This is the second installment of The Hidland Chronicles! It will not make sense without first having read The Lady of the Rohirrim. The interlude (The Coronation of the King) should not be necessary for comprehension, although it will help, and exists as a natural part of the story.

IMPORTANT NOTE: Some background character names have been changed, as well as Rohirric terms added. The most significant name changes have been Héodis to Mǽgwine, Éomód to Éolend, Fulmod to Aferalend, and Éofa to Éothafa. For Rohirric terms (such as Eámicel and Hérweg), there is a glossary on AO3 under the username blueoncemoon.

Reccommened listening: Respighi, Concerto Gregoriano

CHAPTER I: THE PREDICAMENT OF ALDBURG

Wind swept across the plains, bowing blades of switchgrass and bluestem in a solemn dance as it drove eastward towards Entwash and the great Eámicel beyond. Weeds, parched and arid from the long winter, bent in resignation and made no further effort to stand tall, choking fields that lay fallow. Such barrenness stretched to the end of vision – even to the northwest, where beyond discernment lay a city clustered upon a hill, a magnificent Golden Hall at its peak.

To the south, the grasslands ended abruptly, replaced by indomitable mountains rearing skyward. Peak upon snow-capped peak extended from the northwest far to the southeast, sentinels of the plains; yet these too were bleak, offering little comfort against the piercing chill of desolation.

Such was the location of Aldburg, nestled amongst the foothills of the Firienwít. Once the King's seat in times of old, it had become nothing more than a garrison of the East-mark, a refuge for those determined enough to rebuild after the War of the Ring ravaged all the lands of the Riddermark; for the Folde had been deserted at the outset of that conflict, and though the few remaining Eorling warriors of the East-mark éored kept guard once more in Aldburg, the people were slow to return.

Nearly all refugees who left the stronghold of Dunharrow at the conclusion of the War had chosen to remain in the vicinity of Edoras, lured by the illusion of safety and resources; yet while the following winter was devastating for all, starvation struck hardest where there were more mouths to feed. The War had disrupted all agricultural activities, and Saurman's forces in the West-mark – as well as roving bands of Orcs in the east – ensured by fire or by foot that the Eorlingas had scant crops to harvest come autumn.

Newly promoted to Second Marshal, the duty of providing for the East-mark inhabitants fell to Truva, inexperienced though she was in civil matters. Upon her regiment's arrival at Aldburg, she had immediately set about attempting to secure sufficient supplies to last the winter, sending her soldiers far afield to forage what they might. Messengers were dispatched to Edoras and even Gondor, begging for anything that might be spared – yet all faced a similar predicament, and were reluctant to part with that which they, too, knew to be essential.

Exacerbating the problem were frequent assaults out of the east: Orcs and Easterlings primarily – those that had evaded the campaigns of the Ents and Elfhelm's éored. Though Gondor served as a steadfast bulwark against these adversarial forces, a great many still slipped through their nets to wreak havoc upon the lands of the Mark. As the easternmost outpost, such attacks – and the burden of defending those that lay beyond – fell most heavily upon the Eorlingas stationed at Aldburg.

Truva had believed the conclusion of the War would bring stability and peace to the Mark. She was not prepared for mothers to come pleading to her, their languid children in arm, desperate for food, and be called upon to tell them the garrison stores were empty. She did not have the heart to witness the stiff, frozen bodies piled in carts to be buried, or the row upon row of small, hastily-hewn hogbacks.

Many soldiers under her command had taken on a gaunt, emaciated appearance, reminiscent of the Hidland fighters she had spent her youth amongst. Truva herself had grown haggard; not nearly as skeletal as upon her arrival in the Mark nearly eight years prior – yet still a shadow of her former self: the healthy figure of a warrior she had cut at the onset of the War. Months of gruelling travel and conflict, followed by famine and distress, had worn away at both body and spirit.

The wind brought with it a chill, felt all the more intensely by Truva's wasted figure as she stood upon the stony ramparts of Aldburg, flanked by her Captains Gamhelm and Gódring. Gazing listlessly out over the frostbitten farmlands beyond, Truva struggled to give form to the thoughts, concerns and ill-conceived solutions tumbling round in her mind. She shook her head as if to clear it and returned her focus to the map in her hands, and the discussion of her captains.

'—the vicinity, so that we might come to their aid sooner,' Gódring was saying.

'That will bring them far too close to the Entwash; danger increases the further east we push, and in the high likelihood of an attack, the possibility our forces would not arrive in time is too great,' countered Gamhelm.

Truva mused in silence a moment. 'It would be a terrible risk to till any land so far afield.'

'It was easy enough to protect our people from attack during the winter, when all could shelter within the walls of Aldburg,' Gamhelm continued. 'And though we cannot guarantee an equal degree of protection to dispersed farmers, nor can we suggest they settle at a distance beyond any reasonable expectation of safety.'

'We cannot afford to let the fertile lands of the Entwash go to waste,' said Gódring. 'We must reconcile our need for safety with our need for sustenance.'

'The security of our food supply is the security of all – we must protect our farmers to ensure that next winter will not be so devastating as the one we just endured,' said Truva. 'Let us not map any fields beyond a half day's ride from Hérweg. Skew the livestock farmers westward, so that their herds' wanderings will be less likely to bring them into danger, and they can perhaps make use of the Snowbourn.'

'Few as our people are, that would afford us very little space, Marshal,' said Gódring. 'It would require us to extend an incredible distance towards Edoras.'

'We shall plot as far as Hornburg, if we must,' said Truva. 'Securing our easternmost borders is our most pressing task; do that, and none shall lie beyond our protection. Map out what you think is best, and I shall do the same. In the end, let us compare proposals and compromise on the best way to situate our farmers come spring.'

With that, Truva handed the map to Gódring. The Captains remained behind to sketch out the proposed plots of land, to be selected by farmers via lottery the following Sunday. The entire arrangement had been a logistical nightmare, for the landscape no longer existed as it had before the War, and its division thus grown increasingly contentious.

Truva made her way along the ramparts of Aldburg and down the stone staircase of the main gates' guardhouse. Upon reaching the flagstone courtyard, she strode past an extensive queue of villagers which emanated from up ahead, and extended far out the gates and onto Hérweg. She greeted all as she passed, occasionally pausing in conversation with a few; still she struggled to comprehend the sharp accent of the East-mark inhabitants, and so made a point of speaking with them as often as she might.

When Truva approached the entrance of the inner ward, a voice rang out, stopping her in her tracks. 'Where do you suppose you're off to, Miss Marshal?'

Truva turned to discover Dernrid brandishing a ladle threateningly. The erstwhile greengrocer stood at the head of a table upon which a row of massive soup tureens was set. She directed a host of volunteers who offered bowl after bowl to the villagers shuffling by: provisions for those who had not – a demographic which included nearly every Eorling residing in the Folde.

'Dernrid! I've duties to attend to,' said Truva.

'Not without a meal!' Dernrid scolded, holding a steaming bowl aloft. Truva held her hands out to accept the proffered bowl, but Dernrid suddenly withdrew it. 'You must promise me you will eat it this time.'

'I promise it will be eaten,' said Truva, and Dernrid placed the bowl in her outstretched hands at last. As the greengrocer-turned-chef returned to her duties, Truva crossed the inner ward and entered the main castle keep. Ascending three flights of stairs, she came at last to a thick wooden door and knocked gently.

When the door swung inwards only slightly, the wizened face of a man peered out through the crack. 'Ah, Marshal! So kind of you to stop by again.' The infirmary Warden stepped back and opened the door further to allow Truva entry. 'I am so sorry, but there has been a terrible draught afflicting us all this morning; there's no sense opening the door willy-nilly and letting the chill air in.'

'I shall see if I can procure a wooden screen or two,' smiled Truva. 'I've brought you some soup, as I know you've little time to get it yourself.'

'Ah, but I have already eaten!' said the Warden, in the verbal dance they performed around noon nearly every day. There was no indication of the Warden having eaten – no empty bowl or discarded spoon; for the Warden had not, in fact, eaten. Neither he nor the Marshal could justify a meal when there were others who went hungry, and even the meagre offerings of Aldburg's kitchens was insufficient to fill the stomachs of those who came in search of food.

'Your assistant boy has already come and gone?' Truva asked, one eyebrow arched.

'That's right,' the Warden assured her.

'And what of your patients? Still just the one?'

'Still just the one,' said the Warden, indicating a corner of the infirmary screened by a threadbare curtain. Truva drew the linen back slightly to reveal a woman swathed in blankets piled high upon the bed.

'Miss Truva, lovely to see you again,' said the woman, her voice so feeble it scarcely broke a whisper.

'And you, Wanhála,' said Truva, moving into the space and setting the bowl of soup upon the bedside table. 'How are you feeling today?'

'Far better,' said Wanhála, yet even as she said so, she eased back against her pillows in exhaustion.

'Shall I assist you again today?' asked Truva, and when the patient nodded she drew up a stool to her bedside and took the bowl into her hands, spooning one bite after the other into Wanhála's mouth.

Truva talked all the while, for she had learned over time that Wanhála despised silence, and though the woman could not speak at any length herself, she enjoyed listening to the Marshal wax lyrical about various animals she had seen on her adventures. Truva was, for her part, as taciturn a character as ever, yet she had practised the skill of being conversational when necessary, and her efforts were slowly being rewarded.

When Wanhála finished her meal, Truva collected the bowl and bade her goodbye and well-wishes. After exchanging brief words of parting with the Warden, she took her leave of the infirmary and returned to the outer courtyard to seek out Dernrid. She discovered the greengrocer in the kitchens, examining the pantry and larder to see what recipes she might be able to contrive – though her tut-tutting suggested the prospects did not appear promising.

'What is it that you wish us to bring you?' asked Truva as she approached from behind to take in the larder's frightfully barren shelves.

'Might you manage a season's worth of flour, several dozen sacks of potatoes, two score bushels of tomatoes, and perhaps a hundred head of cabbage? A pig or two dozen might be nice, too!' Dernrid sighed with a laugh.

Truva joined in her laughter halfheartedly. 'Were it within my power to procure such provisions, I would have done so already.'

'And well I know it! Our straits are no commentary on your leadership, Miss Marshal; do not take it personally.'

'Even so, these things fall under my responsibility,' said Truva with a rueful shake of her head. She bade farewell to Dernrid and exited the kitchen, encountering Gódring on her way.

'Would you inform the second unit that we are to depart for foraging duty tomorrow at dawn?' she said to the Captain.

'But the third unit has not even returned!' said Gódring.

'Unfortunate circumstances require unpleasant action,' said Truva. 'As ever, I leave Aldburg in your command.'

'Yes, Marshal,' he replied, 'I shall inform Gamhelm and the others.'

Truva retired as the sun dipped below the western horizon and settled the fortress under a cloak of purple. The Marshal's quarters were surprisingly cramped; bookshelves burdened with countless tomes and manuscripts impinged upon the room, and a cluttered desk abutting the narrow bed took up the vast majority of the remaining space. A coffer also stood at the foot of the bed, nearly impossible to open due to its proximity to one of the bookshelves.

Truva had believed her ascension to Marshal during the War had been provisional, brought about by mere circumstance and the absence of alternatives. Yet even as Éomer himself accepted his birthright did he make official Truva's position as Second Marshal, and in the same moment send the newly-titled Mǽgling Third Marshal west to Hornburg, and keep Elfhelm First Marshal at his side in Edoras.

Thus Truva was assigned to the East-mark, the region that had once fallen under the protection of Éomer King himself ere his adventures carried him to the Hidden Lands and in contact with Truva. The pressure of burdensome expectations was exacerbated by the numerous attacks Aldburg had been called upon to fend off throughout the dreadful winter.

And so Truva found herself in the Marshal's quarters, a room significantly smaller than what she was accustomed to in Edoras, lit by a single meagre candle as she pored over a map of the Folde, desperately struggling to resolve the discrepancy between required land and necessary safety. As it had many times of late, her hand unwittingly found the Star of the Dúnedain pinned beneath her tunic, seeking the reassurance of its cool metal and smooth edges.

Truva did not even realise she had drifted off to sleep before she awoke in the grey murkiness of early dawn, the candle having sputtered out hours prior. She rose and stretched briefly, basking in the tranquillity that always enshrouded the fortress during the day's earliest hours. She then shouldered her pack and carefully selected her weapons – for foraging duty always brought the unexpected.

Some premonition bade Truva arm herself heavily. She took all that she might: a hunting dagger she sheathed on one side, and her sword Fréodhel took its place at the other. Of all the bows aligned against the bookshelf nearest the door, she selected that gifted to her by Lady Arwen.

Upon exiting her quarters, Truva rapped at the door of Gamhelm, who appeared in an alarming state of undress, promising to follow anon. Truva proceeded down the keep stairs and out into the inner ward, then turned her path towards the stables, where she approached Roheryn's stall. Though it had been long since last she was able to offer any sweet treat to the stolid creature, they greeted each other with a nuzzle. A pang of longing shot through Truva as she recalled the reproach with which Bron might have responded to her lack of apple or carrot, yet even as tears welled in her eyes, Roheryn nudged her shoulder, extricating her mind from the trap of memories past.

The pony was one of the few remaining connections to his previous owner Truva retained – for in the time since their parting after Éomer King's coronation, Aragorn had fallen so deeply into his duties that he had not the time to exchange regular correspondence; or so Truva rationalised when their frequent letters (hidden amongst official stately dispatches) trickled to an intermittent pace, followed by a deafening silence.

Gamhelm entered then, further shattering Truva's musings, and was soon followed by a score of Riders dedicated to the third foraging unit. In a matter of minutes, the Eorlingas had mounted up and were making their way through the courtyard and out beyond the gates of Aldburg. As they rode, Truva barked instructions:

'Divisions one and two, head north. Three and four, follow me to the southeast.'

At these words, the Riders divided, half forging northward through empty, frostbitten farmlands, the others turning along Hérweg, away from Edoras and towards Mundburg. Those in Truva's company did not pause that day, for long ago had the area about Aldburg been stripped of any forgeable material. At night, they made a simple camp together, and in the morning split once more: five Riders banked east and the remainder continued to follow the Road.

This pattern continued for several days. On the third dawn since their departure, Truva found herself alone, pressing towards the very eastern border of the Mark itself. It was early evening when she came upon the Mering Stream, yet still her panniers were not halfway filled with what few shrivelled tubers she had been able to uproot. Shivering despite her numerous layers, she eyed the Firienholt.

'Allies as we are, surely no grudge might come of my scavenging upon the furthermost reaches of Gondor's western border?' she rationalised to herself, guiding Roheryn across the shallow swath of Stream water. Even so, a heavy silence descended upon her. The air grew close and suffocating, not entirely dissimilar from the atmosphere felt upon entering the Entwood.

Truva harvested several bundles of watercress from the opposite bank before turning to the forest, dark and foreboding though it was. Wisps of mist extended their tendrils, as if to ensnare unwary travellers and draw them into the impenetrable shade. It was not so long ago that the Muster had camped within the Firienholt on their path to Mundburg; even as Truva looked into the wood's shadowy depths, she could recall the voice of Théoden King, calling the Eorlingas to battle, the moment in which Éowyn had been struck down by the Witch King—

But there were duties to be conducted, and the sun already courted the western horizon. With a quick shake of her head as if to clear it, Truva took Roheryn by the lead and delved into the forest on foot, in pursuit of anything that might prove even remotely edible. As she walked, however, she spied a sign that offered more promise than anything she could have possibly hoped for: tracks – those of a wild boar.

Following the cloven hoofprints in the streambank snow and mud, Truva forged deep into Firienholt. Gathering darkness was deepened by the cover of trees and the press of vegetation, which soon became too thick for Roheryn to comfortably pass. Truva cleared the pony of his reins and set him to grazing upon a grassy patch, for he would only slow her progress. The boar's tracks were distinct, fresh; she did not wish to delay her hunt any longer for fear of losing it altogether.

The further Truva went into the Wood, however, the more her skin prickled. Yet she continued on for some time, the evening growing darker and tracks ever fresher, yet over the rush of Mering Stream she could not hear the sound of a boar – nor any other animal, for that matter. Even so, Truva was certain she was not alone. She paused and silently drew her dagger, listening intently. Any manner of enemy might lurk in these woods, remote as Firien-dale lay, away from the defensive nets both of Rohan and Gondor.

Without warning, a dark figure emerged a short distance ahead. Truva started, raising her dagger threateningly, yet the shadow – dark against its inky surroundings – did not attack her. Truva's scan swept from side to side, wondering whether she had walked straight into a trap.

'Trap, yes it is,' came the croaking voice of the figure. Half a dozen other squat, round shapes emerged from the foliage, leaving no escape. Truva squinted in the impenetrable gloom; though her heart raced, the strange voice gave her pause. She lowered her weapon slightly.

'Ghân-buri-Ghân?'

'We are same to you?' There was gurgling from all about Truva as the Druedain joined in the odd-sounding laughter. 'No, not Ghân-buri-Ghân. I am Dhûn-buri-Ghân, son of Ghân-buri-Ghân. We set traps for gorgûn, catch Horse Woman instead!'

'But this is the Firienholt. How is it that you have come so far afield from your home forest?'

'No fish in streams, no birds in trees,' said Dhûn-buri-Ghân. 'Same as you, I think. Gorgûn drive everything away. Nothing to eat.'

'Indeed, the Riddermark too has fallen upon unfavourable times,' Truva said to the Drúedain. 'Yet I had no intention of intruding upon your land or impinging upon your hunt – indeed, I believed myself to be adhering to King Aragorn's decree. I seek only to feed my people.'

'Yes, yes,' said Dhûn-buri-Ghân. 'We know.'

Even as he spoke, he and his companions began to melt slowly into the darkness, slipping between fern and tree until Truva could no longer distinguish them from their surroundings. She cast about frantically to see where they had gone, but not only had she lost sight of the Drúedain, the boar tracks had also vanished.

'Come,' said the disembodied voice of Dhûn-buri-Ghân.

Truva glanced up from her search for the tracks – for though she could still see nothing in the gloom, her path was clear. Whatever end they might bring, the Drúedain offered more hope than returning to Aldburg near empty-handed; a few bushels of wilted vegetation would simply not suffice. Perhaps she and the Drúedain might even track the boar together and share it.

And so Truva rose and made her way through the undergrowth in the direction she believed the voice of Dhûn-buri-Ghân had come from.

'No, not that way,' he chuckled.

Altering tack, Truva dodged massive oaks and pushed aside spidery nets of viburnum as she rushed to keep pace with the sprightly Drúedain, breath coming short. Each time she fell behind or drifted from their course, Dhûn-buri-Ghân guided her with another call.

Truva felt midnight must be near – though she could not be sure under Firienholt's oppressive canopy – when suddenly the calls of Dhûn-buri-Ghân came no more. She heaved a sigh; so it had been a trap after all, or perhaps some jest: to abandon in the depths of the impenetrable woodland an Eorlingas warrior, of the people who had once in a bygone era harassed the Drúedain so mercilessly. Truva looked to the obscured sky and to the secrets of the land about her, resigning herself to the task of returning back down the mountain to Roheryn and her meagre harvest.

When she turned, Dhûn-buri-Ghân stood directly behind her. She nearly tumbled over him as he gestured to one side, where the other Drúedain held aside great curtains of overgrown ivy, beckoning her forward towards a splash of shadow, darker even than the surrounding night. One Drúadan ducked inside, and only then could Truva see it was a tunnel, hidden cleverly in a slight rise of the Halifirien mountainside.

'Come,' said Dhûn-buri-Ghân once more.

Truva followed him into the passage, where naught could be seen save utter blackness. She placed one hand upon the earthen wall to guide herself forward, inching blindly along twists and turns as the ground beneath her feet sloped downwards. It was not long ere a faint glow became apparent some ways in the distance, outlining the figures of several Drúedain walking ahead.

The tunnel then made a sharp turn, and Truva found herself standing upon a small wooden platform. Below, the mountain dropped off in a steep escarpment before sloping gently to the forest floor, though a short distance ahead the cliff face rose sheer again. Between was spread a vast glen thick with snow-dusted pines, the crowns of which rose imposingly to the topmost edge of the ravine. From above, the area would be very difficult indeed to distinguish from surrounding hills, and was thus secreted away from observers.

A handful of torches burned here and there about the tree branches, casting a gentle light throughout the vale. By it, Truva could make out immense eyries – such as those the Eagles might construct, so massive were they – nestled in the treetops or tucked against boles. Several tangles of branch and twig were spherical in shape, enclosing the nest in its entirety, though others were open to the elements. Between these lodgings spanned rudimentary bridges: a tapestry of ropes and vines woven together to create a living patchwork of nature and man.

Several of the Drúedain stepped to the edge of the platform, where three bridges extended out over the expanse, into the darkness. They showed no hesitancy in leaping onto the middlemost one, which swayed nauseatingly beneath them.

Dhûn-buri-Ghân motioned to Truva. 'Come!' he said once more.

Truva set one hesitant foot upon the bridge. She had only ever crossed upon those of Rivendell and Osgiliath, which were more like stone roadways – solid and reassuring. This was no more than a single, thick rope suspended between the platform and a tremendous central pine looming high above all the others. Two cables were fixed just below her waist, yet while these were convenient for the short-statured Drúedain to guide themselves across with, they provided little support for Truva.

As she wavered, she could hear the snickering of the Drúedain waiting behind. Thus she ventured forward, sliding one foot in front of the other, clinging desperately to the guard cables. She had to look down to place her feet, however, and so could not help but spy the undergrowth swaying some distance below, threatening to suck her down into the dizzying abyss.

Truva wrenched her gaze upwards, breath coming short and heart thrashing in her chest. But she slowly neared the opposite end of the bridge, where a nest far larger than any other became visible through the screen of branches high above. It was woven from more than mere branches; this nest seemed alive and growing, even in the final throes of winter – for ivy curled about its edges and a golden aura caught the light of torches. From its edge dangled a ladder, where even now Dhûn-buri-Ghân and the others who crossed before her climbed.

Truva hurried over the final expanse of the bridge as quickly as her terrified mind would allow, leaping with relief upon a second wooden platform. The end of the ladder – which swayed even more threateningly than the bridge – dangled before her. Seizing it, she ascended flaxen rung by flaxen rung.

Once she gained the top, Truva climbed over the nest edge and half-collapsed into a vast bowl-like structure. Its bottom was near flat, and spanned a great length – nearly half that of Meduseld. When she turned forward, the flickering light revealed a face she recognised instantaneously, though it had been quite some time since their last meeting.

'Horse-woman!' exclaimed Ghân-buri-Ghân, chieftain of the Drúadan. 'I know you!'

'Chieftain,' Truva acknowledged as she stumbled to her feet and bowed low before him.

'Come!' he echoed his son, beckoning Truva forward. He himself sat not upon any throne but instead joined her in the nest's very centre, kneeling on downy furs lining its bramble floor. 'Well-come to our home, Horse-woman. What is your name?'

'I am called Truva, and as I said to Dhûn-buri-Ghân earlier, so I say to you now: I had no intention of intruding upon your lands, and do not wish to disturb you or your people. I thoroughly apologise for any imposition or wrongdoing.'

'No wrong,' said Ghân-buri-Ghân, peering at her with what appeared to be a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. 'Here is our safe home, like Horse-men's Dunharrow.'

'I see,' said Truva, sudden realisation coming to her. Distant as it was from any potential focus of conflict – and lacking any other occupants that might otherwise strip it of its resources – the Firienholt was an ideal sanctuary. 'Dhûn-buri-Ghân said it was lack of food that drove you here.'

'My son,' mused Ghân-buri-Ghân. 'Talks too much. Yes, no food in west, but also gorgûn. They are no problem to strong Drúedain archers, only annoying. We come to safe home to relax, eat our fill.'

'Orcs continue to harass our borders, as well,' said Truva. 'Yet we Eorlingas are not so blessed to be able to eat our fill; the War disturbed cultivation in our lands, and the winter was exceptionally harsh. That is why I stumbled into your trap – that, and my own ignorance.'

'Many horse-men, little food,' said Ghân-buri-Ghân knowingly. 'So you come here.'

'Yes, I came to these woods to scavenge what I may, and perhaps to hunt.'

'No, no, no,' said Ghân-buri-Ghân, shaking his head and wagging a finger beneath Truva's nose. 'So Dhûn-buri-Ghân take you here. We give Horse-people food.'

Truva sat momentarily stunned, for clearly there was some difficulty in communication and she did not wish to assume out of turn. 'Do you mean to say you will provide a meal to me?'

'A meal, yes,' scoffed Ghân-buri-Ghân. 'And more. Horse-men killed gorgûn; now Wild Men can sleep with peace. Wild Men give Horse-men meat, and plants. Kill more gorgûn, make our home safe again.'

With these words, the Drúedain chieftain gave a low whistle, and from behind Truva appeared several individuals bearing a platter. They placed it before her, its contents still steaming.

'Horse-woman is tired; I can see. Eat now, then rest. Ghân-buri-Ghân is sorry we can not offer more, but Wild Men find no fish in this Wood. We talk next day.'

'Will you not eat with me?' asked Truva.

'It is late. Ghân-buri-Ghân is not hungry.'

The chieftain rose then and, stalking to the far side of the nest, clambered over the edge and descended the ladder, followed by all save two of the Drúedain. The remaining guards saluted after their leader, then about-faced and saluted Truva as well before turning once more to stand guard at the entrance.

Truva was left mystified, unsure as to whether she was genuinely welcome or intruding upon this secluded haven. Ghân-buri-Ghân's attitude had been far from transparent – for though his words were inviting, the Drúedain's expressions were so entirely dissimilar from those of the Eorlingas that Truva found their Chieftain difficult to assess. Yet in looking upon the feast spread before her, she could not bring herself to care overly much.

Each delicacy she transferred to her mouth was superior to the last, though Truva recognized very few foods on the platter. There were pickled vegetables, placed side by side with some variation of smoked fowl, and even a decadent winter pear. As she had eaten scant meals in recent months, Truva struggled with her desire to both devour and savour such delicacies. The pear she slipped into her pocket for Roheryn.

When not a single scrap remained on the wooden plate, she made ready for the night as best she could, wrapping herself in furs to guard against the chill winter air. Nestled high amidst the canopy though she was, Truva was at a loss to recall a time when she had felt more at ease, particularly in the care of veritable strangers. A quiet wind soughed through needled branches and gently swayed the nest, lulling her to sleep – though it was that same wind grown harsh that roused her come morning, violently rocking the platform and causing her to sit bolt upright.

Even as Truva rose, however, she heard a subdued disturbance below. Peering out over the edge, she observed a great many more nests scattered throughout the glen than had been visible the previous night. Faint, early-morning sunlight revealed each to be occupied by several Drúedain, who peered curiously up at the great nest and its peculiar occupant. They chattered amongst themselves, and though Truva could not understand what they said, she loved to hear their voices, for each sounded like the very forest itself: the whisper of a spring in a glen, the emerging of crocuses through late winter snow, the growing of moss and the tumble of rocks – it was all discernible in their tones.

As Truva gazed upon this scene, Ghân-buri-Ghân and several other Drúedain warriors ascended the nest's ladder.

'Good sleep?' the Chieftain asked when he and his companions gained the platform.

'I slept uncannily well, thank you,' Truva replied. 'The comfort of your home is beyond compare.'

'Home?' laughed Ghân-buri-Ghân. 'This is Great Hall, called Drúmar. You have in Horse-men's city, called Meduseld.'

'Then I am very much honoured to have passed the night in your hallowed hall.'

The Chieftain examined her a moment then, an expression Truva imagined to be soft upon his face. 'Wild Men remember you, Truva,' said he. 'When Horse-men went to fight, you were kind to Wild Men. Your hair is strange for Horse-men, but you are kind. You and King of Stone City.'

'Ah, yes – well, our allies were in short supply at the time; there was no call to make more enemies if you were no danger to us,' said Truva, recalling how – long ago, in the depths of the Drúadan Forest – she had called Théoden's attention to the peaceful nature in which the Drúedain appeared.

'We will help Horse-men; thanks for killing gorgûn with loud horns and bright swords.'

'Help us?' asked Truva. 'How?'

'We give food, and seeds. Not much, but some.'

'Did you not depart the Drúadan Forest in search of sustenance yourselves?'

'Food, yes, and peace. But Wild Men are not so many as Horse-men, and hunt better.' Ghân-buri-Ghân scoffed at his own jest before turning chillingly serious. 'But you must make promise!'

Truva's brows furrowed. 'What promise must I make?'

'That our home stays secret. Do not tell other Horse-men about Drúmar – especially Horse-father.'

'Théoden King, whom you met upon our last encounter, fought his last battle at Mundburg.' When Truva spoke these words, Ghân-buri-Ghân bowed his head and murmured something indiscernible. She waited for him to mark the King's passing in his own manner before continuing. 'A new King has since risen to the throne: Théoden's sister-son Éomer, who is even more kindly than he. Should you wish for an alliance, I am certain we could arrange some kind of understanding.'

'No, Wild Men want only peace and secrecy,' said Ghân-buri-Ghân, shaking his head. 'But many Horse-men died fighting gorgûn, and Wild Men say thanks. We give food and seeds to bury in spring and make new fields.'

'How am I to explain the sudden appearance of unexpected supplies, if I am to keep their source secret?' asked Truva.

'Think hard,' said Ghân-buri-Ghân, the mischievous twinkle returning to his eye. He motioned for Truva to follow as he exited the nest and descended its ladder. Curious Drúedain families watched their every move from afar, mothers and fathers holding tiny little ones aloft as all strained to catch a glimpse of the peculiar trespasser.

Yet Ghân-buri-Ghân led Truva not back along the first rope bridge they had crossed, but to a longer, more precarious bridge that dipped towards a second tree. A tremendous spherical nest had been constructed low upon the pine's trunk, where Dhûn-buri-Ghân stood, waiting. When Truva gained the platform's solid footing, he held aside a leather flap hanging from the side of the nest.

Truva clambered in, only to be greeted by a patchwork of light filtering in through the bramble, revealing curious curved shelves piled high with earthen jars and wooden boxes. A faintly herbal scent wafted on the air. Suspended directly in the centre of the inner nest, overshadowing all else with its sheer size, was the carcass of an immense boar – though its pettitoes were missing.

'Our food home,' said Ghân-buri-Ghân as he and his son entered behind Truva. 'The boar you hunt? We make tracks with its feet to trap gorgûn. Now you take and give to Horse-men.'

'The boar? I couldn't possibly!' Truva exclaimed. 'It is too generous a gift.'

'It is small – smaller than pain Horse-men felt at the Stone City,' said Dhûn-buri-Ghân, his voice suddenly sombre.

'Even so—'

'Come, help!' said Dhûn-buri-Ghân as he balanced upon a large wooden box in front of the boar. He indicated for Truva to take a position directly beside him, and when he severed the twine by which the carcass was hung, it fell directly into her arms.

'See, you caught boar!' he gurgled in laughter, dismounting from the box and gesturing for Truva to hand him the carcass. Though it was significantly larger than himself, the Drúadan showed no sign of struggle as he slung it over his stout shoulders and climbed nimbly from the nest.

'We go now,' said Ghân-buri-Ghân, allowing Truva to exit the larder first.

Dhûn-buri-Ghân was already halfway across the bridge leading back to the tunnel platform, where a gathering of several Drúedain warriors waited. Truva once more clung to the rope bridge as she made her way across the expanse between tree and entrance. With a single glance back to the ravine, bathed in the golden haze of a sunny morning, she ducked into the dark tunnel behind the others.

The party soon emerged onto the mountainside beyond, and began to descend at once back towards the Mering Stream. The Drúedain did not travel clustered together, instead splintering off and flitting through the scenery, appearing at times and disappearing at others. It was near impossible to discern any sound they made, and thus Truva was startled to suddenly find Ghân-buri-Ghân at her elbow.

'We do not blindfold you,' said he. 'We trust Horse-woman. Also, you are too slow, even with no blindfold. But remember: home of Wild Men is secret. Do not come again. If Wild Men want Horse-men, we will find you.'

'I understand,' Truva replied.

They passed the remainder of the distance in silence.

When the company returned at last to the banks where the falsified boar's tracks could be found, the accompanying Drúedain had disappeared entirely; none save Ghân-buri-Ghân and his son stood before Truva. Without a word, the Chieftain pressed his hand to Truva's heart, then took her hand and mimicked the same action upon his own breast. Dhûn-buri-Ghân repeated this pattern, then passed the boar carcass to her shoulder.

'Goodbye, Truva,' said Ghân-buri-Ghân, then the two vanished as rapidly as smoke in a tempest.

Startled by how alone she suddenly felt, Truva sighed and cast about to gain her bearings. Even as she turned back along Mering Stream, the sound of drums struck, echoing off the mountainsides. She strained her ears, listening carefully – beyond the call of birds twittering about her – and heard in the distance a faint reply. It was comforting, somehow.

Truva continued on her path along the muddy streambank, and emerged after a time from the Firienholt. Blinking in the morning sunlight, she gave two high, sharp whistles, and soon there came the rumble of Roheryn's approaching hooves, and his delighted snorts of greeting. He emerged from a dense thicket some distance away and trotted up to where Truva stood, giving her a friendly nuzzle.

'Hullo,' said Truva, slipping the winter pear from her pocket and passing it to the pony's mouth. 'Did you enjoy your time without me? Terribly sorry for having taken so long – and for returning with a rather more weighty burden than usual.'

Yet no sooner had she strapped the boar behind Roheryn's saddle than the sound of a second set of hooves could be heard thundering in the distance. Looking eastward along Hérweg, Truva discerned a single rider making posthaste in her direction, the livery of a white tree emblazoned upon his sable tunic: Maeron, a captain of the White City and the very messenger arranged by Aragorn to convey news between Gondor and the Mark – as well as between himself and Truva.

Truva mounted up and rode out to meet the messenger, who slowed as she drew within hailing distance. 'What need is it that drives your speed, oh herald of the South?' she cried. 'Have you come with my letters at last?'

'Milady!' Maeron called in return, coming to a full stop. 'I bear news from the Lady Éowyn of Ithilien and her husband Lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor.'

'Éowyn!' cried Truva. 'What news?'

'I am bade to reveal it to none other than King Éomer himself,' said Maeron, though he had the decency to look rueful.

'Is it good news or ill?'

'Alas, I cannot say – for even were I wont to divulge such secrets against my orders, I bear nothing more than a letter, and know its contents not.'

'Then I will ride with you, if you will allow me,' said Truva, 'and hear the contents of this letter revealed by the King himself.'

'Verily, you are welcome to join me, Milady. I would greatly appreciate the company.'

'Still not a lady,' Truva muttered to herself as she fell in beside Maeron, who resumed his breakneck speed across the snowy landscape at once.

Welcome back to the adventure! It has been a long time in coming, but while I am not fast, I am certainly steady — and very invested in keeping my word.

First things first: a hearty word of gratitude for my beta ABACUS, who has been a huge source of encouragement and guidance at every step of this incredibly long, laborious process. Again, I am wont to continue editing long after any reasonable time frame, so any mistakes or faults are entirely my own and not those of my beta.

Thanks also to each and every reader who has read this far, and especially to those who took the time to leave comments, favorite, and/or follow. Interaction is never expected, and certainly not demanded, but it truly does encourage authors beyond what can be expressed through words. (For those too shy to engage on AO3, I do have a tumblr account under the username blueoncemoon.)

I would also like to add that it is far easier to make minor (and major!) edits on AO3, and so the quality of my work is consistently higher over there. Also, it allows for far greater freedom both in terms of function as well as theme, so the majority of my writing can be found there as well — again, under the username blueoncemoon. (There was a lovely comment from a guest account asking about original works and where to support, and AO3 is the best place for that!)

Lastly, housekeeping: this work is written in full, and currently stands at around 265k words and 39 chapters. New chapters will go up each Friday at 2300 UTC.

And so, as before: 'Forth now, and fear no darkness!'