healing at once!"
"What of my fighters?" Truva asked.
"Those that are not already being tended to have been given lodging in the sixth circle of the city, along with all other fighters from foreign lands. These quarters are near the Houses of Healing," he said, giving particular emphasis to the last few words.
"And Théoden King and Éowyn?" she said, her voice nearly a whisper. "Where do their bodies rest?"
"Théoden King lies in the Hall of the Tower, in the Citadel, which is also near to the Houses of Healing," he said, once more implying where Truva's priorities ought to lie. "But have you not heard? Éowyn lives still! Though she is near death, she is being watched over in the Houses of Healing."
"I must go to her at once," declared Truva.
"At last," smiled Halbarad exasperatedly.
Truva hesitated a moment more before asking in a roundabout way, "And the Rangers? Has your company suffered great casualties?"
"We have lost many good men today," said Halbarad, lowering his eyes, though a puckish grin curled at the corner of his lips; for he had guessed the purpose of her inquiry, and pointedly refused to give her the answer she indirectly sought. Truva opened her mouth once more, tempted to ask after Aragorn specifically, but thought better of it. She made as if to remount then spun back around, nearly toppling over.
"Oh, I do believe this is yours," she said, reaching into her pocket and unfastening the Star of the Dúnedain. Halbarad stared at the pin in wide-eyed astonishment, momentarily speechless.
"I regret to say it belongs not to me," he said with a twinkle in his eye, throwing back his cloak to reveal his own clasp that glimmered upon his left breast. "Though there is another among our number who recently claims to have lost his Star."
"I see," said Truva, her mind working frantically. She thoroughly regretted having approached Halbarad in the first place, glad as she was to learn of Éowyn's fate.
"How did you come by such a trinket?" he asked, the roguish smile growing wider.
Truva paid no heed to his mischievous tone, thoroughly lost as she was in confusion a few moments before another thought occurred to her. "Then what of the simbelmynë?"
"What simbelmynë?"
"At Hornburg, in the infirmary—" Truva prompted, trailing off.
"Ah!" Halbarad exclaimed when the memory suddenly returned to him. "I recall the scene you speak of, but it was not I who brought you the simbelmynë; the flowers already lay upon your bedside table when I arrived."
"Perhaps it was Chaya," mused Truva, absentmindedly pinning the clasp back inside her pocket before attempting to remount. After a momentary and fruitless toil, it was without fuss that she allowed Halbarad to assist her back into the saddle, merely waving a distracted farewell to him as Bron made his way through the gates and up the long, sloping streets of Minas Tirith.
Even after having dreamt so long of laying eyes upon the White City, when the stony buildings finally soared up around her, Truva's mind was not present to take the sight in. Théoden King was gone, Éowyn clinging on to life; their fallen figures misty before her eyes— and Truva could not bear the thought of counting her own Hidland losses. Her own broken body was far easier to bear than a fractured mind.
Lost in her ruminations, Truva did not notice Bron's faithful progression up through the city until he halted at the very top, having run out of road to walk along. Truva found they had come upon the foremost Citadel, which plummeted to the plain below and revealed a view that stretched from the day's battlefield to the unfathomable heavens above. Though ominous clouds still gathered to obscure the sky in the east over the Ephel Dúath, across the remaining vast darkness, timid stars began to twinkle ever so faintly. Truva dismounted and allowed Bron to rest in the courtyard of the White Tower.
"Do not eat the grass," she ordered, eyeing the elegant lawn that surrounded a withered white tree – the White Tree of Gondor, which even in her exhausted stupor she realised it must be.
Truva had set out with the intention of seeking out the Houses of Healing – for the needs of the living surpassed the needs of the dead – yet the cold, impassive Tower called to her. There was not a single soul about; perhaps she might pay her respects unburdened by the presence of others ere she went in search of the rumoured infirmary.
Truva opened the doors of the Tower only just enough to slip inside, shuddering as their hinges released a creak that reverberated in the long corridor beyond. She continued along the stony passageway until it opened onto a vast hall, black marble columns arching up to the lofty roof with towering statues arrayed between them. Twelve torches were borne by twelve guards who stood watch in the gloom, arrayed about the very centre of the hall where rose a catafalque, draped in green and white and upon which a figure lay, shrouded in gold.
When Truva approached, she could discern the face of her King, peaceful and calm as if merely in slumber. The lines of his face seemed soothed, and beneath the sheer golden fabric his snowy hair appeared as it had in his youth, like the daffodils and yellow iris when spring bent to summer.
Breathless seconds hung in the air. Now that the daze of battle had fallen from her mind, Truva struggled to come to terms with the sight that lay before her. At last she could no longer hold at bay the rushing tide of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, and she fell prone upon the stone tile as her legs gave way beneath her.
Sobs racked her body, and the flow of tears – a manifestation of grief compounded by exhaustion and hunger – was unstoppable. She wept endlessly, until dehydration deprived her of any more tears, at which point her whole body continued to shake with dry convulsions.
"My lord, my King, my father," she cried, indifferent as to whether the guards eavesdropped on her confession, "Though it was Éomer I encountered that fateful day in the Hidlands, it was you who placed him on that path, just as it was you who extended the hospitality of the Eorlingas upon my arrival at Edoras. Indeed, the kindly heart that bade Éomer show me pity was fostered by none other than yourself, and it was that same kindness which bade me love your son.
"The debts which I owe to you are as innumerable as the needles of those great pine trees that grow upon the slopes of the White Mountains, towering so high their tips brush against the underbelly of the sky; and I do believe I resent you somewhat for departing before I might repay them."
She took several gasping breaths, waiting for the trembling in her chest to subside. "I know not what to do," she choked. "So many— so many entrusted themselves to me, and yet where did I lead them? Straight to death's door! Do you walk now with Eilif and all those who fell upon the Fields of the Pelennor – to wander in search of home and the mystery that lies beyond? How many sacrificed their lives this day, in following my guidance? How many more will die before this futile endeavour is ended?"
Truva fell silent then, her voice swallowed by grief and hopelessness. For a time, she did not move from her place upon the stone floor, wholly enveloped in catharsis. She sat up then and gazed blankly at the catafalque before her, her eyes unseeing as those duties yet to be fulfilled that night gnawed at the edges of her anguish. Truva went to wipe the tears from her face and realised she was still garbed in the armour of battle, her leather vambrace grazing against her cheek. She knew then that the time had come to face the task she dreaded most.
Bron still waited dutifully in the courtyard when Truva exited the White Tower of Ecthelion. She gathered his reins in her hand and led him down to the sixth level, where several inquiries produced the location of the fighters' temporary quarters – as well as a stable boy who, with the promise of particularly attentive care and many treats, was able to coax Truva into relinquishing Bron to his care.
Greeting Eorlingas she knew along the way, lamenting their losses and celebrating their victories together, Truva eventually found the Hidlanders' quarters. Along one alleyway off the main street there was a series of great halls, each dedicated to housing a separate company, strewn with fresh hay and supplied with bedrolls. Given their hurried improvisation, the halls promised a surprisingly comfortable place to rest.
One Gondorian soldier pointed Truva to the area reserved for the Hidlanders, though the chamber was empty when she entered. Hearing a commotion from behind an adjacent door, however, she approached, her feet rustling through the aromatic hay. Even as she did so, the door flew open and Chaya emerged with a mug of ale in her hand. Though she was brought up short by the sight of Truva, she quickly recovered.
"Oh, thank Helm!" she exclaimed, quick to have adopted the Eorlingas expression. Chaya threw herself upon her captain, causing a surge of emotions to flow within Truva's breast, which ached far more acutely than any of her bodily wounds.
"Glad I am to see you well," said Truva, returning Chaya's embrace.
"I think 'well' might be an overestimation, though I am alive," laughed Chaya, pulling away.
"Indeed! When I witnessed your reckless dash to the forefront, I was not certain I would see you emerge again."
"I do believe I owe Blackbramble considerably!"
Truva glanced toward the door, beyond which lay an adjoining dining hall where the Hidlanders dined in uproarious spirit upon their supper. "And what are our losses?" she asked under her breath.
"Considerable," said Chaya, suddenly sombre. "I would say nearly a third."
Truva's head dropped to her chest. "Too many."
"And yet it was a price each one of us agreed to pay," said Chaya, taking Truva's hands in her own. "The Hidlanders fought valiantly, and our losses would surely have been far greater had our training not been so proficient. We stood on this day as a wall against a poisonous black tide, with full knowledge that in doing so we would very likely be called upon to sacrifice our lives. This is an end not one of us regrets."
Tears streamed openly down Truva's face at these words, for though her mind comprehended Chaya's reasoning, her own regret weighed heavily in her heart.
"Will you not join us and eat?" asked Chaya, startled to see the unintended effect her words had.
"No, no thank you," said Truva. "I've business to attend to yet. Please, enjoy your meal and convey to the fighters my pride in them."
"Will you not tell them yourself? Or perhaps take even just a bite of bread?"
"I really cannot," said Truva, laying a hand upon Chaya's shoulder momentarily. As the Hidland fighter reentered the dining hall, Truva selected the bedroll nearest the door and, piece by piece, stripped her still muddy armour away and set it upon the bedding. Exhaustion weighed her down yet desperation drove her actions, and so she was soon garbed only in her fabric attire, still wet from the rain and a battle's worth of sweat.
No more than three times did Truva need to ask the way before she located the Houses, which were some distance from the Hidlanders' quarters. As she approached the entrance, however, four figures gathered beneath the bright lamplight, blocking the path. With a start, Truva recognised the first as the Wizard Gandalf, so long parted from her company. Two others stood with their back to her, and the last was shrouded in a grey cloak that obscured his face.
Gandalf was quick to note her approach. "Well met, Truva," he said with a kindly smile. At these words, the other two turned about, and though her heart was glad to see the noble figure of her new King, she knew not the other. "I have heard fantastic tales of adventures since our last parting."
"Well met, indeed, Wizard. My Lord, Éomer King," Truva said, bowing low, though the former Marshal shifted uncomfortably at being addressed thus. The fourth cloaked figure stepped forward then and, throwing back his hood, revealed himself to be Aragorn.
"Truva," he said, his tone unreadable as he bowed slightly, reserved as ever.
She bowed in turn to him. "My lord Aragorn." Perhaps she had wholly imagined their meeting upon the Fields of the Pelennor, or assigned to it more significance than deserved. The Ranger's eyes glimmered then with an almost indistinguishable light, and it seemed to Truva that duty rightly reigned foremost in his mind.
"Ah, Truva!" said Éomer, drawing her forward and motioning to the unfamiliar man. "May I introduce to you Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth?"
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," said Truva, bowing once again. "I was witness to many of your great deeds of valour upon the battlefield this day. It is a great honour to have drawn blades with you, distant though our struggles may have been."
"And for my part, I feel as if I am meeting a living legend, Truva of the Hidden Lands!" the frighteningly tall Prince responded, bowing in kind. Truva knew not what to make of this flattery, and so she simply bowed once more, internally chastising herself for her bumbling behaviour.
Gandalf interrupted the maladroit exchange, saying, "Let us not tarry at the door, for the time is urgent. Let us enter! The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known, as it is said."
"If that is what they say, then I am loath to enter," said Aragorn. "I have come because Gandalf begs me to do so, but for the present I am but the Captain of the Dúnedain of Arnor."
"Very well, very well, if you insist," said Gandalf hastily as he ushered the party in through the doors of the Houses of Healing.
Their entrance was at once noticed by the Holbytla Peregrin Took, whom Truva had only so briefly met before his departure with Gandalf. He immediately leapt up with a great cry, and as he and Aragorn babbled on about their separate journeys, Truva frantically cast her gaze around for Éowyn.
Every space of the Houses that might be comfortably occupied was, with warriors of all states of injury being tended to by a flock of harried healers. Bandages and herbs and medical tools were strewn about, despite the healers' best attempts to keep the materials organised. Everywhere the scarlet tinge of blood made its horrifying mark.
Failing to discern the shieldmaiden's golden locks amidst the hubbub, Truva made a quiet inquiry to one of the healers.
"The maid of Rohan?" said the breathless healer. "She is there, in the second chamber. Yet be warned, for her condition is as grave as her renown is great."
"Thank you," said Truva, slipping unnoticed from the presence of the others and entering through the door the healer had indicated. Her heart plummeted upon laying eyes on the still figure of Éowyn, for the healer's words had indeed been true. Her right arm lay bound upon the blankets, yet it was the maiden's deathly pallor that disconcerted Truva most.
She covered the distance from door to bed in the span of two paces and sat down upon a chair beside Éowyn's pillow. Leaning in close, Truva could only just scarcely detect the faint breath that escaped the warrior's lips, and in her worry the chaos beyond the chamber door faded into the background as Truva gazed upon Éowyn's stony features.
"You mustn't!" said Truva. "I know to die gloriously upon the field of battle was all you longed for, but you mustn't! Even now your people look to you, perhaps now more than ever. Your brother is King; you could not possibly abandon him in his greatest time of need!"
Rationalisations and arguments and debates whirled in Truva's mind, yet she knew Éowyn's fate would ultimately be determined by none other than herself, and thus fell into silence. She took Éowyn's unbandaged hand, chill as death, into her own and watched over the Eorlingas warrior until Aragorn and Éomer entered a short time later.
Truva flew to her feet and bowed deeply as they entered, keeping her head down as not to have to look either of them in the face, for tears had begun to gather in her eyes.
"Here is a grievous hurt and a heavy blow," said Aragorn, sweeping to Éowyn's bedside, "And yet her malady begins far back before this day, does it not, Éomer?"
"I marvel that you should ask me, lord," replied Éomer, "For I hold you blameless in this matter."
"Few other griefs in this world hold more bitterness for a man's heart than to behold the love of a lady so fair and brave that cannot be returned. And yet, Éomer, I say to you that she loves you more truly than me; for you she loves and knows; but in me she loves only a shadow and a thought."
Truva's heart ached for her friend, to hear Aragorn's sentiments expressed so plainly, that he so completely dismissed Éowyn's affections for him. She could not help but wonder whether his words held a further rebuke for herself, as well, and in her consternation Truva felt once more for the silver clasp in her pocket.
"Éowyn Éomund's daughter," called Aragorn softly, "Awake, for your enemy has passed away!" And as he spoke he crushed leaves of athelas into a bowl of steaming water, and stippled her brow and arm with a cloth dipped in the water. In even so brief a moment, the deepening of Éowyn's breath was apparent, as was the colour that returned to her face.
"Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!" Aragorn said again.
"Éowyn, Éowyn!" pleaded Éomer, kneeling before his sister as Aragorn rose. The Dúnadan made his way silently toward the door, leaving the King to comfort Éowyn, until he spied Truva huddled in the corner. He strode over to her.
"There is another who remains in need of our aid," he said. "Do you not know?"
"Know of what?" said Truva.
"Come with me," he said, leading her from Éowyn's chamber. He moved to the next, where Truva was dismayed to see lying upon the bed her friend and Marshal, Éofa.
Her breath caught in her chest as she stared at the unmoving figure before her; had she not just seen Éofa alive and well upon the hill near Harlond, as the Eorlingas witnessed the coming of the Grey Company and their reinforcements? How was it that he lay before her, lifeless?
She fell to her knees at his bedside as Aragorn moved about the room, performing many of the same tasks as he had with Éowyn; yet no amount of crushed athelas, rising as steam from the bowl upon the bedside table, seemed to effect any result.
"My lord and captain, Marshal Éofa," Aragorn spoke, bathing Éofa's brow in warm water, thick with the scent of the weed. "Arise, for your duty has been discharged, and there are those who anxiously await your return. Would you abandon them even in this very hour of victory?"
He turned then to Truva and said, "Will you not call to him?" Truva gazed up at the Dúnadan, unspeaking. Her mind was awash in distress and confusion, and exhaustion still impeded her mind. "Call him!" Aragorn cried to her, and his desperate entreaty cut through the haze.
"Éofa!" whispered Truva, facing Marshal and bringing his chill hand to her lips. "Do you not recall how you doubted me when we first encountered each other in the Hidlands? Right you were to place the needs of the Eorlingas ahead of an unknown stranger – yet even so you rescued me, and did we not grow close in the following years? Well you taught me of the blade, and of the staff especially; and how many joyous dinners did we share in the house of Héodis and Éomód!"
Tears coursed down her face unchecked. "Do you not recall the picnic we shared in Harrowdale? Though dark days have since come, was that time not merry? Follow not yet in the footsteps of Théodred and his father the King! There are many who look to you, and responsibilities that lie before us so that our days might once more be as they were; and I doubt in my ability to execute these duties if you are not here to lead me to their completion."
A light passed across Éofa's face then, and Truva believed she saw the shadow of a smile flit across his lips. Aragorn laid a reassuring hand upon her shoulder, and she wiped the tears from her eyes. Then, unbidden, the breath of Éofa grew ragged and the sudden surge of hope dissipated.
"Éofa? Éofa?" Truva called, clasping his hand, suddenly distraught. Aragorn darted about, rustling through herbs and medicines, checking Éofa's forehead and pulse, frantically searching for some relief as the Marshal's breathing faded. Truva glanced between the two, unwilling to take her eyes off her captain yet desperate for some hint of optimism from the Dúnadan.
Éomer entered in that moment, having come from Éowyn's room upon being informed of Éofa's condition. He crouched beside Truva, examining his longtime friend's countenance, and fell silent.
It was with despairing eyes that Aragorn fell still and turned at last to the two Eorlingas. As Truva returned his gaze, she understood that there was nothing more that could be done, save comfort the fading spirit of her friend. She longed to deliver Éofa as he once had delivered her, yet she found herself helpless, incapable of any action. She watched as the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of his chest slowed.
The slowing gradually transformed into stillness, and as Truva bent her ear to Éofa's face, longing for a yet undetected hint of exhalation, she felt no breath upon her cheek. As tears once more blossomed in her eyes, Éomer took her into his arms and together they fell back against the bed. Their cries were a lament for the man who had been the bedrock of their friendship, the cornerstone that had always been the voice of reason, the ever effervescent and dependable leader to all Eorlingas.
A long while passed, and though he was loath to disturb their grieving, Aragorn said at last, "There are yet a great many patients I must tend to this night, and so I must move on. But will you not bear Éofa's body to the resting place of his King, so he might lie in honour and all those who loved him may mourn him?"
Éomer wiped his eyes and rose silently, exiting the chamber to gather those who would bear the body of Éofa to the Citadel. Truva continued to gaze upon the visage of Éofa, unwilling to accept that yet another close companion had departed to where she could not follow. Aragorn knelt beside her and rested a hand upon her shoulder, offering what little comfort he could, when suddenly he took note of the blood that stained the shoulder of her tunic.
"Are you gravely hurt?" he asked.
"No," Truva said firmly, for even in her grief she knew her own injuries were nothing that could not be remedied by any healer in the Houses; she did not wish to be the cause of any further concern to Aragorn when it was apparent so many responsibilities already weighed heavily in his mind. He dismissed her rebuff and reached directly for her left arm. Truva could not prevent herself from flinching when he lifted it, inspecting the wound.
"There is a garden just outside the Houses of Healing. Wait there after you have seen to Éofa," he murmured, just as Éomer reentered with two other Eorlingas and a litter.
The four warriors of the Mark bore Éofa from his chamber, emerging onto the streets beyond the Houses of Healing only to be greeted by a mass of Riders come to observe the stately passing of their valorous leader. The crowd followed as the body of the Marshal was borne into the Citadel and laid upon a catafalque, just beside Théoden King.
Éomer procured a cloth of green and draped it over the body of Éofa, kneeling then upon the flagstone floor at his friend's side. Truva took a place directly behind Éomer and at once bowed her head, for she could not bear to look upon the sight. Each Rider approached in turn to pay their respects, some even laying flowers upon the Marshal's shroud before departing. Truva found herself longing for the white blossoms of simbelmynë, though she knew it not to grow south of the White Mountains.
One by one the Eorlingas departed, leaving Éomer and Truva alone in the presence of their departed King and Marshal. No passage of time, no depth of genuflection would return their loved ones to them, and yet they found themselves rooted to the ground, unable to move from where they sat. Truva had believed her heart entirely sapped of emotion when she had bid farewell to Théoden King before; yet her utter despondency now belied that conclusion.
A stifled sob penetrated her stupor, and Truva turned to see through blurred eyes that Éomer had at last succumbed to his own long-delayed grief; tears coursed down his cheeks to fall splattering upon the tile, tiny pools of sorrow to mark the end a King's reign. Her chest constricted painfully at the sight, and she extended a hand to grasp his in comfort. For a brief moment, the burden of anguish they shared seemed marginally lifted.
The night grew deeper and the guardsmen's torches began to sputter and cast flickering shadows along the walls of the dark hall. Even so, the two Eorlingas warriors knelt hand in hand until Éomer arose at great last, assisting Truva to her feet as well, loth as she was to abandon her position before those she adored most.
"Come," he said, "There are the duties of the living yet to be seen to."
They emerged from the White Tower and Éomer immediately descended back to the Houses of Healing, where his sister yet lingered upon the brink of existence. Truva longed to follow, yet she questioned whether her presence would not be underfoot and unwelcome, a distraction from the healing of Éowyn.
She stood, rendered immobile by indecision for a few seconds before coming to a conclusion. Truva hailed a passing guard and inquired as to where she might find sustenance, and he kindly escorted her to an alley just beyond the north side of the citadel. A long row of hatches set into the wall opened upon the alley, and from these small windows wafted all manner of appetising smells.
"Our stores are rather depleted, for our supplies have long been disturbed by the movements of Mordor," the guard apologised as he ladened her arms with a loaf of rye bread, butter and cheese, smoked pork and duck, as well as a pair of figs and an apple. He then eased a massive tankard of ale into her hand. "Will you be requiring more?"
"No, thank you," said Truva, trying to ignore the searing pain in her left shoulder. "It is only a meal for one I sought, though you have given me enough for three."
"You are Truva, of the Hidden Lands, come ridden with the Riders of Rohan, are you not?" he asked, enthusiasm thick on his tongue.
"I am," replied Truva hesitantly.
"Then it is with humble heart that I regret we cannot offer more refined fare," he said, bowing deeply. "Tales of your courageous deeds precede you, and it is with great honour that I was able to assist you this night, as meagre assistance as that might have been!"
"I have done no great deed this day, least none that was not overshadowed by the heroism of many others," said Truva, disconcerted by the guard's excessive veneration.
"Word of your humility also accompanies stories of your valour," said the guard. "Can I not aid you in carrying your refreshments?"
"No, thank you. I've not far to go, and I suspect I might be a great deal more likely to drop something in handing it to you than were I to carry it myself."
"As my Lady wishes," said the guard, bowing once more before departing down another alley.
"I am not a lady," Truva corrected the empty passageway, though the guard had already disappeared. With a sigh, Truva returned to the sixth level and – after taking several wrong turns – found herself once more before the Houses of Healing. She continued on past the entrance, in search of the Houses' garden, yet she encountered nothing save a long expanse of wall and so was forced to backtrack.
After passing the Houses' entryway once more in the opposite direction, she at last found a recessed archway, beyond which lay a short stone stairwell. When she descended, the garden unfurled before her, a secluded sanctuary with a carpet of emerald grass and bronze tree pillars, its roof a tangled web of branches. The jewels of late spring adorned walls and walkways, purple allium and delphinium blossoms nodding in the gentle breeze off the plains.
It was not until silence descended upon her that Truva understood how overwhelming and exhausting the sounds of the city had been. She allowed the garden's serenity to wash over her and breathed in its sweet, aromatic air. If she closed her eyes, she could momentarily believe she had never departed Edoras, and all that had occurred in the meantime was but a vivid nightmare.
Yet when Truva opened her eyes once more, reality rushed back to greet her. Far below the towering ramparts that enclosed the garden, trenches continued to burn with the excessive fuel of battle, though the waxing moon cast a purer light upon the surroundings and soothed Truva's unease. Its rays were feeble, and yet by them Truva could discern the crests and peaks of Mindolluin, standing as a stolid sentinel behind the city, companion to the graceful Anduin that flowed placidly beyond the fields that had so recently been the scene of bloody strife.
Truva sat upon a bench, placing the food beside her, and willed the garden to lend her a moment's calm. The impermanence of such tranquillity was unquestionable; yet Truva allowed herself to be deceived, relinquishing her worries one by one and sending them to float across the vast landscape that lay beyond the walls of the White City.
She had not realised she was asleep until she found herself drifting back into wakefulness, the serene enchantment of the garden only partially dispelled. Just as it had in Hornburg, Aragorn's visage floated before her eyes, and she could not help but smile and try to cling to the blissful quietude.
"Truva," said Aragorn softly, and it was by the clarity of his voice that she came to comprehend he was in fact before her, and not the apparition of some dream. Truva sat up, shaking her head to clear the last remaining tendrils of sleep from her mind. When she glanced to the sky, the position of the stars indicated it was deep into the night, almost dawn.
"I have returned safely, as promised," the Ranger whispered.
Truva sat as if transfixed, recalling the words scrawled upon the paper long ago in Dunharrow: To promise of a safe return. Even upon a field of battle, never had her heart fluttered so furiously as it did then.
"So the Star of the Dúnedain is yours."
"Yes, though I heard you believed it to be Halbarad's," Aragorn said with a reserved laugh.
"It was not an unreasonable assumption," said Truva, somewhat sheepishly.
"He is unaware of your literary abilities; though I suppose it was foolhardy of me to presume you would think otherwise," said Aragorn. Despite his stoic passivity, Truva sensed he was nevertheless disheartened by the fact that she had not assumed the gift was his, which pained her all the more for the words she felt compelled to say.
"My lord Aragorn, I cannot possibly—" Truva began, but he cut her off with a finger to his lips.
"Before all else, let us first examine this shoulder of yours," he said.
"It is nothing, I—"
"I have seen a great many brave warriors this night, some bearing far more grievous wounds, some with little more than scratches," he chided. "This injury will certainly not kill you should you care for it properly, yet there is no saying what might happen if neglected."
"That is absurd!" laughed Truva, pulling away, yet one glance at Aragorn's stern expression quelled her laughter. She allowed him to inspect the wound more thoroughly.
"You have not so much as extracted the barb," he said, his tone disapproving. Truva averted her eyes and gritted her teeth as Aragorn dexterously removed the steel arrowhead. Despite the excruciating pain, she felt a marked improvement the instant it was removed, for she was finally able to move her arm without experiencing the grinding of arrow against joint. Aragorn pressed a towel to her shoulder to staunch the bleeding.
"Hold this," he commanded as he turned to an intimidating array of medical tools, selecting a needle and thread. Truva strove to cast her mind upon other topics as he began to stitch the wound, for however gentle the touch of Aragorn was, it was still not a pleasant sensation.
"I can smell athelas," she said, breathing in the leaves' cloying, earthy scent.
"It has proven exceptionally useful this night, though the stores in the city are admittedly lacking."
Truva grew quiet as the athelas began to take effect and the pain in her shoulder – indeed throughout her entire body – receded. It was only once she was relieved of their aches that Truva perceived how the injuries she had sustained from the fellbeast continued to afflict her. Even as Aragorn continued to work, the tension in her body eased.
"I smelled the sea, you know," she said after a pause. Aragorn lifted his eyes to peer into her face. "I recall you said that is what athelas smells of to you. Last night, and in the morning also, as the winds changed a breeze from the south carried a stinging, astringent smell; was it not that of the sea?"
"It very well could have been," said Aragorn, returning to his task, "Though the sea is still a great distance off. There might yet come a day when you shall smell its full freshness; and then you will hear the call of the seabirds, and wonder at the sight of its unending waves that sparkle in the sun, more brilliant than any jewel known to Mankind."
Truva wondered at how he could sustain the pretence that such an optimistic future might yet be possible, yet she did not contradict him, and chose instead to entertain the fantasy as he tied off the sutures with a slow, steady hand. With fully bandaged shoulder, she stood and walked along the overgrown paths of the garden, coming at last to the base of the ramparts. She ascended to the wall's uppermost heights and observed the landscape below, relishing in the stillness that had evaded her in recent days. Aragorn soon joined her, looking out across the Anduin to the Ephel Dúath that rose murky in the night.
Even in the darkness, outlines of massive oliphaunts could be distinguished in the moonlight as the creatures wandered along the silvery, shimmering waters of the river. Suddenly desperate to evade the conversation she knew would inevitably come, Truva asked, "I wonder what shall become of such magnificent beasts, caught up as they were in the petty conflicts of Men."
"I have come to understand that those warriors who reside in the region about the Bay of Belfalas will lead the oliphaunts southward once more – for though such a climate will be rather different from what the creatures are accustomed to in Harad, we dare not release them within those lands, only to be abused yet again," said Aragorn.
Though his words were reassuring, Truva's perturbation remained apparent. She turned from the striking view and gazed into the Ranger's piercing grey eyes, wondering why the athelas had failed to ease the pain in her chest. There could be no longer delay, she knew, and yet she could not bear to speak the words she must.
"I cannot accept your Star," she murmured gently.
Aragorn's eyes dropped to the stone battlements, and he remained silent a long while. "Whyever not?"
The reasons tumbled about in Truva's mind, one entangled with another yet each evading her attempts to form a coherent answer. "What of Éowyn?" she said at last. "You cannot deny that she has expressed affection for you on multiple accounts."
"I can afford the Lady Éowyn no greater respect," said Aragorn. "She is strong, a proud shieldmaiden of Rohan who this very day has stricken down a terrible foe. Her valor will be spoken of in tales and legends for ages to come. Even so, it is unconditional love she longs for, a love which I cannot give her."
"Yet she is of royal birth," countered Truva. "How is it that I, a lowly soldier of the Mark – of even lowlier slave origins! – might be expected to equal the King of Gondor and his realm, if he will not accept the love of the Riddermark's most noble lady?"
"By conducting yourself with honour and compassion, as you ever have," said Aragorn, lifting his gaze to stare into her eyes once more. "Though the time since our first meeting has not been long, the bravery you have shown throughout surpasses even the highest ranks of many a titled soldier, and oft it has been you I looked to for strength when I most feared mine would fail."
"Yet impossible is it to surpass the bearing of an Elven princess."
Aragorn started. "Are you perhaps disconcerted by the love I once harboured for Lady Arwen?"
"I am merely cognizant of the innumerable attributes that differentiate her and I." Truva realised then that she had made a potentially irrecoverable error in mentioning the Elven maiden, and turned immediately to a new line of argument. "Moreover, you are descended from the great line of Númenórean, whereas I am no more than a mere Man, one who is destined for a brutal, short-lived existence."
"As it was you who first mentioned Lady Arwen, allow me to say: it would be hypocritical to consent to her forfeiting immortal life for me if I, in turn, was not willing to return the deed. I am not immortal, so the sacrifice is not in kind, yet I would be content to endure countless years of solitude if it meant I might spend even the most fleeting of moments by your side."
It was Truva who now looked away, for the sincerity with which Aragorn spoke caused her to waver in her conviction. As thoroughly as he had rebuffed her protests until then, however, there was yet one that festered in her mind, refusing to emerge from her lips.
"It seems as though you are desperate for any reason by which you may reject me," said Aragorn as he observed her hesitation. "If you do not share my feelings, you need merely say so." Truva shook her head, however, and steeled her heart to speak with a frankness that had eluded her until that very moment:
"I have been in a similar position once before," she began. "Upon my arrival at Edoras, after I cast off my bonds of slavery, I was met with nothing but kindness. The Eorlingas were so welcoming, so hospitable that for the first time in my existence I wanted for nothing. Yet even in my humility I allowed my heart to grow greedy; and thus it was on the eve of the Battle of the Fords that the prince Théodred spoke as you do now, and I naively believed such happiness could not be marred."
Aragorn paused; for all the events that had occurred since, still the prince's wake had not been terribly long ago. "Théodred fell in the Battle of the Fords," he whispered.
"Just so," said Truva. "And as a result, I promised to myself that I would devote my entire being to duty and naught else, though in recent days even duty has become enmeshed with emotion, and my own affection for those under my protection.
"Long have I studied the histories of Men, and well I know the threat that is at hand; I must necessarily face the days that are to come with bravery unburdened by hope, with a focus that lies solely upon the immediacy of the moment and upon the people that look to me to lead them – for though they be fewer in number than those that look to you, I cannot allow fear or hope of what might yet come to pass influence my decision in what is coming to pass in the present."
Aragorn stood silent a moment as he contemplated her words, then took her hands in his. "Well I understand your meaning, and I, too, must look to the good of my people; yet even now I consider you one amongst them, different though your origins may be. And while I also know that the future we face appears devoid of hope, and that it may seem fruitless to so much as entertain the idea of an existence without our current strife, I beg of you not to despair. We might yet pass through these dark times to emerge into lightness and gladness, and if we are to be so blessed I ask only that you consider spending such joyous days with me."
Though she did not wish to admit it, these words greatly moved Truva. Even as she struggled to warded off their effect, the blossoming warmth in her heart caused her to recall suddenly the hazy vision of a figure, white flowers in hand. "And what of the simbelmynë? At Hornburg?" she whispered.
"I saw it growing upon the mountainside when foraging for fresh athelas, and knew it would ease your mourning the loss of Eilif."
He drew Truva to him and gently rested his forehead upon hers. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the fires below, the sea upon the southerly breeze, and the athelas that even in that moment worked to heal her wounds. She thought back to Théodred and the visceral pain that still haunted her from his passing; thought back to all the times she had confronted Aragorn in disagreement, as well as the numerous occasions on which he had shown her kindness.
She unpinned the clasp from her pocket and observed it more closely than ever she had, yet when she extended it to Aragorn he folded her fingers back upon it.
"Keep it," he murmured. "To promise of a safe return, if nothing more."
Truva rested her head upon his chest in acknowledgement of the sentiments he had shared. As he wrapped his arms about her, she listened to his steady heartbeat and her thoughts gradually began to slow and fade, the present and past blurring into one in her mind. After a while, it was Aragorn alone who kept her standing.
"I think it is time you rested," said the Dúnadan, scooping Truva into his arms and making his way to the Hidland quarters, the meal she had procured earlier forgotten entirely. All was quiet and dark in the large hall when Aragorn laid her upon the last remaining bedroll, where her armour still lay haphazardly discarded. Truva was already in deep sleep by the time Aragorn closed the door behind him.