Recommended listening: Mendelssohn, Märchen von der schönen Melusine Overture

CHAPTER II: FAIR ITHILIEN

Truva and the Gondorian messenger Maeron raced onwards. They camped that night beside a tiny stream fed by the snow melt off the Firienwít, where the foragers were to reconvene. Many of the Eorling warriors appeared throughout the night, making admiring noises over Truva's catch – though in keeping with Ghân-buri-Ghân's wishes, she did not reveal its source. The others were content to assume she had hunted the boar herself, and to demonstrate their own gatherings in turn.

In the morning, they rode out as nine – for while two Riders had not yet returned, Maeron's sense of urgency intrigued them, and there was no telling when the final pair would arrive; each warrior had been forced to forage even further afield than expected, so unfruitful did the land prove.

When the company came upon Aldburg the following morning, massive burlap sacks – perhaps even as many as five score – were piled high beside the gates of the fortress. Brow furrowed, Truva hailed the guard and was greeted in return.

'What is the meaning of this?' she cried up at the tower as the gate doors were opened to grant entrance to the Eorlingas' mounts; for with the ever-present threat of attacks, only the wicket gate was otherwise left open, even during the day.

'The meaning of what, Truva Marshal?' replied one guard.

'Surely this is not of our doing?' she asked, then threw out a hand to prevent Gamhelm from investigating the sacks. 'Do not approach too close; perhaps it is some mischief of Orcs. Go now and take what we have gathered to Dernrid in her kitchens.'

She dismounted then, motioning for the errand-rider Maeron to have patience. 'I shall be but a moment; then we will make with all haste for Edoras.'

Maeron nodded with a suggestion of forbearance, but Truva was already approaching the sacks cautiously. She prodded one with the tip of her dagger, nicking the burlap just sufficiently to cause a faint trickle of seed to fall to the ground.

'What is it, Marshal?' asked the guardsman, emerging from the fortress. Truva gathered a handful of the seed and held it to her nose, inhaling the delicate, sweet scent.

'Barley,' she said, her confusion only growing.

Then, far in the distance, came a roll of drums – scarcely audible over the bustle of the waking Aldburg – and Truva understood; the boar had not been the only gift of the Drúedain. Though she did not understand by what means a hunter-gatherer community had managed to procure such vast wares of farming seed, immense relief washed over her. It was by such a gift the Eorlingas might yet survive the following year.

Her relief was tinged with regret in knowing there was no way in which she might express her gratitude to the Drúedain – though she suspected privacy was what they cherished most, and thus swore once more to ensure their home remained little more than legend to the Eorlingas.

Dernrid came scuttling from the gates then, and nigh on fell to her knees at the sight of the burlap sacks. 'In Helm's name, we are saved!' she cried, rushing to inspect the seeds, and discovering some fresh produce in the process. 'What good fortune is this that grants us that which we need most in our greatest hour of need?'

'It is best you are careful with our gift, for who knows by what means it arrived at our doors,' said Truva. 'Yet there is something that makes me think it was a source that does not wish us ill. Be sure to send half to Edoras – for though their stores are greater, so is their need.

'But come,' she added, hoping the greengrocer would ask no further questions. 'I've a boar that needs skinning. Have the guard take it to your kitchens and prepare it as best you see fit. I hope Aldburg shall eat well in the coming days.'

'You will not dine with us?' asked Dernrid as she motioned for one of the guards to unload the carcass from Roheryn.

'I've business in Edoras,' said Truva, indicating the patiently waiting Maeron Captain.

'Very well – I shall set aside some of the boar to salt, so that you might have some upon your return,' said Dernrid, embracing the Marshal; for – despite Truva's rise in rank – the greengrocer continued to see her as the young, tongue-tied fighter from the Hidlands.

'I am grateful for your consideration, but there is no need to save any on my account,' said Truva. 'I am sure a great many of the Aldburg residents will enjoy such a delicacy, however.'

As Dernrid turned once more to the bags of seed, Truva mounted Roheryn and exchanged a nod with Maeron. They took off once more along the Great Road, Dernrid waving them off until they were out of sight. That night, they made a short camp – for though any Mearas might easily have made the distance in a single day, neither Roheryn nor Maeron's horse was of that special breed.

It was thus, just shortly before noon, the unusual pair crossed over the moat and found themselves before the gates of Edoras. With a shout of recognition, the guardsman granted them immediate entrance. Truva waved to a great many friendly faces in greeting – guard and passing Eorling alike – as she led Maeron Captain up the hill towards Meduseld, where they encountered Gríma, who stood waiting to take their mounts into his care.

'Oya, Gríma,' said Truva as he bowed deeply.

'I hope you'll allow me the greed of rejoicing at your return, Marshal,' said Gríma, taking the reins from both Truva and Maeron. 'For none are so kind to me as you, and my guilt eases when I see your face. Yet of this respite, I am undeserving.'

'The others were not privy to your teachings, or the astute counsel you provided Théoden King long before Saruman's influence poisoned your minds,' said Truva, shifting uncomfortably at the disgraced advisor's excessive obeisance. 'They judge you only by what little they know of you: those actions which affected them most grievously.'

'They do not judge unreasonably.'

'Perhaps. But do not rejoice overmuch in my return – for I know not how long I shall remain in Edoras.'

'A single moment of your company is more than I can hope for,' said he.

Truva smiled sympathetically and turned to mount the steps to Meduseld, Maeron close behind. The doorwarden, Hámtu son of Háma, came forward as they gained the terrace.

'Truva Marshal!' he cried, swift to lay a hand upon her shoulder.

'Well met, Hámtu!' Truva replied.

'Many months has it been since last you were seen in Edoras. What brings you to the halls of Éomer King?'

'This errand-rider of high rank says he brings urgent news from fair Ithilien, and from Lady Éowyn who abides there. Will you grant him entrance?'

'Verily,' said the doorwarden, for the days in which suspicion of their own kin cast deep shadows upon the halls of Eorling Kings had passed, and the doors to Meduseld were swiftly opened.

The pair entered, only for Éomer King and Elfhelm Marshal to glance up from a table cluttered with maps and advisors. Éomer strode across the Hall and swept Truva up in an embrace without a moment's hesitation.

'Marshal!' he cried, before allowing Efhelm his own greeting. 'Too long has our communication been relayed solely through messengers. It brings me tremendous joy to see your face before me – though I know I have none other to blame save myself for such a predicament. Come, come, sit and let us speak in counsel.'

'As much as I long to do so, milord, Maeron Captain claims he bears news for you alone,' said Truva, gesturing for her companion to step forward.

'Is that so?' said the King with a glance towards Elfhelm and his other advisors, who stood clustered about the map table. 'Well, it is by my command that the good Captain speak before all gathered here, for any news that he may have – be it good or ill – will promptly be conveyed to my trusted counsellors, and of course my Marshals, as it is.'

'I would do your will, my lord,' said Maeron. 'Yet I cannot speak the news; for I merely bear one letter of two come by way of an Ithilien messenger. The first was presented directly to King Aragorn, and the second was entrusted to me with explicit orders to give it to none other save King Éomer of Rohan. I was told it was news Lord Faramir did not wish to fall into the wrong hands, weak as Emyn Arnen's current position is.'

'I am he, and I bid you read the letter aloud.'

'Very well,' said the Captain, extricating the letter from his doublet, tearing at its wax seal, and unfolding it with aplomb. 'The Lady writes, "My dearest, loving brother."' Maeron gave a brief cough at the familiarity of this greeting. '"I have long delayed in telling you the joyous news, for I was ever fearful some misfortune might befall us. Yet now that eight moons have passed, I believe the worst dangers to lay behind me, and am confident now in telling you I am with child—"'

Éomer did not wait for Maeron to finish before giving a great woop and leaping forward to embrace him and spin about. 'My beloved sister, with child?' he cried. 'Oh, what a blessed, blessed day this is! And she is in good health? She might even have known when she graced Meduseld for the Coronation, yet said nothing – the sly rogue! Lord Faramir tends to her every need?'

When Éomer set him back on his feet, Maeron straightened his doublet and raised the letter once more. 'It is as though she predicts your question: "Never in all my days have I seen a more doting husband or dedicated father as Lord Faramir. Even so, I desire for my brother to be present at the birth of his sister-child, and thus implore you to travel to Ithilien anon."'

'There can be no question about it; I must go!' said the King. 'Come, Truva, will you not see our champion of felicitous news given a hearty meal and provided a place to stay this night? As for my dear advisors, let us discover what gifts we might impart upon the happy couple and their coming newborn; a company shall depart on the morrow at dawn, if not sooner – for I do not believe I shall be able to sleep in the meantime!'

With that, all present scattered to their assigned tasks. Truva took a brief moment to bestow several affectionate pats unto Holde the wolfhound before leading Maeron from Meduseld and collecting their mounts from Gríma's care. No sooner had they entered the stables, however, than a shout went up.

'Truva!' came the cry as a figure ducked out from a stall, hoof rasp in hand and long golden locks significantly more dishevelled than ordinary.

'Éolend!' replied Truva, rushing to exchange several hearty thumps of the arm. 'I see you are hard at work, as ever!'

'Not any longer!' he replied, laying aside the rasp but making no attempt to tidy his hair. 'Oh, how glad Mǽgwine will be to have you back!'

'I have been away far too long, 'tis true.'

'And who might this be?' Éolend peered past Truva to the messenger.

'Maeron, Captain of Gondor, come from Minas Tirith bearing news of Ithilien,' said Truva, introducing the strangers. 'This is Éolend, the King's farrier and a prominent member of the royal family, though the lineage is complex.'

'It is an honour to meet you, my lord,' said Maeron, bowing.

'Ah, such titles are entirely unnecessary,' said Éolend. 'The Marshal exaggerates my status to an absurd degree. Please, freely see to your horses, and then we must go and greet my wife.'

Too many stalls still sat unoccupied in the aftermath of the War, though this allowed Maeron to make use of one. Truva led Roheryn to the very last stall, which remained reserved for her especial use; for though she resided primarily in Aldburg in recent days, the Eorlingas knew to keep empty the space Bron had once favoured.

When their mounts were untacked, groomed, fed, and comfortable at last, Éolend beckoned to Truva and the Captain. 'Come, let us go home,' he said. Together, they walked the short distance down the hill to the familiar home, the setting of so many memories – pleasant and otherwise, but primarily pleasant – to Truva. As customary, she did not so much as knock before throwing the door open.

'I have returned!' she cried into the household at large. Chaos erupted all at once.

'Truva!' screamed Mǽgwine, racing to embrace the Marshal. Even little Aferalend – who was not nearly so little anymore – gave a dignified bow.

'Newly arrived from Aldburg,' said Truva.

'You look nearly as emaciated as the day you first arrived on our doorstep,' Mǽgwine chided, already dragging Truva to the table. 'Yet please excuse my manners; I see we have a guest! And who might you be?'

'A messenger from Gondor,' said Éolend.

'Maeron, at your service, milady,' he said, bowing.

'My, what fine manners you have,' Mǽgwine remarked, bidding Maeron take a seat across from Truva. 'And what news is it that you bring? Is it news fit for our ears?'

'It is indeed,' Truva interrupted. 'Éowyn is with child!'

Nothing save ecstatic exclamations came from Mǽgwine, though Éolend was mildly more reserved in his response. 'You don't say! How far along is she?' he asked.

'Eight months,' Truva replied. 'Éomer King is to depart tomorrow, so that he might see his sister-child brought into the world.'

'Are you to travel with them?' asked Mǽgwine, who had miraculously prepared a selection of modest delicacies for her guests.

'As far as Aldburg, that is for certain,' Truva replied. 'Though I am terribly sorry my visit in Edoras will not be longer.'

'As are we,' said Éolend. 'Things have been uncomfortably quiet around here of late, what with both you and Éowyn gone, and Éomer busy with his kingly duties, and— other missing friends.'

A silence fell then, for the absence of Théodred and Éothafa still cut deep. The past winter had been rife with such moments – when events of the War overtook daily life, and what had been fleetingly forgotten came back suddenly and unexpectedly, catching them unawares. In some ways, Truva felt fortunate to have been sent to Aldburg, for the stony burg was not haunted by ghosts and recollections in the way Edoras was.

Mǽgwine surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eye and urged the newcomers, 'Come, come, eat! I know not how it is in Minas Tirith, but it was a rough winter for Edoras. Even so, this is not the last of our cheese and cured meats – we've more than enough to last us through the spring!'

Truva suspected these words were not entirely true and so did not eat much, yet Maeron set at once upon the spread. Indulging in Mǽgwine's offerings, the company passed several hours in pleasant conversation and high spirits. Aferalend proved especially curious about life in Gondor, asking Maeron an endless series of questions, and the messenger readily answered each until Mǽgwine scolded him for being a nuisance.

Too soon, the sun grew low in the sky and Truva rose to bid their hosts goodbye. 'It is with great regret that we must now take our leave,' she said. 'We cannot possibly impinge more upon your time. But you will come see us off in the morning?'

'Most certainly,' said Mǽgwine.

'You have no hope of evading us,' added Éolend, with an impish smile.

The happy family waved to their guests from the entryway until they disappeared around a corner. As Truva led Maeron back up the hill towards the Marshals' Quarters, he turned to her and asked, 'Are all the Rohirrim so friendly as that?'

'The Eorlingas are indeed an affable folk,' she answered. 'Yet few are comparable to Mǽgwine and Éolend. They welcomed me into their home without complaint – and indeed a great deal of enthusiasm – when I first arrived in Edoras. Though Éolend lost his brother in the War, he is quick to smile even now. I know not how he does it.'

Maeron shuffled along the path in silence a moment before giving a quick cough. 'My younger brother, too, fell upon the Fields of the Pelennor,' he said softly. Even in the frail light of dusk, Truva saw pain threaten to spill from his eyes. She laid a hand upon his shoulder, yet said nothing – for even the closest of companions could not ease the anguish that many Men of the West felt in recent days; the words of a stranger were sure to hold no comfort.

When they arrived before the Marshals' Quarters, Truva bade Maeron enter. Inside was a sparse room, with a hearth opposite and a simple table and benches before it. Two bunks lined the walls.

Truva moved at once to set a fire in the hearth. 'You may make use of Mǽgling Marshal's quarters,' she said, indicating the double bunk on the left. 'He keeps guard at Helm's Deep these days, and I imagine Elfhelm Marshal will pass the night with his family; the barracks become quite cramped when three are in residence. If you are still hungry, I can inquire at the King's kitchen.'

'No, no thank you. I was more than sated by your friends' offerings,' said Maeron politely, though it was not entirely true; he, too, was perceptive, and in seeing the others' hesitancy had not eaten his fill. 'I thank you for your generosity, but I am fine.'

Truva looked at him askance, but said only, 'Very well. You will find all that you need – whether it be blankets, furs or anything else – within Mǽgling's coffer. If you find yourself wanting, do not hesitate to ask.'

'The hospitableness of the Rohirrim certainly cannot be said to be lacking, but truly I am fine,' said Maeron. 'Goodnight, Marshal.'

'Good night,' said Truva.

Yet as she took to her bed, laying a lingering hand upon Bron's saddle blanket spread atop the coverlet as she did so, an unshakable sense of dread overcame her. Though the Marshals' Quarters did not play host to the same shadows of lost friends that her previous barracks did, still the sombre mood of Edoras permeated each crack and crevice. Truva had been away in Aldburg too long, and forgotten how tightly the memories wove about her chest.

Thus it was a sleepless night she passed, staring up at the wooden beams overhead and clutching the saddle blanket tightly in hand. Light had just barely begun to creep over the horizon before she rose and gently shook her companion's shoulder. 'Come, Captain. I suspect the King desires to make a quick departure this morn; perhaps we are already late.'

Maeron yawned, bleary-eyed. 'Ah, too long have I been in the service of the White City, for such a life affords us time enough to sleep in the morn.'

'We Eorlingas are an agricultural people,' Truva laughed quietly. 'If you still sleep after the sun has risen, you shall be ridiculed for your indolence.'

With the Captain roused, the two emerged from the Marshals' Quarters and made their way to the stables. Éomer King was indeed already about with his King's Company, who – in the wake of the War – amounted to no more than a score of Riders. Elfhelm Marshal lounged against a stall frame, looking rather put out as he observed their preparations.

'Greetings, Truva and Maeron Captain!' cried Éomer, boisterous both in manner and movement. 'You look well this morning!'

'I suspect even the Paths of the Dead would look inviting to you this morn, your highness,' Truva said with a smile.

'I do not deny it!' said the King, mounting up at once. The Riders, Truva, and Maeron followed suit, though Elfhelm merely stepped forward bearing a single blossom of simbelmynë.

'Give Lady Éowyn and the babe my greeting,' said he, passing the flower to the King.

'I shall,' Éomer replied, tucking it carefully into his pack. A solemn glance passed between the two before he added, 'The safety of the capital falls to you, Marshal.'

'Yes, milord.' Elfhelm bowed deeply, then – in a flurry of motion and final partings that left Truva's head whirling – the company streamed from the stables and down the hill. After a brief greeting of the guard at the main gates, they navigated the city outskirts and turned southeast along Hérweg.

The Riders did not travel with as much haste as the Muster had during the War, yet still the pace Éomer King set was not light, for eager was he to see his sister after so long apart. Maeron Captain's mount, and even Roheryn, struggled to keep pace with Firefoot and the other Mearas. As the turrets of Aldburg came into view in the early evening, however, Éomer King slowed and drew Truva aside.

'It is my understanding there is somewhat of an affinity between you and my sister,' he said. 'Your unerring devotion to the Folde has not gone unnoticed, but I do not think it would not be amiss to ask you to accompany me as far as Ithilien. Indeed, it is one of the very reasons I requested Elfhelm to remain behind – so that at least one senior Marshal would be present in the Mark, should any unforeseen circumstances arise.'

'I cannot deny I find elation in the notion of seeing Lady Éowyn again,' said Truva, though it was not Éowyn who was foremost in her mind; to travel in the land of Gondor meant to be nearer Aragorn. Perhaps the King would even attend the birth of his Steward's child. 'But would it be wise to leave Aldburg absent a Marshal?'

'Surely there is another whom you can entrust with the East-mark's safekeeping, at least for the time being,' said Éomer. 'We will not be away long.'

'Each of my Riders I would trust with this task,' Truva replied, allowing hope to blossom in her breast.

And so the company halted briefly at Aldburg, where Truva left instructions with Gódring as to how the fortress would operate in her absence. It was but the work of a moment, however, for Gódring was a competent Captain, and with the gifts of the Drúedain, Truva no longer worried for the coming spring – though surely, as Éomer said, they would be back long before planting began.

Gamhelm she summoned to ride in her service, and he fell in amongst the others with a self-satisfied smile as they renewed their headlong pace. After several additional days, the company drew near the base of Hæwenheáf, where they parted ways with Maeron. The Gondorian Captain took the southern Road in returning to Minas Tirith, with the intention of informing Aragorn King of the Eorlingas' movements, if the King himself had not already departed eastward for Ithilien.

The others arrived before the gates of Osgiliath in just over a sennight. Truva could not believe her eyes as they drew nigh upon the city walls, so recently the site of extensive destruction. Where once rubble had been piled after the War, tremendous fortifications were erected, and more than one tower peered down upon the streets below. As the hooves of the Riders' horses clattered upon the cobblestone square just within the gates, however, the scars of battle became more apparent. Only the most necessary repairs had been made; many shops and residences were protected by little more than a carefully strung oilcloth, or bore the mark of restoration by unskilled hands.

Even as the King's Company gazed upon prominent barracks positioned just beside the gate, a man stepped forth from one to greet them. 'Welcome, Riders of Rohan, to Osgiliath,' he called.

'Well you seem to know us,' said Éomer King in return. 'Yet who might you be?'

'I am Beregond, Captain of the White Company and personal guard to the Steward himself,' said he. 'Lord Faramir has bade me greet you in this fair city, and – if it be your will – see to it that you are well cared for before leading you to Emyn Arnen in the morning.'

'Well met, Beregond of the White Company,' said Éomer King as tangible relief washed over the Eorlingas – for the sun hung low in the sky, and they had travelled far in but a few days. 'As eager as I am to greet my sister, I do not think I can ask my Men to ride any longer this day, and thus humbly accept your welcome.'

'I hope you will find rest beneath our humble roofs,' said Captain Beregond, striking out along a wide avenue bisecting Osgiliath west to east. 'Unfortunately, we have a little further to go yet; the western half of the city came to be dominated by private residences in the wake of the War, for Annonaur suffered the least destruction, having been under Orcish control only a short while.'

'And what of the eastern bank?' asked Éomer.

'Annondû is where we work most heavily to restore what once was ours,' said the Captain, passing through a series of arches and emerging upon a terrace which overlooked the great flowing waters of Eámicel. Before the company stretched a series of bridges, each spanning from Annonaur in the west to Annondû in the east, though several were still the skeletons wrought by wartime. High above all this arched Teluelin – the Dome of Stars, the state building in days of old. A tremendous framework was constructed about its nearly completed lantern.

'The eastern bank is where the majority of our inns and taverns have congregated,' Beregond continued as he led the Riders across the centremost bridge. 'These play host to many of our temporary workers, thus much commerce has sprung up in Rûduin, as well. Perhaps you will appreciate its lively atmosphere during your stay.'

But the Eorlingas did not respond; they were too busy staring at the sights before them, following blindly when Beregond, upon gaining the opposite bank, passed through a second series of arches and turned sharply south. Truva paused momentarily to observe a smithy – busy in its work to rebuild the city – and an apothecary struggling to keep pace with the demand of those suffering from injuries sustained in the War, or the pains of exhausting labour. There were butchers also, and fishmongers, and greengrocers, their wares on proud display; it seemed to Truva that Gondor had proven somewhat more prosperous than the Mark during the harsh winter.

Just around the next corner stood an inn, a cheery wattle and daub structure flanked by a tavern on one side and a florist upon the other. The inn seemed to be well acquainted with both. From its eaves peeked twilight-coloured thunbergia and lush pothos, blossoming and spilling over from hanging flower pots. A trickle of patrons also streamed between its front door and the neighbouring drinking establishment.

'This is one of the few wooden structures – or structure of any sort at all, to be quite frank – that went undamaged in the War,' said Beregond as he led the Eorlingas first to the stables, and then into the cosy interior. After much bowing and scraping from the innkeeper, and offerings of hearty pottage, Éomer King and Truva were shown to private accommodations on the upper floors. The remaining Riders were not so fortunate; a communal chamber was their fate, for all other rooms were occupied by labourers.

Truva had just settled in and was beginning to inspect the austere furnishing of her lodgings when a knock sounded at her door.

'Truva Marshal?' said Gamhelm. 'We are bound for the tavern; would you care to join us?'

'I suppose somebody ought to keep you lot in order,' Truva muttered, emerging to join a dozen Riders as they slipped into the neighbouring tavern. While the others ordered pints of Osgiliath's premier ale and began to fraternise with the Gondorian patrons at once, Truva was content to sequester herself in one corner, nursing her tankard and observing the scene about her.

The establishment itself was craftily constructed of stone, and reminded Truva strongly of Osgiliath's sister city. She had caught but a glimpse of Minas Tirith as Maeron took his leave of the Eorling company, yet the soaring turrets and fluttering banners above the Tower of Ecthelion served only to remind her of Aragorn's silence. Confusion and doubt budded within her mind, and she sank into dark ruminations.

It was as she was lost in thought, eyes gazing blankly ahead, that she became aware of someone calling her name.

'Truva?' said the voice. 'It must be you, surely.'

She blinked several times; her vision slowly drew into focus, only to reveal an unmistakable man leaning across the wooden table. His figure was immense – even more so than she recalled – though he wore not the livery of the Eorlingas, nor even that of Gondor.

'Blackbramble?' Truva cried, leaping to her feet and moving to embrace the man, though he flinched even now. Recognising her past self in his actions, she patted his shoulder apologetically instead, saying, 'Sit, sit! Tell me how it goes with you.'

'Well, as you may have noticed, it is more than a few pounds I have gained since last you saw me,' said Blackbramble with a chuckle, taking a place across from her. 'But that is not all I have gained – for I have also gained a wife!'

'A wife? How splendid!' enthused Truva. 'I offer you sincerest congratulations!'

'A job I have also gained; it is physical labour rebuilding this city here, yet such work is play compared to what we endured back— back there. And there are others of the Hidlands here. Though once we were competitors, we passed through the flames of War together, and it was such trials that allowed us to forge bonds unbreakable.'

'Will you send word to the others for me, that I have been here and given them greeting?'

'Most certainly, Marshal,' said Blackbramble. 'And what of Chaya and the others? Have you any news?'

'I received a letter or two from Halbarad,' said Truva. 'It seems there was some disturbance amongst the neighbouring Holbytlan, which rippled into additional trouble throughout the area – yet they were able to quickly quell the conflict and have lived peacefully since.'

'I was happy to hear of the marriage between Chaya and Halbarad,' said Blackbramble.

It was with such pleasant and easy conversation that they passed the remainder of the evening, talking less of things that had been and more of things they hoped would come. Truva was circumspect as ever, yet there was a unique camaraderie she shared with Blackbramble and the other Hidlanders that she did not with any other – not even the Eorlingas. Thus she retired to her lodgings with a tremendous weight lifted from her chest, relieved to see at least one Hidlander prospered in the southern lands.

Dawn came egregiously early the next day, though Truva fared significantly better than the other Eorlingas, who had been at their revelries long after she left. They arrived at the inn stables still groggy, shielding their eyes from the morning light and thankful for the thick cloud cover that made its way down from Hæwenheáf in the west.

Beregond Captain appeared as they stood listlessly about in the courtyard. 'Good morning to you all!' he said with a beaming smile, though he was greeted mostly by groans in return.

'A wonderful morning it is, indeed!' replied Éomer King, descending then from his own chambers. 'Shall we set out? I would never wish to delay a reunion with my sister, yet it is doubly so upon such a propitious occasion!'

The Eorlingas needed no further command; at these words alone, they mounted up and followed Beregond through the streets of Annondû. Their Mearas dodged stonemasons and carpenters already about their daily labours as the company made for the eastern city gates, which – having borne the brunt of the Orcs' attacks – showed both far greater damage and more extensive repairs. Carts of limestone were strewn along the path, forcing the Riders to carefully pick their way past the guardhouses and over the dike – gurgling with a diverted stream of Eámicel – onto the fields beyond.

They joined a small trickle of labourers continuing along the east-west path, and by midmorning had come to the crossroads, which were wholly more inviting for the growth of vegetation about the restored stone king of Gondor – though its crown now lay beneath a thin layer of snow. Veering southward, the Eorlingas traversed Harad Road between low, rolling hills to the west and the Ephel Dúath on their left. The further they progressed, the higher overhead the hills rose; not far in the distance, the dense clouds they had spotted earlier descended, sending fresh flurries cascading down upon the white landscape.

These clouds eventually reached the Eorlingas, as well; they pulled hoods up over their heads and secured collars about their necks against the chill. Even so, the flakes settled into every crevice and corner, melting and piling up and leaving the Riders wholly uncomfortable, yet they knew there would be no stopping until their King had reached his destination.

They came upon said destination without even realising it – for they knew not where it was until Beregond pulled ahead slightly, spread his arms wide, and cried, 'Welcome to Emyn Arnen, home of Lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, and his wife Lady Éowyn, shieldmaiden of the Rohirrim and sister to Rohan's King!'

The Eorlingas looked about in confusion; they could see nothing save a sparse pine wood stretching across the surrounding hills. But then Éomer gave a cry and leapt from his horse, dashing from the road as if one possessed. The other Riders stared after him until they, too, saw what their King observed: the figure of Éowyn, emerging from a wooden hall hidden within the trees, followed closely by Lord Faramir.

Dismounting in the King's wake, Truva caught Firefoot's reins and approached the glowing pair, ensnared in Éomer's arms. Once released by her brother, Éowyn turned to Truva and embraced her, in turn.

'How glad I am to see you all!' said Éowyn, laying her arms upon her swollen belly. 'I was fearful my letter would not reach you in time – though it seems you have made all haste, and come entirely too soon! The healer says the baby is yet weeks away.'

'Even so, it is far better to be too soon than be but a moment too late,' said Éomer, holding his sister once more.

'Come,' said Lord Faramir. 'You must be weary from your travels, and the day is chill. Though our homes be yet humble and our food meagre, we offer you what hospitality we might.'

The happy couple escorted the Eorlingas to the great Hall of Emyn Arnen. It proved little more than a large cabin, though its craftsmanship was solid and utilitarian, with windows covered in oiled sheepskin – enough to allow light in while keeping the winter snows out. Only a half-dozen low tables were arrayed about the hall, surrounded by simple carved benches. Even so, the scene was perfectly inviting to the Eorlingas, who had felt somewhat out of place in the grand city of Osgiliath. They swiftly settled on the benches, eager eyes falling upon the modest fare laid before them.

'I apologise, for our settlement is – as of yet – shamefully primitive,' said Lord Faramir. 'We are as busy as ever laying waste to Minas Morgul and the foulness that lies within. I must acknowledge it is thanks to your Marshal, Truva, that our task is not more challenging; having cleared many towers and hiding places within Mordor, her company scoured that land of all enemies, and thus gave us peace of mind enough to focus on less pressing matters.'

'It was not I alone who effected such results, milord,' said Truva. 'The service Halbarad of the Northern Rangers rendered was no less than mine own, and a great many Hidlanders and Eorlingas aided us. Yet had we any foresight, we would have destroyed the dark tower of Minas Morgul, as well.'

'Never you mind, I have heard the tales of that venture – the battle after the War – and fault you in no way,' said the Prince of Ithilien kindly. 'On the contrary, the deeds you and Halbarad performed were commendable.'

'Durthang was a mere skirmish, milord,' Truva mumbled, her eyes falling to the roasted perch on her plate. Éowyn, taking note of her friend's bashfulness, clapped her hands suddenly and turned to Éomer.

'The weather is inclement,' said she, 'yet there is a watchtower not far from our halls, from which you can see the lands of South Ithilien in their entirety. Would you not care to observe the new home of your sister?'

'It would grant us time to prepare your quarters,' added Lord Faramir. 'In truth, your arrival came far sooner than anticipated, and the rooms are still in disarray.'

'A grand idea!' Éomer King enthused.

Thus, once the Eorlingas had eaten their fill, they rose from the tables and wandered out into the forest beyond the hall. Éowyn lingered, complaining of a backache, and so Lord Faramir alone led them yet further southward, along pathless hills crowned with trees growing so close that little snow trickled through the canopy to settle upon their boughs. Even so, white drifts muffled all sound, and only the Riders' laboured breathing could be heard as the incline grew steadily steeper.

At great last they came upon the crest of a hill which stood tall above all others. A small break in the foliage allowed the Riders to look out upon the vast lands beyond, yet they scarcely had time to admire the impressive vista before Lord Faramir gave a sharp whistle. Two rope ladders tumbled down from above; a massive watchtower had been built into the very tree itself, hidden from view by the lower branches.

The Eorlingas ascended the ladder only to be greeted by two watchmen, who welcomed them to the platform clear above the treeline to the south. Truva felt as though she were back in Drúmar, for the lookout was similarly buffeted and swayed by the wind as the Drúedain's hall was.

Nothing save splendour lay spread before them, despite limited visibility brought on by the stormy conditions. Snow-capped trees poked their heads far into the distance, petering out as the gap between the Ephel Dúath to the east and Eámicel in the west narrowed. For the first time, Truva could see beyond the outcrop of Hæwenheáf to the southern reaches of Gondor, where the river Erui coursed through fields and pastures. Its crashing waters were a reflection of the winter sky, casting a silver light upon the whole scene.

From their vantage point, Lord Faramir indicated to the Riders where Gondor's defences lay: the crossings of Erui and Poros, and in the city of Pelargir where the river Sirith met Eámicel – all of which boasted forces sleeplessly guarding the vulnerable border of South Gondor and the contested territory beyond.

As Truva listened to Faramir's explanation, she noticed a peculiar sight off towards the western bank of Eámicel. 'My Lord, what is that great column of smoke rising in the distance, there?' she asked, pointing to dark billows floating quite high before being carried off on the wind.

'That is the people of Pelargir,' said he. 'For it has ever been their way to celebrate Yule in accordance with their own particular calendar, which is aligned with the moon rather than the sun. A great many bonfires are lit, and effigies of their woes set ablaze to free them of the same torment in the coming year.'

'What a strange custom,' remarked Gamhelm.

'Though perhaps no stranger than the way in which others might view many of our own,' said Éomer.

Intrigued, the company passed quite some time comparing regional customs, as well as discussing the movements different forces had taken during the War. Several Riders exchanged stories with the Gondorian watchmen, surprised to learn how close they had come in passing the previous summer. Yet even as the chill began to sink into their bones, a sharp whistle came from below; then another, and desperate cries as well:

'My Lord Faramir! Come quick!'

'Whatever is the matter?' he called in response.

'It is Lady Éowyn, my lord – the baby is soon to come!'

All upon the platform glanced about at each other in stunned silence ere they raced to the platform's edge and flew down its ladders, desperate to reach Lady Éowyn before the arrival of their new Prince. No sooner had Éomer King touched his feet to the ground, however, than Truva spied a flicker of movement amongst the foliage some distance off. She trained her eyes upon the spot even as she descended the ladder, but saw nothing further. Perhaps some passing wildlife had disturbed the bushes, or a snow-laden branch shook free its burden.

Yet an unsettled feeling crept over her as she followed the others returning towards the settlement. She loosened her sword from its hilt, heightened senses on edge, and fell to the rear. With each step, her eyes frantically scanned for any unexpected movement.

A second disturbance caught her notice – closer this time. She glanced towards Éomer King, who was already staring at the exact same spot. With a single exchanged gesture, they crept nearer, circling separately to pincher off any retreat. They were just beyond striking distance when a terrible cry rose up behind them.

A band of Orcs leapt upon the party, dropping from low-hanging branches or darting from behind tree boles. In a single slash, Lord Faramir felled the foremost beast, only to find himself confronted with another. Nearly three-score Orcs swarmed about the Eorlingas and their host, though this number was soon reduced even further by the two Gondorian watchmen in their lookout high above.

'Éowyn!' Éomer King cried to Lord Faramir, who dashed off without any hesitation in the direction of the settlement. Truva dispatched several Orcs as they sought to chase after the Prince, but three slipped past her and sprinted northward in his wake. They, too, were struck down by the watchmen.

The melee whirled in a mess of blade and bow, but despite their greater numbers, the Orcs proved no match for the battle-hardened King's Riders, who made short work of these enemies. Dark bodies and swaths of scarlet blood soon lay stark against once pristine snow, great patches now churned to filth. The Eorlingas stood but momentarily, hot breath clouding in the cool air, before racing after Lord Faramir.