The Marshal of the Mark

by blue1cemoon

'Evil labours with vast power and perpetual success - in vain: preparing always only the soil for unexpected good to sprout in.' —Tolkien, Letter 64. Adrift in the wake of the War, Truva is tasked with discovering the whereabouts of the Blue Wizards — and the origin of her own identity in the process. Sequel to The Lady of the Rohirrim.

13. Grimbeorn the Old

Recommended listening: Grieg, Two Nordic Melodies

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CHAPTER XIII: GRIMBEORN THE OLD

The world was still tones of grey when the travellers, guided by Haldir, picked their way through the charred trunks bordering Eámicel the following morning. As with the Silverlode, no hythe jutted out into the Great River, yet their canoe drifted unmoored in the current, appearing as insubstantial as the snowflakes that fluttered down upon the wind from darkened skies above.

Even as they placed their packs and supplies – renewed by the Galadhrim's generous stores – within the boat's hull, the Lord and Lady of Lórien drifted out from the west, striding along the Silverlode's frozen banks and across the tongue of land between the two rivers. They were accompanied by many high Elves, and yet there was no music save that of the early morning air.

'Fare thee well, fair travellers,' said Celeborn. 'Would that our parting goodbyes did not follow so hard upon your initial welcome – though I have hope your next venture into our lands may come as swiftly as your current return.'

'Faster, with any luck,' said Legolas, stepping forward to greet the decorous Lord more privately. Gimli made as if to speak with Galadriel, yet Legolas was quick to divert him, for already she beckoned to Truva.

'When last such strange visitors came into our realm, they parted with gifts of worth incalculable,' spoke the Lady of the Light to the Eorling warrior. 'Yet nothing have I to bestow upon you, Truva Marshal of the Mark, save this: the assurance that someday we shall meet again. I know not when, and I know not where – and I fear it will not be any time soon, nor anyplace near; an arduous journey lies between now and then, here and there. But of one thing I am most certain of, and that is my eager anticipation of such a meeting.'

'It is a sentiment most ardently returned,' said Truva. 'I thank you, milady, for all that you have shown me, and for the hospitality my companions and I have enjoyed whilst within the sanctuary of Lothlórien.'

'There is yet one more thing I might have shown you, had we been afforded time,' said the Elf, reaching out a delicate hand towards the bow strung about Truva's shoulder. 'A gift of mine has indeed been given to you in the past, though it was my daughter's daughter who proffered it.

'You bear a bow of the Galadhrim – one of great power. You must learn to wield it properly, though I cannot be the one to show you how. This is within your capabilities, Marshal; you doubt yourself even now,' she insisted when the hint of a frown crossed Truva's face, 'but you must not allow uncertainty to rule over you and guide your courses of action.'

Truva shifted from foot to foot under the Elf's astute observations. 'I will take your words to heart,' she said, and in earnest. 'It grieves me that our time here has been so short; even if I were to pass a lifetime dwelling beneath the golden light of mallorn, still I would learn but a fraction of the knowledge you might impart.'

'When the Fellowship passed through Lindórinand, they rested overly long, for their hearts were weary with loss,' said Lady Galadriel. 'Yet they emerged to find more time than expected had passed. You must not allow the same fate befall your own venture; for it seems Mithrandir's curiosity provoked some sense of urgency in him, and it would do well not to ignore the premonitions of a Wizard. Go now, in the hopes that you discover his misgivings are unfounded.'

The Lady of Light leaned forward then and kissed Truva on the brow, her touch delicate and insubstantial. As she pulled away, Legolas and Gimli approached to pay their respects, and so it was Truva's turn to greet Lord Celeborn and Haldir, the latter of whom laid a hand upon Truva's shoulder, as warriors do.

'Though the light of the Elves is fading, I do not believe it shall ever dim entirely,' he said. 'As we face the coming ages, do not allow relations between the Rhovanion Elves and Rohirrim to remain as distant as they were all these years.'

'Already in my heart I plan for my return to the valley the horsemasters call Dwimordene,' Truva smiled. 'And should you ever be struck by the compulsion to travel – though I would not begrudge you any reluctance to leave this sanctuary – the Eorlingas would gladly welcome such noble visitors to our lands.'

And so, with more than a few backward glances, the travellers launched their tiny vessel into the early morning fog. The host of Elves, Galadriel at their forefront, glowing as the moon and sun and stars all at once, was gradually lost to the mist, as dreams are dissipated by the arrival of morning. Behind a screen of blackened trees, the golden-green crown of mallorn rose up: a testament to the enduring nature of things that will be, until even the greatest heights of Caras Galadhon and the House of Galadriel and Celeborn were lost from view.

With Lothlórien behind them, Truva and the others were eager to progress up the Great River all the more swiftly, for a great distance still lay between them and their destination. Yet as they delved further and further into the Vales of Anduin, their return to routine was all the more difficult to bear for having had their burdens fleetingly eased by the woods' comfort. To Truva especially, the path stretching before them seemed an endless span of banality: nothing more than uniform riverbanks, with a dark forest cast upon the eastern bank and the Firienmist's sharp peaks along the west.

But it was not long after their departure, as she gazed out into the unremarkable landscape, that Truva glimpsed a strange shadow darting amongst the treeline. Each time she turned sharply to spy its source, however, there was nothing save stout trunks aligned in innocuous solemnity upon the bank. Rather suspecting the vision was a product of her exhaustion, Truva disregarded the eerie sense of foreboding that sank into her heart.

A monotonous four days passed, marked only by meals, shifts at the oars, and the songs of Legolas and Gimli – though Truva blessedly spared them her own contributions. Thus it was upon the morning of the fifth day, when Truva and Legolas plied oar to current, that a golden haze appeared low over a grassy sward rising up before them in the distance.

'Gladden Fields,' explained the Elf, 'with which I am certain you have some familiarity.'

'I know of it, indeed,' said Truva, her voice soft with transparent awe. 'The Fields were once a southern boundary of the Éothéod – the ancestors of my people. It was from here they journeyed southward, summoned by the Steward Ciriorn to occupy the area of Calenardhon following Gondor's victory at the Field of Celebrant.'

'It was not Gondor alone that found victory in the north,' said Legolas, nodding to Truva – for it was the Eorlingas, too, to whom the success belonged.

As the morning wore on and the travellers drew nearer the Fields, the grassy riverbanks turned treacherous and marsh-like. Patches of glaedene sprouted up amidst the reeds and rushes, their yellow iris blossoms rocketing skyward, at times oustripping even Legolas in height. The tiny canoe appeared as if to drift beneath a forest more golden than the mallorn of Lothlórien.

Afternoon bore down upon them. When Truva dug into her pack for a mouthful of lembas, she discerned yet another flicker of movement upon the forest border. Her breath caught in her chest. This time, she was certain she had seen it: a tremendous shadow, tall and hulking, yet swift – for no sooner had she spied it than it disappeared into the foliage. Glancing towards Legolas, the Elf merely returned her gaze with his characteristic imperturbable demeanour.

'They have been tracking us these past few days, ever since we departed Lothlórien,' he said, his voice low.

'Can you discern of what nature they are?' Truva asked. 'More Orcs?'

Legolas simply shook his head, though it wasn't clear as to whether the gesture was one of denial or an indication that he didn't know. With a subtle movement, he reached back to rouse Gimli, who woke with a sudden sputtering.

'It is not yet my turn to take the oar!' bemoaned the Dwarf, giving a squinting glance to the overcast sky.

'Here is an ideal position for an ambush,' said Legolas. Ahead, a loud rush of water indicated the Gladden River was soon to interrupt their progress. 'Especially for any more familiar with these marshes than we. The waters are shallow and treacherous.'

Truva gripped the handle of her oar tighter, fingers slipping against the smooth wood. She would have far preferred a weapon in her grasp – even a bow – yet the Elf gave no indication of reaching for his, and so she refrained also.

The sound of Gladden River gradually increased. Soon, its influx became visible, pouring in from the west where the banks of Eámicel widened into a vast, lake-like system of marshes and islets. In some places, the water pooled and became near-stagnant; in others, it rushed between narrow gaps of land, coursing south as the powerful Great River.

'Keep to the faster currents,' Legolas advised. 'Our hull is too deep; it will run aground in the marshes, and I do not think we should like what is to be found there.'

Even as he spoke, an eyot materialised just ahead. It was overgrown with trees and shrubbery, but the towering figure that stood upon it was immediately discernible. A glance to both right and left revealed the glint of metal amidst the reeds and glaedene, indicating he was not alone.

Truva immediately began to backpedal, attempting to divert the canoe from its path. 'We must turn around!' she cried. 'Find another way!'

'That is what they hope for!' exclaimed Legolas. 'That is the trap they have set!'

But even as the travellers struggled against unpredictable currents, the two rivers' confluence sent their vessel careening wildly, nearly throwing Gimli into the water. Legolas scarcely caught him by the back of his cloak, only to haul him back over the gunwales and offer him a paddle.

'Row as though your life depends upon it!' shouted the Elf.

'In which direction?' Gimli cried in reply.

They struggled forward over turbulent waters, made all the more perilous by rocky deposits along the riverbed, yet all the while their boat was drawn by unseen forces towards the eyot. The figure upon it loomed ever larger: a massive man taller even than the Elves and more hairy than the Dwarves, nearly as bulky as the hill-trolls of Gorgoroth but draped in thick furs to ward off the swirling chill of snowflakes.

Then, with a sudden crunch of wood, the canoe was impaled upon a hidden rock, sending its occupants sprawling. The hull began to fill, soon soaking their boots and trousers and supplies.

'If it is me you fear,' said the booming voice of the figure upon the eyot, 'your worry is needless – save, perhaps, the Dwarf's.'

Gimli bristled at this last statement, but Legolas stayed him and rose instead, his tunic dripping with river water. 'You are a skin-changer.'

'Aye,' said the man. 'And you an Elf. It is not so long since the Lord of your people gifted this land to us – from the Mountains of Greenwood to the East Bight; for ever have we kept the Vales of Anduin safe as we might, though our numbers are not great. If you come in peace, the Beornings have no quarrel with you.'

'And what of me, ye great honey-sniffer!' shouted Gimli. 'Have you a quarrel with me?'

'Only if you have one with me,' came the Beorning's gruff reply.

'The improvement in your perception of Durin's kin is well news,' said Legolas, laying a hand upon Gimli's chest as the Dwarf readied an unkindly reply. 'For there was a time not long ago that you would not have suffered one to come amongst you, and instead driven them – and any who travel in their company – away with spears and arrows.

'But there is yet another with us: a shieldmaiden of Rohan,' he continued. 'She is not a descendent of the Éothéod by blood, though she is in spirit; and even now they call her brethren and Marshal. These are our full numbers accounted for – we travel as no more than three. Would you grant us leave to traverse your newly-acquired lands?'

The man peered at the three travellers with eyes narrowed, and laid his attention most heavily upon Truva. 'What is your business here?'

'We travel together to the halls of my father,' replied the Elf.

'So you are Legolas of the Woodland Realm! Forgive me, for I did not know you on sight. When our territory was smaller, I suspect you passed by on several occasions, undetected save by smell.'

'Perhaps your nose would recognize me better, were you in your other form.'

'Undoubtedly,' said the Beorning. 'But let us set aside pleasantries, for I fear your vessel is irrecoverable; fleet as the design of the Elves' canoes is, they are constructed for the wide waterways of Anduin's southern reaches, and not these treacherous Gladden marshes.'

From behind a screen of reeds he drew a boat, entirely dissimilar to that provided by Lothlórien. It was long and narrow with a flat bottom, and sat nearly flush with the waterline. The skin-changer stepped aboard and poled across the short distance between the eyot and the rocks, where the trio was stranded. The canoe hull had by that point completely flooded with water.

With sopping supplies in hand, Legolas was the first to leap nimble-footed into the approaching vessel. But when it came Gimli's turn, both Legolas and the Beorning-man were required to assist him from one unsteady boat to the other. Truva was last to scramble into the stern. There were no benches on which to sit, and so each passenger took a damp seat upon the hull bottom itself.

Despite their combined weight, the shallow boat sank no lower into the water; it skimmed across the river currents as their rescuer guided it towards the banks, where no hint of metal glinted any longer. All at once, they were amidst a forest of reeds, with stalks as thick as a man's clenched fist and doubly as tall as the golden glaedene. The marshland vegetation rustled with hollow murmurs as the boat nosed through nonexistent pathways, coming at last to solid ground.

'I will lead you through the forest,' said the Beorning as he lashed the skiff to a piling, which was little more than an unassuming tree stump. All along the bank, a dozen other vessels of similar build were just barely visible, craftily hidden by the natural cover of reeds and brush. 'If it is the halls of your father you seek, a direct path through the Wood of Greenleaves will prove far swifter than going by way of the Old Forest Road. But tonight, you will be safest with my people — these woods are yet treacherous. Already we have dispatched the Orcs that shadowed you from Lórien.'

Truva started at this new knowledge, but Legolas appeared unperturbed. 'If rumours are to be believed,' said he, 'the Beornings' new settlement does indeed lie along our path, were we to make straight for the Mountains of Mirkwood from our current position.'

'Is Grimbeorn still your chieftain?' asked Gimli. 'He is not overly fond of Dwarves, as I've heard.'

'Though it is true he is unfond of Dwarves, his attitude has improved of late – and I should hope he is still chieftain,' chuckled the Beorning. 'For he is me!'

'The chieftain of the Beornings, out guarding his borders himself?' said Legolas. At last there was a hint of surprise to be detected in his voice. 'What led to such desperate straits?'

'Come to my home, and I shall tell you all that has befallen the skin-changers in days of late,' said Grimbeorn.

He set out with purpose, following the natural lay of the land in a roundabout northeastern direction. A strange mood permeated the wood; the beeches' bare winter branches whispered of things gone but effects not yet undone. It did not feel to Truva as hostile as the deeper reaches of Entwood once had, and yet there was something unsettling about the way in which a chill wind followed the travellers along their path. The thick canopy, further shading the already overcast sky, sent shivers through Truva's body, wrapped as it was in garb drenched by the river's waters. She hastened after the Beorning's long strides, hoping it might bring some warmth to her aching limbs.

When night fell, the temperature plummeted further, but the company pressed on for another hour before Grimbeorn came to a sudden halt. He stood a short distance from a thin copse of aspens dotted across a steep embankment, his figure indistinct in the darkness – yet there was some peculiar shift in his manner, some change in the way he carried himself.

Then from his throat emitted a deep growl. It rumbled in Truva's chest and caused the ground beneath her feet to vibrate. Just ahead, a camouflaged curtain of dried leaves and brambles was drawn back to expose a gently illuminated tunnel entrance, dug into the embankment.

'Come,' said Grimbeorn. 'I welcome you to my home.'

The company gained the secluded tunnel's protection in no more than a moment, and the curtain was soon nestled back into place. At once, all indication of the outside world fell away; no sound of the whistling wind could be heard, nor cold brush of snow felt.

'The other lot came in a while back,' boomed the voice of the gatekeeper, who had granted them entrance. 'Said you'd be returning with guests.'

'Oh, aye,' said Grimbeorn. 'I trust a fine supper has been prepared for them?'

'It has – though I think it a strange business to welcome outsiders so warmly,' said the man, folding his massive bulk into a recess dug from the earthen tunnel wall. 'But far more concerning to me is that it seems Dysig has forgotten his duty in all the fuss; if you would be so kind as to send him to relieve me when you go in.'

'Certainly,' replied Grimbeorn.

He turned and led the company down along the gently-sloping tunnel. The low rumble of voices and activity grew stronger as they descended further and drew nearer the end of the tunnel, and at last Grimbeorn turned into what appeared to be a dead end – though this too was mere trickery: a second curtain designed to be indistinguishable from the walls about it, concealing a tiny side entrance.

The passageway beyond was significantly smaller, and Grimbeorn was forced to crouch as he proceeded along it. The sounds of habitation slowly faded, then grew louder again, and were accompanied by a humid warmth. A glow appeared around a corner, eventually revealing the scene of a chaotic laundry. Nearly a score of Beorning men and women bustled about, chattering as they laboured before great tubs crowded amidst the cave-like room, or stoked fires blazing in the immense hearth. Through a doorway on the far side could be seen rack upon rack of sheets and garments and fabrics hung to be dried.

'Can't have the Elvenking's son, nor a Rohirric Marshal, passing from exposure in my lands, now, can I?' said Grimbeorn by way of explanation. 'And as much as I may have wished it in the past, a dead Dwarf would surely be a complication I would find no joy in unravelling, as well.'

'Ach, there's the wee lass!' exclaimed one laundress, who came forward bearing a pile of clothing. 'You're positively soaked, poor thing – and in this freezing weather no less! The lot said you're no taller than a stripling, though I think even that was a generous estimate; you're right lucky me son Ganot has just outgrown his trousers – however strange 'tis to see a lady wear them so.'

'Not a lady,' Truva murmured out of habit, though the washerwoman did not seem inclined to hear her correction.

'Go on, love, change into something dry and warm.'

To Truva she handed a bundle of linens smelling faintly of lavender – a detail which Truva noted with thought of conveying to Mǽgwine one day. Gimli was the recipient of rather more worn trousers and tunic, and the washerwoman had not a single word for him. As for Legolas, already his Elven clothing was dry.

'There are closets in which you may change,' said Grimbeorn, indicating tiny curtained alcoves.

Once tucked away, Truva grappled quite some time with the complicated waist sash, and the tunic was so long on her it would have been considered fashionable in Dol Amroth. But when she emerged, fearful the others would have grown impatient, she discovered them instead absorbed in a most amusing scene: Gimli, even having folded his tunic several times over and belted it into place, struggled to keep its edge off the ground.

'If I had my druthers, I'd prefer to freeze!' he groused. A washerman took his sopping garments with a wry smile and a quick comment in the Beorning language, which sent the laundry into a titter of laughter.

A bark from Grimbeorn silenced them at once, but to the travellers all he said was, 'Now you're dry, let's get you fed.'

Back through the maze-like tunnels they went, the passageway growing wider with each turn until Grimbeorn was able to stand straight once more. The hum of life surged, and quite unexpectedly the company was standing before an immense arch, its sides ornamented with coloured stones in no discernible pattern at all – one of the few decorative touches in all the Den.

Beyond lay a vast, low-ceilinged cavern dug of rock and earth. Long tables stretched from end to end, arranged between rough stone columns interspersed throughout the hall. An earthen dais rose up on the far side. Numerous passageways branched off from the circular perimeter, as spokes of a wheel do, and a stream of Beornings bustled in and out and all around. Upon the ceiling hung tiny star-like lanterns, casting a warm aura upon the scene.

'By way of the Mistress of Magic,' said Grimbeorn, indicating the glimmering lights. 'She bestowed this illuminating gift upon us when first she heard of our hardships.'

'And what hardships were those?' asked Legolas. 'Not even in the halls of my father did I hear the Beornings' fate during the War in full.'

'All in good time, my friend, all in good time. But first, let us eat!'

With that, Grimbeorn motioned for the travellers to take a place just before the dais, then disappeared momentarily amongst the crowd. Many of the other Beornings dining in the hall eyed the peculiar guests with misgiving; it was not Grimbeorn alone who had been unfond of Dwarves. Yet many recognized in Legolas the progeny of Thranduil, whose kindness following the War endeared the Elves in the Beornings' minds. Of Truva, they knew not what to make.

The scene was ever so faintly reminiscent of Truva's first days in Edoras, when Théoden King had received the Hidlander with polite consternation, and yet proceeded to set about providing every Earthly need possible to her. Many of the Eorlingas had been curious but distant then, too, as these skin-changers were now. Even the Beorning den – underground though it was, and clearly in the early stages of construction – was ever so faintly reminiscent of Meduseld and the homes of the Eorlingas; for it was cosy, and radiated a sense of safety and kinship.

Perhaps she ought not be so opposed to the task Gandalf had set her upon, Truva thought. Not the task of discovering what became of the Blue Wizards, of course – for that was a duty she performed in the interest of Gondor and its military security, and with full acknowledgement of its import. But as for travelling east to seek out her origins, she would not mind so terribly much if discovered a people not unlike the Beornings – a people that felt like family. That would not be so bad.

Grimbeorn soon reappeared, followed closely by a second Beorning: a tall, strapping young lad boasting golden curls that would have put the most prideful of Holbytlan to shame. Both bore tankards of ale and heavily-laden plates, which they placed upon the table with great care before Grimbeorn rounded on his companion.

'Now off with you, Dysig – best not allow our duties to go unexecuted,' he chided.

The young Beorning's eyes flew open. 'I clean forgot!' he cried, and darted off in the direction of the main entrance to relieve the long-suffering guard.

With a low chuckle, Grimbeorn took a seat beside his guests, pushing towards them a wide array of fare: freshly baked bread and aged cheese, wild garlic and nettle soup, mushroom pottage, and all manner of foods the sight and scent by which Truva could not identify.

'We were fortunate these woods proved more bountiful once the spirits of Dol Guldur were cast down from their broken fortress,' said Grimbeorn, quickly setting upon the meal himself. 'And we are truly grateful for the generosity of our neighbours, having lost everything in the War. You say you wish to know our fate, Elf – yet it is not dissimilar to that of many others.'

'You lived in the Vales of Eámicel, did you not?' spoke Truva, surprising even herself.

'Yes, horse-mistress,' he answered, fixing her with a gaze, though it was not unkindly. 'For many ages, the Beornings resided in close proximity to your ancestors. Even after the Éothéod migrated south, we continued to enjoy the prosperous life the lush river afforded us. But then the Orcs and Wolves grew more numerous, and their attacks more frequent; and in late winter last, our defences finally failed.

'No longer able to fend them off, we fled – deep, deep into the Woods, chased by those loathsome forces.' He took a shuddering breath. 'Perhaps they grew tired of pursuing us, or perhaps there was some unknown force that drove them away – I know not – yet when at last we returned, the entire Vale was aflame. Our homes and farmlands, bridges… even the beehives. Nothing remained save charred traces: ashes and soot.'

He paused to blink rapidly and clear his throat several times. Then, quite unexpectedly and rather hesitantly, Gimli reached out across the table to pat the hand of the skin-changer several times. Grimbeorn started, but did not withdraw his arm. Eventually, he continued, 'And so we decided to make a new life in the manner of our Other selves: a den. In truth, it is rather more like a rabbit warren, yet it suits us, and is far more easily defended than the open lands of the Vale.'

'Isildur himself met his end in Gladden Fields,' said Legolas.

'What were mere Men such as ourselves to do against the wanton destruction of Sauron and his ilk?' asked Grimbeorn, raising his ale tankard to his lips. All three guests followed suit, out of deepest respect and sympathy; while all had suffered terrible losses in the past year, none had been stripped so brutally of the place they called home.

After a long pause, Truva summoned the courage to resume their conversation. 'Might I ask you one more question?'

'Anything that pleases you, horse-mistress – though I cannot promise to give all answers.'

'Do you happen to possess any knowledge of Dwarves passing on occasion through the Vales?' she asked. 'Not those of the Lonely Mountain, but from far out east; Dwarves of a less… reputable nature.'

'Though I do not find Dwarves of any origin to be reputable,' said Grimbeorn with a flicker of a glance to Gimli, 'I can easily surmise the Dwarves of which you speak: particularly nefarious Longbeard clans, who refused to leave the Iron Hills when Dain II took up residence in Erebor, following their victory upon the slopes of that very mountain. Though they wore no heraldry, these trespassers could be known by the beards they tucked into their belts, and the colourful hats they wore upon their heads – and for the fact that no other clan ventures so far Westward.

'Year after year, the despicable (albeit distant) kin of King Dáin Ironfoot thieved chickens and other supplies from our farmhouses, and built sly bypasses around our toll points at the Ford and along the High Pass. It was not often that they came, but it was ever apparent when they had.'

'If they make any attempt at trading in the Hidlands now, I imagine they shall encounter a most unpleasant surprise,' said Truva, taking immense pleasure in imagining the way in which Chaya and Halbarad might greet such unscrupulous traitors. 'Did these Dwarves ever transport any… unusual goods?'

'So you have heard the unfortunate tales,' mused Grimbeorn. 'Those of unattended children sporadically missing from Laketown or the surrounding area – almost always children, for they were small and manageable even to Dwarves, and rumoured to fetch higher prices. It is with great pride I say none of the Beorning children were ever taken, though the threat was frequently invoked to keep our younglings in order.'

'Did you perhaps ever spy victims from the far reaches of the East – Rhûn, perhaps?' Truva pressed.

Grimbeorn shook his head. 'It was the rarest of occurrences to catch sight of these wretches at all, let alone a convoy with stolen children; and Rhûn lies far from our borders, or the borders of any friendly to us. Our knowledge of anything beyond the River Running is nonexistent."

Truva fell silent then. It seemed she was no closer to the truth she sought, for while Grimbeorn was able to confirm a direct connection between the Iron Hills and its trade routes stretching towards Firienmist – and the Dwarves' nefarious purpose – there was still no indication of how to seek out her own history, or the fate of the Blue Wizards.

She looked morosely upon the remainder of her meal, though the Beornings' chatter – in a language so similar to the Common Speech that she felt would be comprehensible if only she concentrated slightly harder – and the pride with which they presented the travellers with a desert of honey-cakes soon lifted her spirits. It was almost regret she felt when Grimbeorn rose to show them their sleeping chambers.

'Water does not run through these dens as it did in our homes of the Vales,' the Beorning leader sighed as he led them along passageways which twisted this way and that, a bed of dry foliage rustling beneath their feet. 'Would that I could offer you the opportunity to wash up before you rest, but I fear our baths are yet under construction.'

'Your hospitality has been more than generous,' said Legolas. 'Never would I have expected the Beornings to share their honey-cakes with a Dwarf.'

'Even so, I hope you will see fit to return someday, for there seems to be something uniquely healing in the Mirkwood springs of late.' Grimbeorn turned down a short, narrow tunnel, where a series of curtains were aligned. He pulled aside the first and beckoned to Truva. 'Goodnight, Marshal. I am sorry I could not tell you what you wish to know.'

'By sharing your home with me, you have given me something far greater: knowledge I could not even have conceived of,' Truva replied. 'It is not for the meal and shelter alone I thank you.'

As the others moved to the next curtain, Truva stepped beyond her own to find a room simple and unadorned – smaller than expected, as though it were intended for guests her size rather than the skin-changers' massive builds. There was no corner, for like the main hall this bedchamber was round, but across from the entrance curtain was a heaping nest of wool and blankets. Truva swaddled herself within and soon found herself drifting off to sleep, lulled by the comfort of feeling snugly enveloped.