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A gentle smile rested on Truva’s lips as she traipsed along the paths of Edoras, Roheryn clopping amicably along behind. He was rarely parted from Truva in recent days; the Mearas had not taken too kindly to the poor pony and – after he fell victim of one too many sly nips – Truva elected to minimise his time in the King’s Stables. In truth, she did not mind indulging his overattachment; Roheryn served not only as a pleasant reminder of Aragorn, but also a distraction from the excruciating memory of Bron, whose absence continued to haunt her nights, leading her down labyrinthian dreams inhabited by those who had fallen in the War.

Ever since her return, she had spent many a sleepless dawn out riding.

But Truva’s mind was not so burdened now, for training had gone exceptionally well. The skills the Hidlanders had hastily acquired during the War were provisional at best; now, under Truva’s thorough guidance, those who wished to pursue a career in the Muster of the Mark were slowly rebuilding the foundation necessary to succeed. And the recruits’ progress was proving remarkable, indeed. That morning’s training suggested they would be ready to advance from slingshots to bows far earlier than Truva had anticipated.

Other Hidlanders had no such militaristic desires, however, and instead took on more domestic positions: farmers, cobblers, coopers, greengrocers – primarily jobs overseen by Eorlingas who spoke passable Westron and could ease the Hidlanders’ transition into city life. Truva waved to several in greeting as she made her way along the main thoroughfare, revelling in their evident cheer every bit as much as that of her soldiers.

Once she gained the King’s Stables, Truva threw open the gates and allowed Roheryn to saunter through ahead. As he turned directly and assuredly into his stall – separated by an empty berth on each side – Truva took up a pitchfork to provide him fresh hay.

‘Bit of a bustle about, wouldn’t you say, Marshal?’ came a quiet voice, causing Truva to leap. She turned to see a dark head of hair mucking out a stall in the back.

‘Hál, Gríma,’ she said, cheerful tone belying how startled she had been. ‘I would expect no less, a mere three days before the coronation.’

‘It brings me great joy to know Éomer King shall at last wear the crown,’ said Gríma, leaning on his shovel and regarding Truva. His pinched expression had filled out once more, and a healthy glow returned to his pallid features – though not to the extent of before the War. None of them had. ‘Not in all the history of the Mark has so long a period transpired between the passing of one King and the ascendance of the next.’

‘I do not begrudge him the desire to assume his throne within a city no longer sundered,’ said Truva, though the clangour of repairs could still be heard even in that very moment. ‘And it is only now Lady Éowyn and Lord Faramir have sufficiently established their residence in Ithilien, and foreign dignitaries likewise found the freedom to travel abroad.’

‘I do not suppose such “dignitaries” might include that Wizard? I would very much like to avoid any encounter with him again.’

Truva gave a brief huff – as close an approximation to laughter as she could get. ‘I have been led to believe we can expect visitors from Gondor alone – though perhaps it would be best you remain tucked away, here in the st—’

‘I thought I might find you here!’ a voice from the stable entrance interrupted. Mǽgwine emerged from around the corner, her skirts billowing as she strode towards Truva. ‘I’ve been awaiting you nearly this past hour, yet here you are, rolling about with the horses and gossiping over the coronation! Hál, Gríma!’ She paused her ranting only momentarily to greet the stablehand.

‘Hál, Mǽgwine,’ Gríma replied, discomfort at the familiarity of her greeting written plainly upon his face. Though he had grown passably at ease with Truva (owing to the inordinate amount of time she spent in the stables), still his guilt weighed heavily upon him, and he could not easily bring himself to face the many citizens of Edoras.

Truva extricated a carrot from her sleeve and watched it disappear into Roheryn’s voracious mouth. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mǽgwine; I must not have realised how late training ran.’

‘Hurry along, now,’ she said, flapping her arms to rush Truva out of the stables. ‘I’ve still a great deal of work left to do with the King’s chef before the feast, and I will have to seek out Aferalend before I can get to it. He shows promise in the culinary arts, and I intend to foster that – but the scamp has run off to be with his father yet again!’

‘You are far too busy,’ said Truva. ‘We can do this another time – after the coronation, perhaps.’

Mǽgwine caught Truva’s elbow as she turned back towards Roheryn. ‘Nonsense. I will always have time for a friend in need.’ Her voice was hushed, but the sympathetic look in her eye was more forceful than any words.

‘It is not truly a need—’ Truva began, but a single harrumph from Mǽgwine was enough to cut her off.

They strode along the pathways until they came upon the training yard, late autumn breeze cutting sharp across its open sands, devoid of soldiers during their noontide meal. Truva began to make for the Marshals’ Quarters, but Mǽgwine’s words brought her up short.

‘How long do you intend to avoid the inevitable?’ she asked, her tone sharp but not unkind. ‘I’ve come to help you, and that’s just what I shall do.’

She took Truva’s hand in her own and led the Marshal across the training yard and through the rows of infantry barracks upon the opposite side, weaving expertly along a well-known path. At last they came upon a single hut, its roof slanted so steeply its eaves nearly brushed the ground. Inside was completely dark.

‘Have you not entered since your return?’ Mǽgwine asked softly.

Truva stared blindly at the barracks she had once occupied. Rather than seeing the tattered door, her eyes were obscured by the vision of simbelmynë Théodred had presented upon her moving in, her nose tantalised by the scent of soup she had served him during their long talks, her ears deafened by Éothafa’s harried knocking on the countless occasions recruits were unexpectedly roused for midnight drilling.

‘Once,’ Truva whispered. ‘I passed but a single night here before immediately removing to the Marshals’ Quarters.’

Mǽgwine squeezed her hand in silent understanding. Though Éothafa had primarily resided in his official barracks, the room reserved for him at Mǽgwine and Éolend’s home now lay empty, a memorial to one lost in War.

‘Well, I reckon the Muster could make good use of this place, if you won’t,’ said Mǽgwine, her practical streak suddenly returning. ‘Would you like to open it, or shall I?’

Without responding, Truva stepped forward and grasped the rough door handle, pulling it open. A breath of musty air enveloped her. The surfaces within were blanketed with an even thicker layer of grime than when she had first returned – for not only had she failed to tidy things up then, the harvest had subsequently brought in great clouds of grain dust that coated every nook and cranny.

Mǽgwine strode purposefully into the barracks and immediately seized two buckets. ‘Go fetch some water from the well,’ she said in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘I suspect we shall need a great deal of it.’

Before Truva even comprehended the command, Mǽgwine had taken up a broom and begun to sweep the hard-packed earthen floor. By the time Truva returned, water sloshing in the buckets, the sprightly Eorling woman had thrown open both door and window screen to air the room out. When Mǽgwine commandeered one bucket of water for laundry purposes, Truva plied herself to the table, bony knuckles scraping along wooden slats as she scrubbed.

The harder she ran the brush along the table, worn by years of soldiers’ meals, the more perturbed Truva became; cleaning was unbearably monotonous, allowing intrusive memories to slip easily past her defences. Théodred’s smile transformed into the expression of consternation he had worn when faced with a fate he had never wanted for himself or his people. She saw Eilif once more falling from the skies. Éothafa’s countenance when informed he would serve as Marshal. The immense monster crouching over Théoden King’s supine form. Bron.

‘Truva.’ The voice swam hazily in her consciousness, muddled. ‘Truva.’ Mǽgwine’s face floated before her vision – had she lost Mǽgwine, too? ‘Truva.’

The feeling of existing in the present seized Truva’s arms – or perhaps it was Mǽgwine’s hands.

‘Fine, I’m fine,’ came the automatic response developed over more than a month of similar lapses. Though Truva had been forced to excuse herself from training more than once, the moments of panic struck most urgently during the quiet lulls throughout the day, when there was little to occupy her time. Suddenly deprived of the need to be constantly alert, her mind didn’t seem to know what to do with itself, save dwell on that which she most desperately did not wish to dwell upon. Her hand unconsciously found the silver Star pinned beneath her tunic.

‘I need you to find that tunic for me,’ Mǽgwine spoke clearly.

‘What tunic?’ Truva asked, still somewhat disoriented.

‘The burgundy one I gave you all those years ago. The one that started this whole business – you said you could not find it, though I suspect that is only because you refused to enter these barracks.’ Noting Truva’s gradual recovery seemed to be improved by chatter, Mǽgwine continued to narrate each of her thoughts. ‘Ought I to wash it before I alter it – for you’re far skinnier than when you donned it last – or shall I alter it first, and then wash it? Time is pressing, and I reckon it’s far better to attend the feast in an ill-fitting garment than a wet one…’

As her friend nattered on, Truva moved absentmindedly towards the trunk at the foot of her bed, oblivious to the spilled bucket and drenched shirt front. She laid aside the tattered remains of training uniforms and a spare pair of bracers, an earthenware water jug and several other odds and ends before the trunk lid was freed. Truva’s possessions were few, but still she had to dig through several layers of winter clothes in search of the tunic. As she held up a ceremonial cloak, a small paper slipped from its folds and fluttered to the floor. When she bent to pick it up, Truva gave a small gasp.

‘What is it?’ asked Mǽgwine, turning sharply from the oven.

‘Naught,’ said Truva, sliding the letter into her tunic. ‘Merely stood too swiftly.’

‘You mustn’t overexert yourself,’ Mǽgwine chided, but Truva wasn’t paying attention; she had glimpsed a corner of burgundy fabric. Shoving aside several belts and a scabbard, she withdrew the tunic at last. Mǽgwine took it into her hands and inspected its creased and pressed fabric.

‘It looks rather worse for not having been worn,’ she bemoaned.

‘I am certain I shall manage to make it presentable,’ said Truva, reaching to take the tunic back, but Mǽgwine drew it away.

‘I will most certainly not entrust it to your care!’ she exclaimed. ‘Left to your own devices, you would return it to your trunk and appear at the feast in training tunic and hose.’

Truva frowned in mock irritation; in truth, the thought had crossed her mind. ‘Perhaps you ought to go in search of Aferalend, now that we have located the tunic,’ she said. ‘I can clear out the rest of the barracks unaided.’

‘Nor will I abandon you to the remains of your cleaning! Many hands make light work, and your load is heavy enough as it is. I was talking with Elfhelm Marshal just the other day regarding all the duties you have taken on since returning...’ Mǽgwine resumed her oration, detailing each interaction with all manner of Edoras residents in recent days – most of which had little relation to either Truva or Elfhelm. Soothing as it was to listen to Mǽgwine chatter on as they returned to their tasks, however, it was the small paper that wholly occupied Truva’s mind.

Théoden King’s letter.

He had laid it upon her armour all those years ago when Truva had first come amongst the Eorlingas’ midst. Having been unable to read at that point, she had tucked it away and gradually forgotten about it. Seeing the King’s spidery scrawl suddenly appear before her startled Truva far more thoroughly than any spectre ever possibly could. His words were sure to be impersonal, as Truva had been in Edoras no more than a few months at the time her armour had been supplied her, yet there was little doubt in her mind that she wished to read the letter in private, without Mǽgwine’s audience.

Truva’s reverie was disrupted by the arrival of Éolend and Elfhelm Marshal, shadowed by Aferalend. They rapped on the open door before stepping into the barracks with a cheerful chorus of hellos, or a reserved nod in the case of the child.

‘Occupied or not, you’ve kept your barracks a fair deal cleaner than mine ever were!’ Elfhelm declared.

‘Where is this trunk Mǽgwine informed me of?’ Éolend asked, making straight for the object of his search even as he spoke. ‘Come, Elfhelm, let’s shift this to the Marshals’ Quarters before our new commander can object!’

‘It is not so heavy I can’t move it myself!’ said Truva, but already the two had seized each end of the trunk and begun to convey it out the door, nearly tripping over Aferalend in the process. In a flurry of activity they had come and gone, leaving Truva rather perplexed.

‘I rather think I’ve done all that I can here,’ said Mǽgwine, examining the neatly arrayed living area.

‘Thank you ever so much for your assistance,’ Truva replied. She left unspoken the way in which Mǽgwine had helped most, for they both knew it was not cleaning.

Mǽgwine gathered the tunic in her arms and gave Truva’s hand one last pat. ‘Any time,’ she said, with a glance to where Truva had tucked the letter away. She then followed after her husband and Elfhelm in order to snare Aferalend for his culinary lessons, leaving Truva alone in the quietude of her past home.

The hum of late summer insects was Truva’s only company as she fell into one of the simple chairs and looked about the empty, austere barracks. Ever so slowly, she withdrew the letter from her tunic and laid it upon the table, staring at it as she lit a candle and heated the blade of her knife in the flame. She gently slid the knife beneath the wax seal, preserving it as best as possible, but even once the letter was open Truva could not summon the courage to unfold it.

She rose and swept the floor a second time (although it was still spotless), then gathered her bedding and took it outside for a thorough wash. Once it had been hung to dry, she returned to the same chair, only to leap up and reorganise what little tableware and utensils lay about. When she finally took a seat yet again, she was well and truly absent things to do.

Thrice did Truva take a deep breath and reach for the letter, only to retract her hand and frown. It was not until the fourth time that she took the delicate paper into her hands and unfolded it flap by flap. At last, Théoden King’s writing revealed itself:

Truva—

It is with joyous heart we welcome you into our ranks.
May you serve the Mark with pride and honour,
bearing the work of our finest craftsmen,
and may horses run through your heart evermore.

—Théoden King

It was, as she had suspected, a simple letter, yet it was not the words upon the page that caused tears to so fiercely course down Truva’s cheeks. She fought to recall his countenance as it had smiled in days of old, surrounded by his family and loyal subjects, or when his eyes had grown steely and his jaw tense when the realities of war settled into the deep lines of his face. Yet all she could see was his rigid profile, concealed beneath a golden shroud upon his bier.

Truva drew her knees to her chest, allowing the letter to fall once more to the table. Sobs racked her body as she allowed her emotions to run unchecked. As accustomed to grief as she believed herself to have become, the unexpected resurfacing of her beloved King’s sentiments was all the more excruciating for its abruptness.

A soft knock sounded at the door. ‘Marshal?’ came Elfhelm’s gentle query.

Truva swiftly wiped away her tears and stowed the letter back in her tunic, rising to her feet. ‘Have you transferred the trunk? I will see to it shortly,’ she said.

‘No— well, yes, we have,’ said Elfhelm. ‘But I thought you might like to know the arrival of the delegation from Dol Amroth is imminent.’

Truva then turned her ears beyond inner thoughts and heard horns announcing the approach of a friendly company. Her grief abated ever so slightly, overrun by anticipation; Prince Imrahil had come from the south! In spite of knowing hope’s most frequent companion is disappointment, Truva couldn’t help but wonder whether Aragorn might be amongst their number.

She followed Elfhelm from the barracks and through the paths of Edoras, still attempting to shake the effects of Théoden King’s letter. She longed for nothing more than to find herself in Aragorn’s embrace, comforted by one who knew the depths of her loss, yet her perturbation must have read clearly upon her face, for even the typically oblivious Elfhelm walked nearer a moment.

‘None are unaffected by war,’ he murmured, continuing to stare forward. ‘But the likes of you and I bear the heaviest of burdens, so that others might never know the full horrors of what we have witnessed, and have committed with our own hands. Fortunate are those Marshals who never need lead during such times; indomitable are those who have no choice but to do so.’

His eyes dropped to where his feet scuffed in the dirt. ‘There is no shame in tears.’

Truva did not respond, for there were no words to be said. Many a time she had noted the same glassy look in Elfhelm’s eyes as in her own, and in the Marshals’ Quarters he was as like as she to wake in the night, crying out over wounds long healed or brethren long gone.

The solemn mood was broken when a gaggle of maidens pushed past them, tittering as they skipped along, pausing only momentarily to apologise to the two Marshals before dashing on.

‘It is said the sons of Imrahil Prince are handsome indeed,’ Elfhelm remarked. ‘Yet it is his daughter I am most eager to be reunited with. Do you recall when she was so eager to confirm her father’s wellbeing she came so far as Ithilien following our victory at the Black Gate? Was she not the most radiant being you ever set eyes upon!’

Truva thought back to the Field of Cormallen, and more significantly to the way Éomer King had looked upon the Princess Lothíriel. She made a noncommittal noise; perhaps her eyes had deceived her, or she had not interpreted the scene correctly – perhaps the Princess was already betrothed. Regardless, it was not her place to interfere.

Soon they gained the front gates, where already Éomer King was striding forward to welcome a company of nearly threescore Dol Amrothinian riders. They appeared harried, their clothing and hair windswept and in disarray, horses stomping and snorting. No carts or wagons were anywhere to be seen.

‘What business is this?’ Éomer King asked when the riders drew near. ‘What mishap was it that caused you to arrive in such a state?’

‘Not two sunrises ago we were set upon by a band of raiding Orcs,’ said Prince Imrahil, dismounting. ‘We were fortunate enough to stave off the attack, and have lost none of our men, yet all our supplies and possessions were lost either to robbery or fire.’

‘It is my great shame that you should face such misfortune within our lands,’ said Éomer, shaking his head ruefully. ‘These villainous creatures have harassed our borders oft of late; I ought to have sent out a guard to meet you.’

‘You knew of our coming, but not the timing,’ said Imrahil. ‘Do not fault yourself overmuch.’

Éomer looked about at the company, all dressed in the livery and finery of the southern sea. ‘Does Lord Aragorn not travel with you?’ he asked upon failing spy the Gondorian King.

‘Our journey brought us to his doorstep, yet the King had unfinished business that could not be delayed. He sends his regards, as well as his assurances that he shall arrive before the ceremony itself.’

‘So it is for all of us in recent times; a King’s duties are unending,’ said Éomer. ‘Even so, it is a fine company you travel with!’

‘Indeed,’ said Imrahil, beckoning three figures forward. ‘Perhaps you recall my second son, Erchirion? He fought upon the Pelennor Fields, though in fearing for the safety of our lands I sent him southward at the conclusion of that battle.’

‘I do not believe we have officially met,’ said Éomer as the young prince bowed before him. ‘May I introduce also my Second Marshal, Elfhelm, and Third Marshal Truva?’

‘My lord, Marshals,’ said Erchirion, bowing to each in turn. He was not so tall as his father, but a fair deal stockier, and his hair was as glistening and jet-black as that of the following son who stepped forward.

‘And my eldest, Elphir,’ Imrahil explained. ‘Commander of the Swan Fleet, he spent the War patrolling our shores against invasion from the Corsairs.’

‘It is a great honour to make your acquaintance at last,’ said Elphir, bowing deeply before both King and Marshals. Unlike his brother, Elphir towered over his father, his limbs long and slender; Númenórean blood ran strong in his veins, and he seemed almost Elven in the delicate grace of his movements. A shallow gash marred his cheek, the lone indication of an unfortunate skirmish. The brothers appeared as opposites in features alone, however – both adhered to the strictest code of etiquette as befitting their station, which sent flock of young Eorling maidens (unaccustomed to such elegance) into a frenzy.

‘And I do believe our allyship would be at terrible risk if you were to not recognise my daughter, Lothíriel,’ said Imrahil.

Elphir and Erchirion stepped aside to reveal the delicate figure of the Princess. Seeing the beautiful woman nearer than she ever had upon the Field of Cormallen, Truva was reminded of the obsidian hellebore that had blossomed in the highest reaches of the Hidlands, when early spring flung its snow flurries upon the ground: simultaneously fleeting, yet substantial.

‘Milady,’ said Éomer King, bowing low and placing a delicate kiss upon the hand she offered him. ‘Not even were I to live so long as the Númenórean Kings of old could I possibly forget one so lovely as you.’

‘You flatter me, your highness,’ said Lothíriel, though the phantom of an amused smile flitted across her lips.

‘I will make a sweep of the outer reaches, milord,’ Elfhelm interrupted with characteristically maladroit timing. ‘In all likelihood, the Orcs are beyond our borders by now, yet it would not do to leave the matter unattended to.’

‘Yes, yes, you are right,’ said Éomer. ‘In the meantime, double daily patrols from now until the coronation. Truva, I ask that you scout the inner circuit – but be certain to return before sundown; the bulk of our forces must be within the city gates come nightfall, when we are weakest.’

‘I will not stray further than the sound of horns,’ Truva said with a bow.

‘Where is Mǽgling Captain?’ asked the King.

‘He is disseminating tonight’s passwords, milord,’ Truva answered.

‘Seek him out and inform him that he is to maintain order in your absence.’

‘I will see to it that he gets word; he is sure to be thankful for the opportunity to prove himself.’

With final bows to both King and guests, the two Marshals took their leave. Elfhelm began the trek back up the hill towards the stables to gather a scouting party as Truva turned to the newly constructed gatehouse, where she discovered Mǽgling within the inner chamber. A small gathering of officers clustered about the diminutive young Captain. Truva hung back until they dispersed, greeting her with bows and lively calls of ‘Marshal!’ before disappearing through the gatehouse door.

‘Have I missed all the commotion?’ the perpetually boisterous Captain asked Truva, his golden curls bouncing in excitement. ‘I should have liked to greet the Prince and his company from the very first moment of their arrival, for I have only ever seen them from afar. Is it true Lothíriel Lady travels with her father?’

‘Yes, and I imagine they make their way for Meduseld even now,’ Truva answered. ‘Yet before you rush off after them, I have news that might unfortunately delay your meeting of the delegation.’

Mǽgling’s distracted focus pulled suddenly onto Truva, amber eyes boring into her. ‘Another Orc attack?’ he hazarded. ‘Is the Princess all right?’

‘None of their party were seriously harmed,’ answered Truva, fixing the Captain with a discerning gaze. ‘Yet with the coronation’s proximity and the expected arrival of King Aragorn, Elfhelm Marshal and I will personally oversee scouting sweeps; whenever both he and I are absent, command falls to you.’

‘Me?’ Enthusiasm radiated from Mǽgling. ‘Oh, how my heart rejoices at this opportunity! I will demonstrate your trust in me is not misplaced!’

‘I am certain it is not,’ said Truva, laying a hand upon the Captain’s shoulder. ‘Elfhelm Marshal has in all likelihood already departed, and I go now to run a tight circuit. Await my return before nightfall.’

‘Yes, Marshal,’ said Mǽgling, bowing deeply as Truva made swiftly for the exit.

No sooner was she out in the open beyond the gatehouse than she raised the Horn of the House of Éofor to her lips, sounding a staccato signal for her company to muster. Though she had offered the horn upon Éothafa’s bier, it had mysteriously reappeared several days later in the Marshals’ Quarters with a letter in an unfamiliar script: ‘Through the horns of the living are the dead remembered, and in the valleys beyond hear the call of their loved ones.’ It was most likely the work of Éomer King – perhaps a wordless rebuke of her unfamiliarity with Eorling funeral customs, in that offerings were not made within the hall of Meduseld itself – yet she appreciated the security it afforded her.

By the time she gained the stables, already a goodly portion of the Third Marshal’s Riders had gathered and were tacking up their mounts. They did not speak; news had spread rapidly, and indeed was not unexpected. The remainder filtered in shortly after, and soon the entire company was cantering through the main gates of Edoras.

When they cleared the temporary residences that had sprung up beyond the city’s outskirts following the War, seas of fields and plains grasses spread before them, glimmering golden in the late afternoon sun. Elfhelm’s party could be spied far upon the horizon, making southward along the foothills of the Firienwít at a breakneck pace. Truva and her riders followed for a time before circling east towards the Entwash, spreading wide and combing great swaths of land. The tall, parched grass of late autumn would easily reveal signs of passage, particularly of Orcs bearing stolen goods; yet even as the sun began to descend towards Riddermark Gin, the Riders encountered nothing save the expected indications of farming and other mundane activities.

As the Entwash became visible far off in the distance, Truva gave a short blast of her horn. Without need of further explanation, the party swept back towards Edoras, banking slightly northward to expand their search. They soon came upon the furthest hamlet on the outskirts of the capital, where Truva signalled for the Riders to deviate from their tracking pattern onto the single path that led through the humble dwellings. Villagers gathered about curiously.

‘Be warned there has been an Orc attack upon travellers only yesterday,’ Truva spoke, her voice loud enough for all to hear. ‘We have discovered no sign of them, yet beware. Post guard this night, and any whose fear allows them no rest will find hospitality within Edoras. I request that you spread word to your neighbours.’

‘Aye, Marshal,’ the crowd replied. They dispersed at once to organise defences or make a swift trip to the nearest hamlet as the company rode on, repeating the same announcement in each village they came upon. The sun was fully below the peaks of Thrihyrne by the time Truva spied the walls of the city looming ahead.

‘Secure the gates,’ she ordered the gatekeepers once her Riders were inside. ‘Allow access only through the postern to any evacuees, though I doubt they will come – far too often have such occurrences plagued us that they seem to have become complacent.’

She had not so much as finished giving the command before the gates swung forward, shifted by a dozen bulky Riders. Just as the drawbar slid into place and Truva made to follow after her Riders towards the stables, Mǽgling bustled from the gatehouse.

‘What have you to report?’ Truva asked, dismounting from Roheryn.

‘The watch has successfully been changed.’ The Captain spoke at an absurd speed, scarcely able to contain his zeal. ‘There were no lapses or misdeeds to report, and already another guard is preparing to replace the first. Typical two-hour shifts have been replaced with a single hour to maintain alertness. Those citizens who maintain businesses or dwellings just outside the city have all been evacuated to shelters within. There have been no sightings of Orcs, nor any other beings save a herd of wild horses.’

‘All is quiet, then,’ said Truva, though the Captain was anything but. ‘What of Éomer King and our guests?’

‘They linger still in Meduseld, I believe,’ answered Mǽgling.

‘I see. Your service has been exemplary in such untoward circumstances. You may retire from your post if you so wish.’

‘Then I bid you a good night, Marshal.’

Mǽgling bowed and disappeared into the dusk, almost assuredly in the direction of the nearest watch post to offer support. But Truva's attention was immediately drawn elsewhere, for in that very moment she spied Gríma flying down the hill, black robes billowing behind him. He arrived at the gates breathless.

‘Marshal!’ he gasped. Even in the dark gloam of late evening, his concern was apparent. ‘Come quick!’

‘Whatever is the matter?’ she demanded.

‘You had best see for yourself.’

Gríma turned at once and rushed back the way he had come, Truva and Roheryn close behind. ‘I was just applying blue vitriol to Firefoot – he has come down with the nastiest case of hoof rot – when I heard the door burst open and the Lady throw herself upon the hay. She was sobbing something fierce, and so I went in search of Éomer King. But he is still locked away with Imrahil Prince. That is when I encountered the Marshal’s Riders, and after diverting them to the secondary stables I sought you out.’

Gríma’s explanation revealed very little, and so Truva slipped into the stables entirely uncertain of what to expect.

‘There, in the third stall on the right,’ he whispered, pointing.

Truva trod forward to the empty stall Bron had once occupied. As she drew near, the gentle sound of sobbing became audible. Peering around the partition, Truva discovered elegant white silks and petite slippers protruding from deep amongst the stores of hay piled there.

‘Princess?’ she murmured.

Lady Lothíriel sat up with a gasp. When she lowered her hands to see who had come, she revealed eyes contorted by weeping. Even so, her beauty was ethereal.

‘Marshal!’ the Lady exclaimed, wiping away her tears. ‘I am so very sorry; I thought I would not be discovered here. You must think me the worst of guests!’

‘On the contrary, it is my great sorrow that you should find yourself so distressed in our company,’ Truva replied. She drew a kerchief from her tunic and passed it to Lady Lothíriel, whose overflowing tears could easily have warranted a second cloth; yet when Truva turned to ask one of Gríma, he had vanished without a word.

The Princess sat dabbing fruitlessly at her puffy cheeks in silence a while before Truva realised no explanation was forthcoming. ‘Perhaps you might elucidate on why you are hiding away in our stables, so hard upon your arrival?’ she asked, though she felt instantaneous regret for her words, as they brought on a renewed bout of sobbing from Lady Lothíriel.

‘My most sincere apologies,’ she cried. ‘I cannot fathom why I am so terribly distraught!’

‘Milady, you were attacked by Orcs,’ said Truva, laying a soothing hand upon the Princess’ forearm. ‘Many a seasoned warrior would not so easily overcome such a fright.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Lady Lothíriel gave a gentle sniff, causing empathy to wring at Truva’s heart as she recalled how frequently she had been shaken by an unexpected assault, in spite of all her training. Even those battles which she had faced straightforwardly and knowingly had caused her no small amount of distress.

‘May I sit with you?’ Truva asked, though when she indicated the space beside Lady Lothíriel, the Princess waved her hands frantically.

‘I would not dare inconvenience you!’ she exclaimed.

‘It is no inconvenience, milady,’ said Truva, settling herself into the fragrant hay. She glanced about the stall, memories flooding back to her. ‘You are not the first to shed tears here.’

Lady Lothíriel peered at her, curious, and when Truva nodded in confirmation she said, ‘You do not seem one to cry, Marshal.’

‘Not often, it is true,’ Truva conceded. ‘Yet it is no shame to weep. I have seen even the greatest of figures succumb to their emotions of late: our late Théoden King, as well as King Aragorn. And you must tell no one of this, but even Éomer King is more swift to shed a tear than he would let on.’

Lothíriel’s ears perked up at mention of this last name, though her face soon fell once more. ‘They wept for far grander reasons than I,’ said she with another sniff. ‘Your reassurances only serve to exacerbate my shame.’

‘Will you not tell me the reason?’ Truva prompted. ‘You will find no judgement.’

The Princess buried her face in the kerchief, black hair cascading about her shoulders. ‘It is nothing more than the offerings we brought to present before Éomer King at his coronation,’ she sobbed.

‘Those that were thieved by the Orcs?’

‘Even so,’ said Lady Lothíriel, raising her eyes to bore into Truva’s. ‘Oh, Marshal! From the first moment I returned to the halls of Dol Amroth, I began a tapestry upon which I embroidered the scene I witnessed at the Field of Cormallen: golden culumalda blossoms, and the joy of the victorious Host of the West. For months I laboured upon each minute detail, yet now it is gone – lost either to flame or foe! And now we are to attend a coronation empty-handed in a flagrant breach of etiquette.’

‘I do not think Éomer King could possibly fault you, circumstances such as they are. Indeed, I am certain he would be deeply appreciative of the effort you have expended for his sake.’

‘And it is such compassion that flames my guilt all the more!’

Truva’s mind raced. There was no hope of recovering the tapestry, even if it had survived the initial blaze, yet to procure an entirely new offering at such a late hour seemed an insurmountable task. Then a sudden idea struck her. She leapt to her feet.

‘Come, Princess, do not dirty your gown so,’ she said, offering her hand to Lady Lothíriel, who accepted it hesitantly and with supreme grace, even in her perturbed state. ‘Perhaps there is hope for you yet!’

‘In what way?’ asked Lady Lothíriel, yet Truva was already making for the stable entrance. She spied Gríma lurking just outside and beckoned him near.

‘Can I entrust Roheryn’s care to you this evening?’ she asked quietly.

‘As ever, Marshal,’ said Gríma. ‘Thank you for coming so swiftly. I thought it best to maintain my distance from any significant personage, to maintain Éomer King’s assurance that I mean no harm. I am also not so adept in affairs concerning unwieldy emotions.’

Truva shook her head in disagreement. ‘There will come a day when we address the extremity of your atonement, my friend, yet it must wait until this matter is first resolved.’

‘If anything, I believe my penance to be insufficient, yet I will submit to your will.’

And with that the disgraced advisor disappeared into the stables to tend Roheryn. Truva hurried in the opposite direction, leading Lady Lothíriel along familiar pathways until she stood before the dwelling of Mǽgwine and Éolend. Knocking but once, Truva entered without awaiting a response, in the way she had grown accustomed to after years of Mǽgwine’s insistence. The family of three looked up from their game of tabula, spread upon the floor before the fire.

‘Truva!’ Mǽgwine exclaimed, on her feet in an instant. ‘I heard word of yet another Orc attack – I would have thought you’d be away tonight. Did you successfully clear out your barracks? The Dol Amrothinians’ arrival came so swiftly I did not see your departure. And who might this be?’ she asked, pausing her narration momentarily to peer around Truva at the tall, proud form of Lady Lothíriel.

‘May I present the daughter of Imrahil Prince of Dol Amroth, Lothíriel Lady?’ said Truva, speaking pointedly in Westron, for though Lady Lothíriel’s expression betrayed no trace of confusion, Mǽgwine’s barrage of Eorling was surely incomprehensible to her. When Lady Lothíriel dipped ever so gracefully into a curtsy, her audience stared at this peculiar gesture. Truva rushed to introduce the family in turn:

‘Milady, here reside Mǽgwine, Éolend and their son Aferalend, of the House of Eofor.’

Both Éolend and Aferalend rose and bowed when their names were spoken, though they continued to gaze open-mouthed once they righted themselves.

‘It is a great pleasure to meet you all,’ said Lady Lothíriel, her composure wholly returned. Not even Aferalend’s soft gasp at her melodic voice evaded her attention as her eyes flickered to him briefly, then to each detail of the house, causing Mǽgwine to shift uncomfortably. As frequently as the Eorling spoke of her abode with pride, the Princess’ elegant bearing seemingly rendered everything in the vicinity inadequate.

‘Would that we could offer you a more comfortable rest,’ said Mǽgwine.

‘Nothing of the sort,’ said Lady Lothíriel, a pleasant smile gracing her face. ‘I have lived all my life in the austere halls of Dol Amroth; I find your dwelling quite pleasant and inviting.’

‘I thank you for such considerate words,’ Mǽgwine replied, her outgoing nature unusually subdued. ‘May I ask what brings you here, especially at such a time of night? Surely you are exhausted from your travels.’

Truva drew Mǽgwine to one side then, lowering her voice so that the others would not hear. ‘The offering Lady Lothíriel prepared for Éomer King’s coronation vanished in the attack, and I fear it is irrecoverable. You ought to have seen her countenance a mere five minutes ago; you would have thought the Host of the West had lost the War for how distraught she appeared. Perhaps I recall incorrectly, yet did you not intend to construct a rug for the King?’

Mǽgwine’s eyes flew wide. ‘Yes, over the course of many, many months! It is nigh on impossible to create even the smallest, most simple of cloths in three days.’

‘Surely there is some way in which we could procure a small, emblematic token,’ Truva persisted.

Mǽgwine appeared thoughtful a moment, then her characteristic, steely determination glinted in her eyes. She turned and seized Lady Lothíriel’s hand, ushering the Princess towards the door.

‘Come, my dear,’ she said. ‘There is a loomshop to be conquered!’

The three women rushed along the streets of Edoras, Éolend having elected to remain behind with Aferalend. As they neared the market, Mǽgwine darted along a side path by which they came upon a modest home, where she pounded upon the door without rest. After quite some time, it was opened by a dumpy, middle-aged woman garbed in nightgown and nightcap.

‘Good evening, Dernrid,’ said Mǽgwine. ‘Does your sister Derngyth happen to be home?’

The greengrocer squinted with bleary eyes at the trio. ‘Who is not home abed at this hour, disturbing my sleep so?’ she grumbled.

‘Would you be so kind as to fetch her?’ said Mǽgwine, thoroughly ignoring Dernrid’s question. With an additional frown, the greengrocer withdrew into her home, only for a second woman to appear, whose age and matronly figure was precisely equivalent to that of her sister.

‘What is all this commotion?’ asked Derngyth, not even opening her eyes against the light of the lantern Truva held aloft.

‘It is a dire emergency,’ Mǽgwine declared. ‘I beg of you to meet us at your loomshop as soon as you are able – within the half hour.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘If you see fit to return many a favour I have done for your sake, you will meet us there. Once we are gathered, all shall be made clear.’

‘Very well,’ said Derngyth. ‘It is far too late at night to object. I will do whatever it is you ask of me – but first I must change.’ With that, the sisters disappeared behind the door, leaving the three standing beyond. Lady Lothíriel looked on with particular consternation.

‘I must admit I am not entirely certain what matter this is,’ she said, for indeed the sisters spoke not a word of the Common Tongue. ‘Yet if it is on my account you rouse these citizens from their beds, you needn’t go to such lengths.’

‘On the contrary!’ Mǽgwine reassured the Princess, already marching off down the lane. ‘Not a moment is to be wasted.’

Without any further word of clarification, Mǽgwine raced through the streets, the other two in tow. They made several similar stops, sometimes greeted by disgruntled husbands or confused younglings, barking dogs or maidens in elegant nightgowns. While those that had been abed often promised to rejoin the company after making themselves presentable, many others had not yet retired for the night, and so joined the trio at once. Their company was half a dozen strong before the heavily windowed loomshop came into view, where Derngyth and two other women had already convened. Lamplight poured in torrents onto the street.

‘Gather ’round, friends,’ Mǽgwine began the moment she set foot into the cottage, speaking in Eorling as not all of her audience was familiar with Westron. ‘Please welcome Lothíriel Lady, from the distant Stoningland realm of Dol Amroth. She was beset upon by Orcs along her journey – thus the commotion earlier, and Edoras coming under watch.’

A gasp of sympathy went up amongst the women. Even in the years leading up to the War, these city dwellers had largely been spared the attacks that plagued the agricultural outer fringes of the Mark. In the throes of the War itself, they had been blessedly secluded away in Dunharrow – to imagine a lady coming face to face with so horrible a creature as an Orc! The mind shuddered to think.

‘In the process, the offering Lady Lothíriel painstakingly prepared for our King by her own hand was lost,’ Mǽgwine continued. ‘Yet such an occasion as Éomer King’s coronation must not go unmarked, particularly by one so eminent as the Lady, and her efforts ought to be acknowledged. I propose we aid her in creating a substitution.’

Sceptical whispering crept through the Eorlingas, yet before any of them had a chance to speak outright, Mǽgwine charged on:

‘It is certain we cannot construct a full tapestry in accordance with our expected standards before the coronation, yet I have gathered you here because you are the fastest, most skilled weavers in all of Edoras, and there are nearly a dozen looms within this shop; if we ply ourselves to their treadles day and night, then stitch a patchwork of smaller panels together, surely the result will be something worthy of being presented to our Éomer Lord.’

The women brooded upon Mǽgwine’s arguments for a time.

‘It cannot be a pattern of any complexity,’ said Derngyth.

‘We can work in shifts,’ added another. ‘And it will go all the faster if we bring in apprentices.’

‘We shall have to use the colours we have – there is no time for dyeing.’

All at once, the loomshop was set abustle as the Eorling women darted to their tasks, whether wrapping warp or preparing bobbins or seeking out yarn. After several cycles of translation and a brief confusion over the appearance of culumalda – which no villager save Truva had ever seen – the weavers and Lady Lothíriel came to an agreement and began to trace a pattern upon the bare warps.

Wholly engrossed in their task, the weavers toiled throughout the night, their work lit by countless lamps. And so it was the bakers of Edoras rose early the following morning, surprised to discover they were not the first ones at their industry.

Chapter Text

Throughout the first night of their craftwork, Truva’s offers of aid were soundly rejected by Mǽgwine and the other weavers. In spite of her insistence, her ability to provisionally stitch up a wounded soldier in the field was of no use to them, and a hindrance rather. And so Truva instead found other ways to lend succour: she orchestrated meals and brought a constant stream of refreshments.

To Lothíriel herself Truva devoted a great deal of effort in convincing to rest, which proved the most difficult task of all. Touched by their efforts, the Lady did not wish to abandon the Eorlingas to their work. Indeed, the elegance of her own weaving proved unparalleled – though she was a great deal slower than the craftswomen, and her pace flagged as she grew increasingly exhausted. It was only by invoking the name of Éomer King, and the devastation he would surely endure should one of his honoured guests succumb to illness while under his hospitality, that the princess retired in the wee hours of the morning.

Once Lady Lothíriel had been escorted to the chambers set aside for her especial use, Truva consumed a hasty breakfast and sent word to the Third Marshal’s Riders to assemble in the stables at top speed. Dawn was just beginning to filter through into the stables when she arrived, swiftly followed by the others.

‘Apologies, today shall be a far longer ride,’ said Truva as they tacked up. ‘We must cover the same southern loop as yesterday before pushing northward to ensure the Orcs did not evade our main defences in that region.’

Not a grumble was heard from the Riders as they mounted up and rode from the city at a pace far more relaxed than it had been the day prior. Their task was made all the easier for the visibility of the morning sun and being unpressed for time. Anxious for news of the Orcs’ whereabouts, Truva stopped to confer with the villagers at each settlement and with Riders out on standard patrol, only for her inquiries to come up empty. It could not be said where the Orcs had vanished to, yet it appeared that they had well and truly vanished.

No sooner had the Marshal’s Riders made their way back to Edoras that evening – once again just before dark – than Mǽgling dashed from his post. He wore a grin even more exaggerated than his typical expression, and many of his blond tresses came undone from their braids as he bounded about. Truva prepared for another onslaught of unremarkable details regarding the city’s activity, but before she could request his report the Captain blurted out:

‘Marshal, the Lady Éowyn has arrived!’ he exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

A smile to match Mǽgling’s own blossomed on Truva’s face, yet her response was metered. ‘Thank you for informing me,’ she said. ‘Has she been here long?’

‘The hour has not yet passed! You may find her in Meduseld, together with Éomer King and the Dol Amrothinians – though there is another in their midst; perhaps you might surmise who?’

Truva’s heart leapt. ‘Aragorn King?’

‘No, Marshal,’ said Mǽgling, shaking his head. ‘The King it seems still lingers in Stoningland. No, it is none other than Gimli, come from Glǽmscrafu – though he is yet unaccompanied by his brethren.’

‘Very well.’ Truva strove to keep her expression impassive. ‘What else have you to report?’

‘Nothing of any significance, Marshal.’

Truva made as if to turn, then paused momentarily and laid a hand upon Mǽgling’s shoulder. ‘I feel a tremendous sense of reassurance knowing it is you who commands the troops when both Elfhelm Marshal and I are away, Captain. I do not think any other would devote so great attention to the security and wellbeing of our people.’

Mǽgling placed his own hand atop Truva’s, reduced to speechlessness at last. With a final pat, Truva passed Roheryn’s reins to the nearest Marshal’s Rider and made for Meduseld.

When the doorwarden gave her entrance, she slipped into the sparsely lit hall. Several parties sat at various tables for a simple evening meal. Truva greeted the first cluster of advisors with a bow, yet even as she turned to the royal table, Éowyn was already on her feet.

‘Truva!’ the shieldmaiden cried from across the hall. She appeared as if swathed in a golden aura, glowing in the dim shadows of the hall, radiant features all the more beautiful for her long absence.

Truva rushed to embrace her. ‘Oh, Éowyn! How well you look.’

‘And yet you appear as though you have spent more hours on patrol than in the mess hall, or in your bed,’ said Gimli, giving a nod of acknowledgement from his seat.

Éowyn nodded in agreement, holding Truva at arm’s length. ‘How is it that you have grown even more gaunt since the War?’ she chided.

‘My duties have kept me busy,’ said Truva with a wan smile. ‘Elfhelm Marshal has similarly taken on a rather haggard air; even amongst the gilt tresses of our illustrious Éomer King have a few additional strands of silver sprouted.’

The Eorling King laughed over Éowyn’s shoulder. ‘It is true,’ said he. ‘Though the affairs of the Mark are far less tumultuous than they have been in years of late, still there is a never-ending parade of worries. Thin bellies and grey hairs are inescapable, it seems.’

‘Never fear, milord,’ said Prince Imrahil, whose own grey hairs were distinct amongst his dark locks. ‘You join an august company.’

‘That company also includes my dear Faramir, who has likewise aged considerably in a short span of time,’ said Éowyn, retaking her seat. Truva joined her, gratefully accepting a still-steaming loaf of bread.

‘Has Lord Faramir sent no word of Aragorn’s movements?’ Gimli asked. ‘Though I had high hopes of seeing my friend sooner, it seems unwarranted for the Steward to remain behind should the King have no intention of travelling abroad.’

‘You would know as well as I,’ said Éowyn as she cut Truva several thick slices of slipcote cheese. ‘I have heard nothing since departing Ithilien – save that King Aragorn lingers still in the White City.’

‘I doubt his intentions are known, even to himself,’ Prince Imrhil laughed.

‘Lord Faramir’s absence aside, it is well to see you again,’ said Truva to Éowyn. ‘And you, Gimli Glóin’s son. How fared you on your journeys?’

‘We are well and truly neighbours, now that my people have begun exploration of the Glittering Caves,’ said the Dwarf. ‘And thus it was a delightful traipse across safeguarded lands that brought me to your doorstep.’

‘My passage was likewise uneventful, though I heard the Great Road has not been so quiet of late,’ said Éowyn with a nod to the Dol Amrothinians. Elphir’s hand hovered above his cheek, where the laceration stood angry against his sun-browned skin.

‘And I trust all is well in Ithilien?’ Éomer King asked of his sister.

‘We have established a small settlement just south of Osgiliath, and work to construct a more permanent burg there,’ Éowyn began, and thus the happy company continued to exchange news of their realms as they broke their bread, elated to be reunited under such auspicious circumstances. As the evening wore on, however, Truva noted that Lady Lothíriel, seated between her brothers, began to grow somewhat restless. She did not engage in conversation as the others did, and her eyes continually shifted between Éomer King and the doors of Meduseld.

Her hunger sated, Truva exchanged a glance with the King before rising. ‘As delightful as this conversation has been, I must ask that you all be so kind as to excuse me, for I must make my nightly rounds.’

‘I will join you!’ said Lothíriel, leaping to her feet. Her exuberance clearly roused the suspicions of those seated about the table.

‘Whatever for?’ asked Erchirion, bereft of any hint of circumspection due to his youth. ‘What business has a Lady going about nightly rounds?’

‘Our time in Edoras is limited; I wish to make the most of it, and learn all that I can about the Eorlingas and their way of life ere we return south,’ said Lothíriel – for despite being several years younger than her brother, she possessed a great deal more prudence.

Erchirion paused a moment in thoughtful contemplation before standing, as well. ‘You make a convincing argument, sister,’ he said. ‘I will join you in a turn about the city.’

‘No!’ Lothíriel exclaimed, to the great surprise of all save Truva. Glancing frantically about at the curious faces turned towards her, she added, ‘Do you not wish to rest a while longer, to discuss politic amongst the elders?’

‘I think I would greatly enjoy a stroll, especially following such a hearty meal. Ever since our arrival, the elders’ talk has been nothing but a repetition of the same unchanging circumstances – I do not think there is anything to be gained but vexation.’ This raised several eyebrows.

‘I think I will join you, as well,’ Éowyn added.

Truva gave a furtive, apologetic shrug to Lothíriel and made her way towards the doors of Meduseld. With a resigned sigh the Lady followed, joined by their unanticipated companions. No sooner had they exited onto the terrace than Truva turned sharply left, making for the kitchens with the others in tow.

‘Are we not going on rounds?’ asked Erchirion.

‘No,’ was Truva’s simple answer.

The others lingered outside as she ducked into the kitchens, which were a bustle of activity despite the late hour in order to provide for the influx of guests who had come for the coronation. Immediately upon spying Truva, the King’s Chef retrieved a tray piled high with pies, fruit, and several carafes of wine from the corner.

‘I know not why you continue to make such peculiar requests,’ he said, passing the supplies to Truva. ‘Yet if the Marshal wills it, so shall I prepare it.’

‘Your generosity is tremendously appreciated.’

‘You protect the city, I feed it,’ said the Chef with a kindly smile, yet in the next moment Truva was gone, striding down the pathway with the tray balanced upon her head. Rather than continuing to follow, however, Erchirion stopped dead in the middle of the street.

‘What is the meaning of all this?’ he exclaimed. ‘Not going on rounds? An entire ship crew’s worth of rations? There is something odd afoot, and you offer only the hint of secrets as explanation!’

Sensing no other alternative, Lothíriel relented at last; dark lashes fluttered against alabaster cheeks as her gaze fell to the ground. She chose to address Éowyn before fully answering Erchirion.

‘As you have heard, Lady Éowyn,’ she said, ‘our caravan came under attack a short distance from Edoras, resulting in the complete ruin or theft of all our supplies – including those offerings we had intended to present at King Éomer’s coronation; yet what even my brother is unaware of is that – amongst those offerings – was a gift of my own creation.’

Éowyn reached out to lay a sympathetic hand upon the Princess’ arm, though Erchirion’s confusion only deepend. ‘I still do not understand,’ he said.

‘Marshal Truva took it upon herself to recruit a warmhearted friend, who in turn gathered a bevy of Eorling weavers to create some nominal token that could be offered in my own creation’s stead – though I do believe it is already far grander than the term “nominal” indicates, and is indeed a veritable work of art.’

‘Is that where you were, all those hours you were not in our company?’ asked Erchirion, astounded. Lothíriel nodded gravely in response. ‘What a splendid notion! In truth, I was feeling wholly downtrodden to arrive at a coronation empty-handed, yet now we might feel no shame!’

He drew his sister’s arm into his and strode off in the vague direction they had been headed. Truva and Éowyn exchanged a significant glance as they followed behind, amused by the young Prince’s oblivious yet good-natured spirit.

They soon found themselves in Derngyth’s cosy manufactory, greeted warmly by weavers eager for refreshments. Lothíriel swiftly relieved one woman at the loom furthest from the fire, and once Éowyn gained an understanding of their plan, she too took the place of a weaver.

All atwitter over their handsome foreign guest, the cluster of Eorlingas explained their process to Erchirion, guiding him to each portion of the tapestry with many wild gesticulations and Truva’s occasional assistance. Their chatter mingled with the steady rhythm of looms to cast a lulling spell over the scene, and so Truva settled herself into a corner; fires warded against the biting autumn chill of night, and exhaustion soon washed over her, dragging her into its insensate depths.

A new shift of weavers was hard at work by the time Truva awoke the next morning, sitting bolt upright in a panic before she recognised her surroundings. When she stumbled blinking onto the paths of the city, she was immediately met with an atmosphere entirely changed from that of ordinary times. The coronation was not until the following day, yet already a great many revellers had descended upon the city: troubadours and acrobats, conjurers, jesters and mummers all cavorted about the streets, sending strains of music or play upwards upon the air. A sense of joviality permeated the scene, and so Truva was all the more rueful for summoning the Marshal’s Riders to their duties. Nevertheless, it was with good spirits that they gathered within the stables.

‘I’ve already lightened Elfhelm Marshal’s purse ten coins at knucklebones,’ boasted Gamhelm, Truva’s second in command, as they descended the hill towards the gates.

‘Ach, you’re sure to regret that come training!’ countered another Rider who went by the name of Gódring.

‘Will you abstain from the wrestling tournament again, Truva Marshal? The lads are beginning to talk – they think you’re afraid of losing.’

Truva smiled at Gamhelm’s attempt to goad her into participating. ‘The tournament is inherently unfair,’ she said. ‘I ought to allow others at least the possibility of victory.’

This declaration was met with uproarious laughter. Motivated by their banter, the company rode out into the rolling hills of the north one last time. Hamlets along Hérweg all had as little to report as the previous day – not least of all because the villagers’ numbers were far fewer; any capable of laying aside their work for a brief time had already removed to Edoras for the coronation.

Their morning having proven uneventful, the Riders circled around the eastern reaches of the capital before drifting southward as the sun shifted towards the Riddermark Gin. They were just sitting down to a lunch of bread and cold cuts when Gamhelm sent up a cry from a nearby hilltop. All thought of lunch immediately forgotten, the remaining Riders scrambled up to the crest to join their Captain. There, flying along Hérweg from the south at a headlong pace, was a single horseman.

‘What can you make of it?’ Truva asked, her vision far inferior to even the most ordinary of Eorlingas.

‘It does not appear to be an Orc,’ Gamhelm replied.

‘Nor one of our own,’ added Gódring. ‘And he wears not the livery of Dol Amroth. His mantle obscures his features.’

‘I suppose we shall have to delay our luncheon, then,’ said Truva. ‘Let us ride out to meet this mysterious traveller.’

Yet even as she spoke these words, Truva’s heart lilted, for she suspected the traveller was not mysterious at all. After a brief calculation, she guided the Marshal’s Riders on a direct path to intercept this horseman, taking cover from the natural contours of the land. When they drew within sounding distance, Truva ascended a rocky prominence and raised her horn to her lips. Hearing its blast, the horseman diverted his course towards the Company, yet before he could come close enough to distinguish each Rider, Truva cried out a greeting:

‘Milord, these lands are not safe to traverse unaccompanied, even for one such as yourself.’

The horseman pulled up his mount and threw back his hood, revealing he was none other than Aragorn. ‘Éomer King keeps as tight a watch over the Mark as his father did,’ he called in return.

‘Tighter, perhaps,’ Truva answered, allowing a smile to overtake her face. When they drew nigh, the two clasped arms as Marshal and King. ‘Well met, milord.’

‘And you, Marshal.’

‘Tell me, did you encounter no obstacle along the way?’ asked Gamhelm. ‘The delegation from Dol Amroth were waylaid by an unfortunate brush with marauding Orcs – hence the very reason we ride patrol now, rather than make merry in Edoras.’

‘I saw the offending party in the distance,’ said Aragorn. ‘Yet even as I contemplated giving chase, I spied Marshal Elfhelm and his company upon the horizon. It was fortunate timing, for the Orcs’ numbers were too great to confront alone, and I would have in all likelihood spent a fortnight picking them off one by one, and thus arrived late to the coronation.’

‘It would not do to insult Éomer King so,’ said Gódring.

‘Aye, it would not, and so I make with all haste to the capital of Rohan,’ said Aragorn. Truva was certain she caught the hint of a gleam in his eye.

‘Even if Elfhelm Marshal pursues one band of Orcs, there is no certainty another does not roam without our knowledge,’ she said. ‘And while the patrol cannot be abandoned, I cannot allow such a noble personage to traverse our lands unescorted. Gamhelm?’

‘Yes, Marshal?’

‘See to it that the last remaining stretches of the inner perimeter give no indication of Orc activity. I will accompany the King as far as Edoras.’

‘With pleasure!’ Gamhelm gave a sharp whistle and turned his mount about, retaking the path the company had been following before they encountered Aragorn. In mere moments, the Riders were visible only when they crested the tallest of hills. Aragorn and Truva guided their horses towards Hérweg and took off at a swift pace. When at last Gamhelm and the others had faded entirely from view, however, Aragorn brought Shadowfax to a halt and dismounted.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ Truva asked in panic, following suit. ‘Have you spied Orcs?’

Before she could finish her question, Aragorn wrapped her in his arms, pulling her tight to his chest as though they had been parted for several lifetimes, not mere months. Truva felt the pounding of his heart against her chest, and held him even tighter with her own embrace. Then Aragorn drew back, but only slightly, and pressed his lips to hers with fierce passion.

When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers. ‘Oh, how I have missed you,’ he breathed.

‘And I, you,’ said Truva.

For a moment, they were content to stand clasped in each other’s arms, the corporeal world fading into unheeded nonexistence. Each new inhalation washed peace over Truva’s worn spirit and applied a healing salve to wounds she had forgotten existed, having grown accustomed to them in the days following the War. She sensed Aragorn, too, bore dreadful burdens weighing heavily in his mind.

The reluctance with which Aragorn extricated himself was palpable.

‘Come, let us press on,’ he said. ‘I have no unexpectedly troubling news to convey, yet I would prefer to speak with King Éomer this night, and not darken the glorious day that is to be his official ascension to the throne.’

‘There is also another dear friend who awaits you in Edoras,’ Truva added. ‘Not a full day has passed since Gimli has come from the Glittering Caves.’

‘Then let us make swifter than haste, and arrive all the sooner,’ said Aragorn, with a disarming smile.

With one final kiss, they mounted up and continued along Hérweg. Yet in spite of their intentions they were waylaid at each village they came upon, for word of their passing somehow spread even faster than their progress, and residents clustered about roadsides in hopes of catching sight of the esteemed Gondorian King. Nor was Aragorn willing to dismiss their curiosity, greeting each in turn and accepting their flowers and other offerings; indeed, he devoted so much time to the Eorling villagers that it was a harried dash to reach the gates of Edoras before nightfall.

A clamour of fanfare rose up to greet Aragorn as he rode through the high archway. Throngs of citizens and visitors alike gathered to witness his arrival. Éomer King stood at their forefront, flanked by the delegations from Dol Amroth and Ithilien. Truva spied Gamhelm amongst the crowd – the Marshal’s Rangers being able to move far more swiftly without a foreign dignitary amongst their number – and they exchanged a quick nod even as Éomer King stepped forward.

‘Brother!’ he cried, and he and Aragorn embraced as if true brethren by blood. ‘When Imrahil Prince spoke of your remaining behind in Mundburg, I feared some grave situation detained you, and you would find yourself unable to join us.’

‘How saddened I am to discover you think so little of me, that I would be absent on such a propitious day!’ jested Aragorn. ‘I consider any pretence by which I might return to your hospitable halls a welcome one.’

‘It is our own good fortune that sees you come into our midst. Let us adjourn and share a draught of ale, and perhaps a story or two – for though our time apart has been brief, a great many events have transpired in that time.’

In that very moment, Gimli burst from the crowd. ‘Aragorn!’ he cried, rushing to embrace his dear companion.

Banter between the two sprang up at once, and thus the party ascended towards Meduseld. They were joined by a great many minstrels, whose strains of ballads and reels picked up before they even gained the hall. A troupe of acrobats, likewise eager to perform, bounded up the trail to set the stage as swiftly as possible. Éomer King and his cohort were welcomed into Meduseld with a tidal wave of spectacle, and though it was a simple meal they dined upon, the ale and wine were free-flowing, as was the conversation.

‘Seeing as you travelled in our Marshal’s care, I trust the road held no peril for you?’ Éomer asked of Aragorn as he filled the Gondorian’s wine chalice.

‘None at all,’ said Aragorn. The most surreptitious of smiles pulled at the corners of his eyes as he glanced at Truva.

‘Aragorn King spoke of having spied Elfhelm Marshal bearing down upon the Orcish raiding party,’ she added. ‘If all goes well, I expect the Marshal shall return upon the morrow.’

‘They set out in numbers enough,’ said Éomer King. ‘Let us hope we shall be so fortunate – I would not have our most prominent Marshal miss the coronation. And what was it that delayed your coming, Lord Aragorn? Nothing so disagreeable as Orcs, I hope?’

‘No, no, though our outskirts have not gone unassailed,’ Aragorn reassured him. ‘It seems the Orcish forces that fled east following their defeat at Morannon have not fared terribly well; we have discovered them sneaking about as far south as Osgiliath, stealing food and causing chaos as they might.’

‘And so it is with us,’ said Truva. ‘Their sorties into our lands are not frequent, but just often enough to be troublesome.’

‘I am afraid what drives them is a dilemma we ourselves are not immune to,’ Aragorn sighed. ‘The ravaging of Pelennor Fields means Gondor must be particularly resourceful with regard to our food supply come this winter. That is the matter that delayed me: little more than bookkeeping.’

Éomer shifted in his seat, seemingly quite eager to change the subject. ‘And how goes the reconstruction? I hear you have enlisted the succour of the greatest artisans in Middle-earth!’

Gimli beamed to hear his skills described thus. ‘Proposals have been made based on my own assessment of the damage done, but it will not be until we return to Minas Tirith itself that any conclusive strategy can be devised.’

‘And Legolas is yet away in the north,’ said Aragorn. ‘It will take some time ere proper restoration can begin in earnest.’

And so it went, guests and hosts alike discussing the varying states of destruction their lands were in, the challenges they faced in the wake of the War, and the small joys too. Content to do no more than listen, Truva allowed the conversation to flow around her, soothed by its eddies and currents. The music caught her in its flow, as well, for it was as lively as the leaders’ discourse was sombre, and the acrobats’ astonishing feats provided much-needed levity.

When one minstrel’s particularly farcical attempt to replicate the inverted hand-walking of an acrobat diverted the company’s attention, Truva noted Lady Lothíriel stealing furtively from the table. The Princess sent her a fleeting glance and, when Truva responded with a twitch of the corner of her mouth, slipped out of the hall otherwise unnoticed. Yet Truva was not inclined to follow and sit helplessly in the stifling loomshop that evening; for she was entranced by Aragorn’s recounting of his days as Ranger in the north, and by each gesture of his hands, and the murmur of his voice as he told of news he had gleaned regarding the Holbytlan’s recovery in Rivendell.

Finding herself suddenly sleepy, Truva took up residence upon a chaise near one of the fires. Holde the wolfhound came and laid his heavy head upon her lap, and with his wiry fur beneath her fingers, Truva’s awareness of the surrounding antics faded. Even as the conversation grew louder and the wine flowed faster, her eyes fluttered until sleep wholly overtook her. Surrounded by those who radiated assurance and security, the slumber Truva succumbed to gave unto her a restfulness that had been absent in her nights of late.

It was not a nightmare that awoke her. Indeed, in the wee hours of the night, Truva could not even be certain she was awake. Only the beams of the moon streamed in through the windows of Meduseld, for the torches had long been extinguished and the fireplace embers had fallen so low they cast no light.

Or perhaps Truva dreamed of the Hornburg infirmary, for a hazy visage floated before her eyes as it had all those moons ago, following her encounter with the fellbeast. Warmth enveloped her, warding against the chill of night that had overtaken the hall. Truva drew the blanket to her chin before failing to resist the allure of sleep once more.

When she next opened her eyes, the wan light of dawn cast a soft pallor over the disarrayed tables and chairs. The hall otherwise lay undisturbed – all save Aragorn, who sat at a table just beside Truva, regarding her thoughtfully.

‘Good morn.’ His voice was hushed even in the quietude, for he was clearly reluctant to break the peaceful spell that lay upon the scene.

‘And to you,’ Truva mumbled in response, sleep still thick on her voice. She sat up and examined the blanket in her hands, then quickly glanced about. ‘Did you linger the whole night in this frigid, uncomfortable hall?’

‘I passed a brief while in a certain loomshop, observing the final, frantic rush to complete a rather peculiar coronation offering – but otherwise, yes.’

Truva’s heart stuttered to think of Aragorn watching over her, as he had at Hornburg. ‘Is it not improper for us to be alone and unaccompanied? Someone might see and discover the truth of things.’

‘As far as all others are aware, I departed Meduseld in the revellers’ company yesterday evening.’ Though his face appeared impassive, Truva had learned to discern the slightest hints of his mood: the minute creasing at the corner of one eye, or the twitch of a muscle in one cheek. ‘And now, I am but breaking a simple fast. Surely none can fault me for that?’

‘Indeed, they cannot.’

Truva gave a sheepish smile and rose from the chaise to take the seat across from him. Aragorn extended a pear to her, then pushed a jar of clotted cream across the table. It was a simple breakfast. They were soon joined by the golden sunlight of progressing morn and the caretakers of Meduseld as they built the fires back up, righted the tables and chairs, and gave the hall one final cursory sweep.

Then the earliest of diners arrived, shattering the stillness that enshrouded Truva and Aragorn. The King’s advisors and inner circle came in ones and twos, then threes and fives as the enthusiasm for such an auspicious day roused even the most lethargic of residents from their slumber. They filled the hall with their chatter and laughter, the gentle strains of music filtering through the scene as ever it had in the past several days.

‘Perhaps I can interest you in a brief examination of Edoras’ defences, milord,’ said Truva, when the atmosphere in Meduseld offered not a breath of peace.

‘Gladly,’ said Aragorn, relief apparent in his response.

As he and Truva exited the hall, each advisor they passed leapt to his feet, bowing. Once the doors were closed, Truva sighed heavily and began to lead Aragorn towards the newly-established eastern garrison.

‘Does it never unsettle you, the way in which your every movement is noted by others?’ she asked quietly as a trio of captains drew aside to allow them to pass. ‘Is the unfaltering deference not taxing?’

‘At times,’ Aragorn admitted. ‘Even so, I have had many years to grow accustomed to the expectations placed upon me; it was but this summer I became King in name, yet long did I guide the Rangers of the North, and come to understand my purpose of reuniting the sundered kingdoms, and taking my place as the leader of its people.’

‘Would that I possessed your assurance,’ said Truva ruefully. ‘You are a grand and glorious King, your destiny writ by blood and birth, whereas my own advancement was swift, no more than the result of happenstance. I cannot help but feel the Eorlingas’ respect is misplaced; that it is not me but Éothafa – or any other – who ought to be Marshal in my stead.’

Her gaze dropped to the earthen path and the dust that her feet scuffed up to coat the cloth of her boots. ‘And my greatest worry is that these sentiments will never subside.’

Aragorn drew near, though he dared not display any sign of overt affection. ‘Éothafa is gone,’ he said, his voice hushed. ‘And though you never intended to become a leader, that is by no means an indication that you lack the capabilities of serving your people well. Doubt is ever present in the mind of all: from the humblest farmhand to the most eminent of kings. It is not something that must necessarily be shunned – so long as you do not allow it to cloud your judgement.’

Truva fell silent. Where the border between reasonable uncertainty and that which interfered with her ability to execute her duties lay, she could not even begin to suppose.

But their arrival at the garrison served as a welcome distraction. Truva seized the opportunity to devote the entirety of her focus to the newly improved battlements, the reconfigured gate system, and Elfhelm’s particularly clever development for embrasure shape – the man himself greeting them with  enthusiasm as they neared the guardhouse.

‘There you are!’ he cried. ‘Truva Marshal, why do you dally here? Have you not heard? Mǽgwine has been searching for you half the morn!’ His admonishment delivered, Elfhelm turned quite suddenly to Aragorn and added, ‘Salutations on this glorious day, milord!’

‘Good morn,’ Aragorn replied with a great deal more reserve than the boisterous Marshal.

‘For what purpose does Mǽgwine seek me?’ Truva asked.

‘I know not – some business regarding the coronation, I suppose,’ said Elfhelm.

‘I see. Where might I find her?’

‘Marshal’s Quarters, in all likelihood.’ Elfhelm’s answer was distracted, for his full attention was focused upon Aragorn. ‘Have you seen the floor we have installed in the gatehouse, milord, which runs above the path? It is most cunningly constructed…’ he began, motioning for the King to follow as he took over Truva’s duty and left her in their wake. Aragorn glanced back once, and Truva gave a sympathetic smile in response before retreating up the hill with a sigh.

The streets were chaotic with revellers. Tremendous garlands of anemone and aster had been strung up overnight, criss-crossing overhead or swooping from door frame to rooftop. Petals fluttered down upon the wind like springtime snow, catching in Truva’s hair and piling up in corners. She filled her lungs with the earthy scent off the plains; it was both unchanged and an eternity away from the welcoming fragrance she recalled from a year ago.

The Marshals’ Quarters were empty when Truva entered, as they so often were in recent days. One bunk bed was shoved in a corner, a single bed in the other. Truva’s trunk sat at the foot of the latter, where Éolend and Elfhelm had placed it. Though she had passed several days in residence, the trunk remained untouched. Upon the bed, spread with Bron’s saddle blanket, lay a neatly folded pile of burgundy fabric.

Ignoring the tunic, Truva paced to the window and propped open the screen to allow fresh air to fill the stifling room. She supposed there was a time in the Mark’s history when the Quarters were occupied by a singular Marshal as intended, yet it had never been so ever since Truva’s arrival in Edoras. Théodred and Éomer had occupied the barracks in those days, for it had been believed the Dunlendings proved the Mark’s greatest threat – thus the western defences had been redoubled and the eastern defences at Aldburg left skeletal. But how wrong they had been! And now only Truva and Elfhelm remained.

Surely one of them would be sent eastward soon. Elfhelm, as the highest ranking Marshal, would almost certainly remain in the capital – or perhaps Éomer King would determine such expertise was most needed in the Eastfold. A smile threatened to surface on Truva’s face at the prospect of remaining in Edoras in Elfhelm’s stead, only to dissipate under the notion that the Muster was still short one commander; any newly appointed Marshal was most likely to remain under Éomer’s watchful guidance.

Truva pondered the enigmatic strength of Hornburg, for it was at once both reassuring and terrifying. Though the Fords of Isen featured most prominently in her nightmares – the darkness, the helplessness, the first taking of a soul, the image of Théodred’s lifeless body ever present at the foggy border of slumber – the Hornburg was also the frequent cause of her midnight wanderings. Only the open and unfamiliar lands of Aldburg and the Eastfold terrified Truva more.

‘No purpose in fretting over what lies beyond control,’ she murmured to herself.

‘What nonsense is this now?’ said a voice behind her, and Truva spun around to spy Mǽgwine mounting the rickety wooden steps of the barracks. It was only then that Truva recalled her original task.

‘Ah, Mǽgwine! I was just on my way to find you.’

The woman gave a good-natured harrumph. ‘On your way, Helm would laugh! You look as though you have slept in the stables again.’

Truva cast about desperately to avoid discussing where she had spent the previous night. ‘Why do you seek me so desperately?’

‘The ceremony is mere hours away, my friend.’ Mǽgwine strode over to Truva’s bed and took a seat on the floor before it, her back to the frame. She was already dressed in her most entrancing blue frock. ‘I would ask that you braid my hair.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Truva, taken aback. While it could be said that she was adept at braiding, the results were typically utilitarian and unbecoming. On such occasions, it was always Truva who sat upon the floor as Mǽgwine’s fingers wove elegant patterns.

‘I would ask that you braid my hair,’ Mǽgwine repeated, each word slow and intentional.

Truva hesitated only a short moment longer. ‘Very well,’ she said, taking a place upon the bed behind Mǽgwine, who produced a comb and handed it to her. Truva began the task of dividing Mǽgwine’s thick golden locks with methodical accuracy, attempting to recall the patterns she had seen Mǽgwine and other Eorling women employ.

‘Is it not strange to lodge with a man?’ Mǽgwine asked with a nod to Elfhelm’s bunk. Truva glanced towards the Marshal’s immaculate corner of the barracks.

‘It is not so strange as you would think,’ she answered. ‘In this space I am not a woman, and Elfhelm is not a man; we are but Marshals, executing our duties. We have slept beneath the stars together while on campaign, after all, and have seen each other in battle, when we are at our most base.’ She paused, a gentle sigh slipping from her lips. ‘It all seems so inconsequential now.’

Mǽgwine’s attempt at discussion stuttered to a swift halt. In the following silence, Truva unravelled the mess that had begun to form and started again. Feeling guilty for having brought gloom to their conversation, she attempted to strike it up again. ‘Where is Aferalend?’ she asked.

‘Off with Éolend again, I suspect,’ Mǽgwine answered. ‘I can never find him when I need him these days – yet when he is most likely to be bothersome, there he is, underfoot!’

‘Even so, it seems he has grown somewhat less willful of late,’ Truva said in Aferalend’s defence, though she immediately sensed she had misspoken, for Mǽgwine’s shoulders tensed and she grew quite still.

‘I think Éolend’s absence proved too much for him to bear,’ she whispered. ‘Particularly the second parting; for it was following the muster at Dunharrow his behaviour altered so dramatically. And then to have news of our victory, but not know whether Éolend himself had lived or— And Éothafa—’

As Mǽgwine inhaled several sharp breaths to steady herself, Truva laid a hand upon her shoulder, fighting her own surge of emotions. Oftentimes the misery of her experiences felt isolating, overwhelming, yet there was the occasional flicker of a reminder she was not alone in her grief. None had gone unaffected by the War; it was an insurmountable force, always drawing them back to that which they so desperately wished to leave behind.

The two women sat in silence a while as Truva’s fingers resumed their work. A band of troubadours passed, their music growing louder then gradually fading. Truva mulled over several topics of conversation, certain there must be at least one that would not lead directly to shadow.

‘Ah!’ she exclaimed, startling Mǽgwine. ‘How fares the tapestry? Will it be completed, do you suppose?’

‘They were weaving in the warp threads when I left this morn,’ said Mǽgwine, her enthusiasm returning.

‘That is great fortune for Lady Lothíriel,’ said Truva. ‘She was in such a pitiable state when I found her.’

‘I have yet to see her anything save composed, yet there was an air of agitation about her this morning – though perhaps it is an affectation of the inhabitants of Dol Amroth,’ Mǽgwine began, proceeding to detail the Princess’ peculiar reactions. And so their lighthearted gossip traipsed from one topic to another as some semblance of braids gradually emerged, after which Mǽgwine insisted upon returning the favour. The disquiet Truva had felt earlier fell away, as Truva suspected was Mǽgwine’s intention all along, and it was with a much lighter heart she donned the burgundy tunic.

Then, just as a tower bell sounded, Elfhelm Marshal burst through the door. ‘Come, Marshal! Our King summons us.’

Chapter Text

Mǽgwine was the first to make her way towards the exit of the Marshal’s Quarters. ‘I shall reunite with you later; there are other matters I must attend to.’ She disappeared with a wink and a wave.

‘Your sword, Marshal,’ said Elfhelm, handing Truva her belt and scabbard.

‘Thank you,’ said Truva, strapping it over her gown. Tradition might dictate that no armour was to be worn during a coronation ceremony – for fear of inciting misfortune during the King’s coming reign – yet a weapon was never to be separated from its wielder.

Together the two commanders darted through the crowded streets, dodging baker and poet and dog alike until they came upon the rear of Meduseld, where the royal chambers lay. The balcony adjoining the King’s accommodations remained empty, for Éomer had taken up residence in the Prince’s rooms; he was King in all save ceremony, yet he dared not challenge precedent. And so Elfhelm instead mounted the southerly steps leading to the secondary bay, beyond which lay the smaller suite of rooms.

Truva did not follow at once. When Elfhelm noticed her absence, he turned in confusion. ‘What gives you pause?’ he asked.

‘Never have I stepped foot into any of the royal chambers,’ Truva answered.

Communications with the King, whether Théoden or Éomer, had always occurred in the main hall or the Marshals’ Quarters, the training ground or the gatehouse – anywhere save the personal chambers of the royal family.

‘A great many things will change this day, Marshal,’ said Elfhelm quietly, beckoning to her. ‘Some more significant than others. That you are expected to greet the King in his chambers before his coronation, however, is most certainly amongst them.’

Reassured, Truva gave Elfhelm a wan smile and ascended the stairs after him. They passed through a vestibule and into the Prince’s private accommodations, which were remarkably similar to the main hall itself. Thick tapestries hung upon the wall, depicting such things as the two lines of Eorl, the lands of the Mark from Westfold to the Wold, or the battle of the Field of Celebrant. Unlike the main hall, however, a thick rug was spread underfoot, so lush that Truva feared stepping foot on it. She stood awkwardly upon the threshold, unsure as whether to enter or not.

Éomer greeted the Marshals with a brief nod as he stood before a gilt mirror, pinching and tugging at an emerald silk tunic. Éowyn was there also, Gúthwinë in hand, ready when her brother required it. All four stared at each other in contemplative silence for a time. How swifty circumstances had altered! Not a year ago their lives had been nearly carefree, weighed only by concern for Théoden King’s worsening condition and the Dunlendings’ bothersome pillaging. They felt as children, suddenly expected to fulfil a guardian’s role, feet flopping in slippers doubly too large.

‘My Lord and Lady,’ said Truva, dropping suddenly to one knee.

Elfhelm was swift to follow suit. ‘My King, honourable Lady Éowyn,’ said he, but in three strides Éomer was before them, drawing them to their feet.

‘The swearing of oaths is to come anon,’ he said. ‘There is no need to hasten such ceremony. In this moment we are but friends who have lived prosperously together in times of peace, and drawn our swords together in times of war.’

Truva wordlessly reached for one of the King’s sleeves, where the pearl buttons still lay undone along the wide cuff. She fastened them one by one, shadowed by Elfhelm on the other arm. Gold embroidered horses glistened upon a field of blue silk, seeming to frolic in the sunlight that streamed through the window. The sight entranced Truva, and she stared even after the last button had been threaded through its loop, unable to meet the eyes of the man who would soon be King both in address and in ledger.

Éowyn broke the spell by stepping forward with a mantle in hand.

‘Must I don that?’ Éomer protested. ‘Helm himself would say the weather is unbearably hot this day.’

‘Unless you wish to defy a custom each and every King – regardless of line – has abided by, since the coronation of Eorl himself,’ Éowyn chastised.

And so Éomer lowered himself, allowing his sister to wrap the mantle of ermine about his shoulders. Another breathless beat passed as they studied one another for a final moment, wondering whether they had not forgotten something, when Éomer inhaled sharply and made suddenly for the exit.

‘Come, let us conclude this silly business as swiftly as possible,’ he said.

Éowyn and the Marshals followed close behind, only to be brought up short by the crowd of foreign dignitaries who had gathered in the vestibule beyond.

‘You appear every inch a King of Rohan, milord,’ said Prince Imhrahil the instant Éomer emerged. He bowed deeply, as did Aragorn and Gimli. The sons of Dol Amroth followed suit, yet Lady Lothíriel appeared far too caught up in the King’s unexpected appearance that her curtsy was rather delayed. Éomer bowed in acknowledgement.

‘After you, milord,’ said Aragorn, hand upon the door that opened onto the gallery. Éomer’s mantle rose and fell once as he took a final breath, then nodded. With a grand sweep, Aragorn drew back the door.

Chaos erupted at once. Trumpets blared and bells rang, and an immense sea of well-wishers let loose a raucous cheer as musicians added their instruments to the clangour. A shower of pure white petals fluttered down, though they did not reach the King, for just beyond the vestibule a guard of four Riders raised a damask canopy overhead. It was beneath this the royal retinue stepped, descending as one down the steps.

The crowds parted instantly, revealing the path that led from the rear of Meduseld. At once the music ceased, replaced with a slow patterned beat as a band of drummers fell in behind the retinue. There was a pause from Éomer so slight that perhaps only Truva and Éowyn noticed it, and in a flash it had passed; the King marched forward to the rousing cries of all observers. Even as they wove from street to street, tracing each path and byway of the entire city, the tumult never once subsided. Each doorway and window and gutter was packed with Eorlingas from near and far.

Soon they came upon the tannery row, tucked upon the far north end of Edoras, where skinner and fellmonger and currier alike engaged in their trade. The sharp scent of lime and urine bit into the noses of any who drew near, yet Éomer strode along as if he were not perturbed by such unpleasantries. With a swift triplet the drumbeat paused. From the artisans’ shops at the end of the row, the man they called Felcús stepped forth from beneath his awning to greet the procession in the manner dictated by years of tradition:

‘My King!’ cried he. ‘What brings you to our humble tannery on this glorious day?’

‘My good man,’ replied Éomer, ‘I come to beg the tanners look as kindly upon the Mark as they did during the age of my forefathers!’

‘This I swear,’ said Felcús. ‘And in honour of my word, may I present to you the finest of my work?’

From within the shop emerged an apprentice bearing a saddle of most immaculate design, its embossings and silver trappings sure to look most becoming upon Firefoot. Éomer accepted the saddle and admired it a moment before passing it to Elfhelm, who placed it into a cart at the rear of the procession.

‘I thank thee for thy word, and for your most generous gift,’ said Éomer. ‘In return, I present to you a hogshead of wine – for though it is but a simple offering, it symbolises my dedication to the prosperity of the Mark, and by extension your own trade.’

‘It is with deepest gratitude that I accept your offer.’

Even as the saddler spoke, said hogshead was rolled forth from a second cart and turned upon its end before the tannery. Felcús bowed deeply, and the procession moved on, coming next upon the goldsmithy.

‘My King!’ cried the man called Wéland. ‘What brings you to our humble smithy on this glorious day?’

‘My good man,’ Éomer replied, ‘I come to beg the batours look as kindly upon the Mark as they did during the age of my forefathers!’

‘This I swear,’ said Wéland. ‘And in honour of my word, may I present to you the finest of my work?’

Already in the goldsmith’s hand was a livery collar of unparalleled intricacy: gilt leaves and steeds wove about glittering emeralds, giving the impression of Mearas prancing upon the fields of the Mark. Éomer bent his head low, and Wéland placed the collar about his chest.

‘I thank thee for thy word, and for your most generous gift,’ said the King. ‘In return, I present to you a hogshead of wine – for though it is but a simple offering, it symbolises my dedication to the prosperity of the Mark, and by extension your own trade.’

‘It is with deepest gratitude that I accept your offer.’

Another barrel was unloaded from the cart, and by the number that remained, Truva surmised there were yet a great many more exchanges to be made. Next came the cordwainer, who presented the King with ostentatious leather boots, and the bowyer and his weapon of the finest yew. Bronze chalices from the potter and beakers from the horner were also placed within the cart, as was a chest inlaid with gems from the Glittering Caves, crafted by the coffer maker and his apprentice. Then came the glasier, whose pane of stained glass depicting the Eorlingas’ victory against Sauruman’s Orcs at Hornburg proved most extraordinary to Truva. This was not placed in the cart, but instead two captains were summoned to bear it in hand.

With each street and turn, the procession drew nearer the main gates. When they came at last upon the guardhouse, Éomer and his retinue ascended the stairs and looked out upon the surrounding outskirts – upon the plains that spread south to the Firienwít, west to the Firienmist, north to the Entwood and eastward towards the Entwash. The sun beamed down, enshrining each blade of reedgrass and every farmhouse in golden light, carving sharp lines along mountain peaks and pooling along Hérweg, where even now travellers bustled towards the capital.

A breeze played at the braids Mǽgwine had woven into Truva’s hair, carrying with it the camphoraceous, earthy scent of the Entwood and whispering promises of ages long past and futures yet to come. She was certain it spoke to Éomer, as well, for he squared his shoulders and aligned himself behind an embrasure.

All sound ceased at once. In the outskirts below, those who could not squeeze themselves into the city itself pressed near until the ground was lost to sight; not one Eorling wished to miss the King’s words.

‘My friends, Eorlingas and guests, all,’ Éomer’s voice rang out, amplified by the magnificence of events. The masses drew even nearer. ‘I am not the son of Théoden, Thengel’s son. Such distinction belongs to Théodred alone, whose valorous spirit now lies in rest at the Fords of Isen, to guard our western border until the end of eternity. By rights it ought to have been he who bore the distinction of King, yet the fates did not see fit to bring such a story to us; and so it is with heart burdened by tremendous loss that I stand before you now.

‘My father, Éomund son of Éodir of the line of Eofor, was likewise slain in combat, defending the Eastmark against Orcs. When my mother Théodwyn subsequently fell ill, Théoden King took me in as his own son. For many years did I live in service of the Mark under his guidance, always with the expectation that it would be Théodred I would ultimately offer my blade to. Alas, that our destiny would be thus marred.

‘Yet the line of Eorl the Young was sundered once before – and may Théoden King live as strongly in our minds and his name be as frequent upon our tongues as that of Helm Hammerhand, end of the first line. In his memory, and in memory of Théodred, I offer my blade to the Mark!’

With that, Éomer unsheathed his sword and raised it overhead, casting brilliant rays across rooftop and paddock, blinding all who turned their eyes upon it. He let loose a terrible shout, which was soon picked up by each and every onlooker. Even those at the furthest reaches of the gathering, far beyond being able to hear the King themselves, lent their voices to the cry. It reverberated within the ground as they stomped their feet and clapped their hands, and still the tremors could be felt as Éomer King descended from the battlements to the sound of music resuming.

From the gate the cortege made directly for Meduseld, this time approaching from the front. Here, the garlands of autumn blossoms were joined by yard upon yard of silks, white and green, as well as the colours of visiting delegations. The fabric beneath their feet softened their steps and fluttered in the wind, joined by three banners – that of the Mark foremost amongst them.

Yet even as the party mounted the final steps, Elfhelm halted, causing the others to stop in their tracks. The Marshal then stepped forth from beneath the canopy and declared:

‘If any person denies Éomer son of Éomund of the line of Eofor, next heir to Théoden King, to be the rightful heir to the Riddermark, here is the King’s champion! For he who would gainsay this son of Eorl is a false traitor, and I am ready to combat with him on whatever day shall be appointed.’

With this challenge issued, a deathly silence fell across those gathered; for though it was issued out of tradition alone, no Eorling wished to hear so much as a murmur of dissent against their beloved Marshal turned King. Even had any complaint been forthcoming, Elfhelm was known to be the most decorated of all warriors within the Riddermark save Éomer, and none dared take up arms against him.

And so, with a well-pleased expression, Elfhelm Marshal turned to Éomer and motioned for him to enter. The retinue swept into Meduseld, where already the most illustrious members of the Mark had gathered: great Chieftains from distant villages sat alongside advisors who had spent their years in counsel with Théoden King. These were joined by the finest craftsman of their respective guilds, having raced to take their place within the hall after presenting Éomer King with their gifts. Immediately upon entering, Aragorn, Gimli, and the representatives of Dol Amroth were guided to their seats in the midst of these dignitaries.

Éomer strode forward, followed only by his sister and Marshals. The steady drumbeat continued to throb outside the hall. An advisor by the name of Beáda, seated nearest the dais as he was most senior, rose to his feet, though it was not Éomer but Éowyn who strode forward to accept the heavy tome he proffered. As she thumbed through the pages, Éomer knelt upon the dais steps and bowed his head in deference.

‘Eorl the Young, son of Léod, last Lord of the Éothéod, first of the Riddermark Kings,’ Éowyn pronounced, having come at last to the page she sought. Each syllable of her declaration was rhythmic and purposeful, in time with the drums outside. ‘Brego son of Eorl, Lord of the Golden Hall. Aldor the Old, second son of Brego.’

Beáda mounted the dais and drew near the King’s throne. There glimmered the diadem of Eorl, which had laid upon the seat cushion ever since Théoden was laid to rest amidst his brethren upon the barrowfield.

‘Déor the Protector, son of Goldwine.’

Beáda’s fingers hovered above the diadem, his momentary hesitation a reflection of Éomer’s own – a fleeting tribute to a King and world now gone. The hall hung in suspension, breath baited; silence floated to the rafters, and nothing was heard without.

‘Helm Hammerhand, last of the first line,’ Éowyn announced. At these words, the drums struck a thunderous toll and the spell was broken. When the reverberations fell away, Éowyn continued: ‘Fréaláf Hildeson, first of the second line.’

The drums resumed their steady pace, and Beáda at last seized the diadem; his wizened fingers curled about its golden braiding and glimmering emeralds with palpable reverence. He turned sharply and strode back towards Éomer as Éowyn continued to list the names of each King within the House of Eorl:

‘Folca the Hunter, son of Walda. Folcwine son of Folca, Fulfiller of the Oath of Eorl. Fengel, third son of Folcwine.’

Standing directly before Éomer, Beáda held the diadem over the King’s head. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting a rainbow of colours upon the scene and dyeing both circlet and Éomer’s locks deep blues and rich scarlets.

‘Thengel, Fengel’s son, friend of Stoningland.’ With each breath Éowyn inhaled, the audience leaned in closer, anticipation mounting as the names of Kings known personally to many were spoken. Once again the drums stilled, drawing all into an expectant hush.

‘Théoden Ednew, son of Thengel, last of the second line.’

Utter silence reigned. As it stretched on, Éowyn laid the tome at the Councillor’s feet, then took her seat before the dais. Arms still bearing the diadem upraised, Beáda disturbed the hush:

‘Éomer son of Éomund, born of the House of Eofor, sister-son to Théoden Ednew,’ he cried, with surprising vigour for one so elderly. Truva suspected his voice might reach so far as those who gathered beyond the gates of the city. ‘In kneeling before me, you kneel before all people of the Riddermark – whether they be high or low – to swear your oath as King. Do you comprehend the significance of this oath?’

‘I do so comprehend,’ spoke Éomer. As one, the audience breathed in, their tension in part eased by the ceremony beginning in earnest, and in part heightened by what was soon to come.

‘Do you promise to defend these lands to the furthest extent of your capacity, whether that be by word or by the sword, and to seek counsel from the wise when the way is not sure?’

‘I do so promise.’

‘Do you agree to treat with all in fairness, and to rule with a heart both righteous and merciful; that any may come to you in dispute, and in taking their leave know that the resolution you mediated was an equitable one?’

‘I do so agree.’

‘Do you resolve to act always with consideration to the benefit of the Riddermark and its people: in the making of laws, the leadership of the Muster, the establishment of relations between foreign lands, the taking of a Queen, and in all else?’

‘I do so resolve.’

‘Have you any trepidation regarding your succession to King, or any concern which might prevent you from executing your duties to the degree demanded by such a station?’

‘I have no such fear.’

‘I bid you write your name in the ledger of Kings, in which each Lord of the Riddermark has written since the days of Eorl.’

A second advisor darted forward, surreptitiously passing a quill and inkwell to Éomer. A brief moment elapsed, during which only the scratch of nib upon paper could be heard. When at last his title had been scrawled in full, vermillion letters glistening in the sunlight, Éomer laid aside the quill and looked once more to Beáda. The Councillor’s stoic, expressionless countenance appeared to soften momentarily, the suggestion of a smile just barely discernible as he declared:

‘Thus begins the third line of Eorl!’ In one fell motion, Beáda lowered the diadem upon Éomer’s brow. ‘I do declare thee Éomer, King of the Riddermark!’

The audience leapt to its feet in an instant, revelling in the sheer exultation of their leader accepting in an official capacity the role he had fulfilled in recent months. Amidst the rancour, Éomer rose at last from his knees and ascended the remaining steps of the dais. Elfhelm passed a scabbard to Beáda; the advisor in turn presented it to Éomer, who took it delicately in hand. The new King closed his eyes for the briefest of moments before unsheathing Herugrim, the sword of his father, and raising it aloft to thunderous approval.

‘My brethren!’ cried Éomer, though it took several repetitions before the cheers subsided enough to be heard. ‘My brethren, I thank you for your unstinting support; for always the spirit of the Mark bolstered me when my resolve threatened to fold. Yet there are those without whose support our recent campaigns would not have fared so well as they did. I ask that my Marshals step forward.’

Truva glanced in confusion at Elfhelm, who appeared equally surprised; yet with a shrug of his shoulders the Marshal stepped forward to kneel before his King. Truva rushed to join him.

‘War is indiscriminate,’ said Éomer. ‘She takes what her fickle will desires, and none can predict what ravages her fingers will sow. Time, while far less capricious, is equally devastating in her ceaseless progression. Théodred’s passing is a travesty of the former, and Erkenbrand’s retirement a gift of the latter – and thus we find ourselves with a dearth of leadership amongst our Muster.

‘In vacating my own rank as First Marshal, I present the opportunity to another: Elfhelm Second Marshal of the Mark, be it your will to lead the Muster as First Marshal?’

‘I accept your offer with glad heart, my King!’ Elfhelm exclaimed, yet the smile he and Éomer exchanged was tinged with sorrow, for events by which they had arrived at their positions were not happy ones. The moment was fleeting, however, and soon their expressions were impassive once more. Returning Herugrim briefly to Beáda, Éomer unsheathed his own sword and gripped it by the blade, extending the hilt towards his newly promoted First Marshal, saying:

‘In taking up my father’s blade, I now bestow unto you my own sword, Gúthwinë, if you will have it – for it has served me well these many years.’

‘I know not if I am deserving of such a weapon,’ said Elfhelm, though already his hand crept forward to twine his fingers about the leather grip. ‘Yet if you think me worthy of wielding Gúthwinë, her use will be solely dedicated to the service of the Mark and its people.’

‘And so has it always been,’ said Éomer, and his smile did not fade so swiftly now. After accepting Herugrim from Beáda once more and strapping its scabbard to his side where Gúthwinë had only so recently hung, he turned to Truva.

‘In vacating his rank as Second Marshal, Elfhelm presents the opportunity to another: Truva Third Marshal of the Mark, be it your will to lead the Muster as Second Marshal?’

Neither her nor Elfhelm’s promotions had been unexpected; indeed, much like their King, they had functionally been serving in these positions since before the War’s conclusion. And yet, to hear the words pronounced aloud, Truva found herself so overwrought with emotion that she struggled to answer.

‘It is my will,’ she said after several attempts.

‘To my great regret, I have no storied weapon to bestow you,’ said the King. ‘Yet if my memory serves me correctly, I recall bidding you give your own blade a story ere we departed Edoras upon tasks formidable – and I do believe you have done so. Present to me your sword.’

Truva withdrew her sword and offered it to Éomer, who took it in both hands and raised it above his head, declaring, ‘I dub thee Fréodhel, defender of the home!’ As he returned the blade to Truva to thunderous cheers, he whispered, ‘Wherever it is you find home to be.’

In the blink of an eye, the enigmatic expression he wore was gone. Before Truva could parse his meaning, the King cried, ‘Where might Mǽgling be found?’

The boisterous, golden-locked Captain emerged at once from the crowd. ‘Here, my King!’

Éomer beckoned him forward, saying, ‘Approach and kneel.’ When Mǽgling had done so – his expression equally as befuddled as Elfhelm and Truva’s had been but moments ago – Éomer continued, ‘In vacating her rank as Third Marshal, Truva presents the opportunity to another: Mǽgling Captain of the Mark, be it your will to lead the Muster as Third Marshal?’

‘Yes, milord, I will do all that you and my superiors ask of me!’ he exclaimed.

‘I would expect no less,’ said Éomer King. He then bade all three Marshals to rise, declaring, ‘Look upon your Marshals, dear citizens of the Mark, and rejoice that those so devoted in their duties shall be the defenders to watch over us all!’

Shouts and whistles and claps rattled Truva to her very bones. It seemed the onlookers did not tire of demonstrating their support of their new King, raising their voices to the rafters of Meduseld and beyond.

Chapter Text

The feast masters swiftly filtered in and began to draw tables away from the walls where they had been temporarily stored, aligning them in their typical formation. The onlookers were quick to array their seats about these tables, and a river of food and drink streamed in from the kitchens. Truva spied Mǽgwine and Éolend staking claim to a table in the corner, yet no sooner had she begun to make her way towards her friends than she felt Elfhelm’s hand at the crook of her elbow.

‘No such freedom, I’m afraid,’ said the Marshal, gently retaining Truva at the dais. Already the head table had been brought forth, where Éomer King, Lady Éowyn, and all guests of honour settled themselves – though Lothíriel was nowhere to be seen. It was to a secondary table, just to the side of the King’s, where Elfhelm led Truva. They sat amongst Beáda and the other advisors, Mǽgling soon joining them.

When the diplomats’ talk turned immediately to policy – particularly those topics on which they were obstinately divided – Truva gratefully accepted a pint of ale from a serving master to mask her lack of involvement in the conversation. Warm chatter filled the hall, lending an ease to the atmosphere that had so recently been tense with anticipation. It felt as though the disquietude plaguing the Mark after the War had dissipated all at once, as though a step of forward progress had been made – perhaps the first since Truva’s very coming to those lands.

Hunger sated by excitement, Truva contented herself with a serving of steamed cabbage and stewed beans, noting the selection was otherwise surprisingly limited. Absent was the large assortment of roasted meats (though the sheer variety of poultry dishes in its stead was no less impressive). Loaves of bread were few in number and replenishments were slow to emerge from the kitchens. Gregarious displays of exotic fruits and other delicacies had been replaced by those which could only be gathered locally in season, cut in elegant patterns to hide their spots. It was a feast, to be certain, but one with far fewer offerings than Truva had come to expect in years past – yet she felt no disappointment, for ever in the back of her mind were the food scraps of her youth.

Then, as she reached for the steamed potatoes, Truva cast a glance at the head table in time to spy Lothíriel mounting the steps of the dais. Already Éowyn had vanished into the crowds, as had Aragorn. The sons of Prince Imrahil were deep in discussion with their father, though their attention lapsed when they noticed their sister’s approach; Erchirion gave a particularly puckish grin. But it was towards Éomer – his head bent in conversation with Gimli – the resplendent Lady of Dol Amroth made, gliding across the dais with gait ethereal.

Lothíriel knelt before the Eorling King, raven locks tumbling about her shoulders until her face was obscured to the hall. In her hands she held the magnificent tapestry, all the more glorious for the short time in which it had been prepared, its faults all the more endearing. Éomer King bade her rise immediately, taking the tapestry into his hands with indisputable reverence. Though the words they exchanged were not audible from Truva’s position, the subtle tilt of the Lady’s head as she took a seat beside Éomer, and the attention he paid in offering her a selection of fresh autumn fruit was apparent to any who cared to take notice.

As Truva looked upon the charming scene at the head table, she sensed a figure draw near, though she did not need to turn to know it was Aragorn; he alone could move so stealthily, yet with consideration for the unease nearly all the warriors now felt at being approached unexpectedly.

‘Do you suppose I shall ever find one who loves me so deeply as that?’ he whispered in her ear. Aragorn crouched at the tableside and nodded towards where Éomer examined the emerald tapestry with eyes twinkling in delight, turning it first this way and then that to admire the horsehead and culumalda blossoms emblazoned upon it with golden thread. Lady Lothíriel scrutinised him as closely as he did the product of the weavers’ labour.

‘I believe you shall one day find a companion who loves you as deeply as an Eorling warrior loves his horse,’ Truva murmured in return.

‘That is a grand promise, indeed,’ said Aragorn, taking a seat beside her at last.

‘Yet a promise nevertheless.’

Truva turned to examine the Gondorian King in full, noting the knowing smile and the words unspoken, those written clearly in his eyes. Aragorn’s gaze flitted over every idiosyncrasy of her face before he spoke again, voice so low as to not even risk being overheard.

‘I have arranged for a rather oblivious yet circumspect messenger to serve as liaison between our two kingdoms,’ he said. ‘If it so please you, I shall be able to direct him to gather reports from both Éomer King and Second Marshal of the Mark without arousing suspicion.’

Truva observed him scrupulously. ‘Reports which would relay only the most necessary items of state, surely?’

‘It matters not what contents they relay, for no eyes save mine would read them.’ The beard that Aragorn had allowed to grow thick along his jaw twitched with a smile, yet Truva was unconvinced.

‘And you would return these reports?’ she whispered.

‘As frequently as you send them.’

The voice of Éomer King suddenly boomed directly behind, causing both Truva and Aragorn to start in their seats. ‘You once charged our beloved Marshal with secret dealings,’ Éomer declared; his tone feigned accusation, yet the twinkle in his eye belied any suggestion of displeasure. ‘You denounced her for partaking in whispered conversations and the exchange of letters – and now you would do the very same, in my own halls, on the day of my coronation?’

Truva stuttered in surprise, yet Aragorn was swift to regain his composure. ‘For no other reason save I, too, have come over time to appreciate her loyalty and discretion. I find the observations of officers from varying ranks to be indispensable, for they often make note of things too trifling for a king’s attention.’

‘Verily, and the observations of each of our officers are ever at your disposal, my Lord Aragorn,’ said Éomer. ‘Though I wish to assure you there is no matter too inconsequential that you may not bring it to me.’

‘Well I know it, and offer like in return.’ Aragorn raised his chalice of wine, and all those within the vicinity toasted to the newly-crowned Eorling King.

When the hubbub had subsided and the audience returned to their various conversations, Éomer set his own drinking horn down upon the table. ‘With regard to your proposed line of communication, I believe it will lend itself splendidly to developments long in coming,’ he said as he laid a hand upon the shoulders of Elfhelm and Mǽgling, who were engrossed in playing with a gangly deerhound pup.

‘And what might those developments be?’ asked Aragorn.

‘It is time we began to resettle the Folde,’ answered Éomer, his voice dropping so low Truva strained to hear it. ‘There are simply insufficient resources to sustain throughout the winter all those who fled to Edoras during the War. We must encourage as many as possible to relocate to the east and west – now, while there are yet days long and warm enough to construct settlements and sow what crops might emerge in winter, or early in spring.’

‘None will want to venture far from the capital, or the defences,’ said Elfhelm. ‘Fear still reigns in their mind.’

‘And so it should, so it should,’ said Éomer. ‘Let them linger close to our burgs, but impress upon them the need to live off the land and not the aid of the capital. More distant farmlands can only be established come spring if we survive the winter first.’

‘You mean to reinstate the Marshals’ residence in Aldburg,’ Elfhelm stated flatly. Perhaps he was equally as unenthusiastic as Truva to leave the comforts of Edoras.

‘Yes,’ said Éomer, his voice returning to a more natural volume. ‘Though I would not have you separated from me just yet, Elfhelm. The First Marshal ought to remain in the capital, to guide new recruits and advise me in this transitory period.’

It was nearly imperceptible, yet Truva caught the sigh of relief Elfhelm loosed. ‘What of the other Marshals, milord?’ he asked.

‘Mǽgling I will send west to the quieter sector, for he is yet inexperienced – Erkenbrand might be persuaded to guide our new Third Marshal in his management of Hornburg,’ said Éomer. Mǽgling positively beamed at this suggestion, seemingly too enthused for words. Truva’s heart sank.

‘And I am to go east, to Aldburg,’ she concluded, only scarcely keeping her tone even.

‘That is where your prowess is needed most.’ The way in which Éomer looked upon her then spoke volumes. It was sheer necessity that guided his decisions; personal desires had to be set aside.

‘I understand, my King,’ Truva said. Éomer laid a comforting hand upon her shoulder.

‘And in such a position, you will lie directly between Edoras and Mundburg, and thus comprise a portion of the line of communication between us. Then you may freely continue your treasonous whisperings which you had begun earlier.’

Truva opened her mouth to protest this mischaracterisation – no matter how humorously it was intended – but Aragorn preempted her. ‘May your horsemen only ever bear blessed news along this road during your reign.’

‘Such optimism is unlikely to find its counterpart in reality, yet I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless,’ said Éomer, taking up his cup once more and raising it in a quiet toast amongst the three, for already Elfhelm and Mǽgling had turned and begun eagerly discussing their new assignments.

‘I ask that you forgive me for speaking so promptly on such topics, and bringing stormy skies to a sunny day,’ Éomer continued. ‘By rights, I ought to have reserved this discussion for counsel some days from now, yet it is my understanding the presence of our august Stoningland King is limited.’

‘That is correct,’ Aragorn confirmed.

Truva turned to stare at him. ‘But you have only just arrived!’ she exclaimed.

‘As you know, Gimli and the Dwarves of Glǽmscrafu have offered to aid in the reconstruction of Minas Tirith,’ said Éomer. ‘They kindly delayed the development of their own citadel in favour of ensuring the southern defences remain capable of warding off any potential threat.’

‘And I shall go with them when they come from the Glittering Caves,’ said Aragorn.

‘What of the delegation from Dol Amroth?’ asked Truva breathlessly, attempting to mask her surprise.

‘They will linger a while longer,’ said Éomer, ‘for they have come from further afar, and greatly desire to learn much of the Mark and its people.’

Truva cast about for the questions that were expected of her. ‘When do you anticipate the Dwarves’ arrival?’

‘Who can say?’ Aragorn shrugged. ‘They abide by their own time in the darkness of their subterranean dwellings – though I imagine it shall be soon, for I very much doubt they would be so discourteous as to fail in offering obeisance to their newly crowned neighbour – not after he bestowed upon them such a benevolent gift as the Caves.’

‘I would ask that you and your company ride with them as far as Aldburg,’ said Éomer to Truva. ‘Begin preparations for winter there; the town is little more than an outpost these days, and it must be readied for a great many more residents than its current handful of Riders.’

‘Very well, milord,’ said Truva. ‘I will inform the others.’

She stood from her seat, yielding it to Éomer as he sank into conversation with Aragorn. Truva was thankful for the opportunity to excuse herself from their presence, for the announcement of the visitors’ sudden departure had caught her entirely off guard. She was able to hide her stuttering breath within the ebb and flow of the feast.

Gamhelm provided her with an excellent distraction, drawing her in for a toast and jovial conversation. Gódring soon joined the two, and a series of intensely competitive tæfl games broke out, inviting a crowd of observers, bettors, and participants. Several foreign dignitaries tried their hand at the games; and though he had almost no familiarity with the rules, Elphir proved adept at strategy, winning several rounds against the Eorlingas’ most renowned players.

During the spirited contest, Truva relayed to Gamhelm and Gódring the news. Unlike their Marshal, the two warmly welcomed the transfer to Aldburg; to them it was merely the next venture, a new home in the string of residences they would inhabit as military leaders. As she watched the captains chatter excitedly, occasionally challenging and losing to Elphir, Truva longed to be as blithe as they – and at last she understood Éomer’s comment about wherever she might find home to be.

Politely declining Elphir’s offer of a tæfl round, Truva instead sought out Mǽgwine and Éolend, who remained tucked quietly into a corner near the main doors.

‘Truva!’ Aferalend called when he saw her approach. ‘I made this for Lady Lothíriel. Do you think she will like it?’ He thrust forth a bouquet of needle-bound flowers; iris and delphinium, orchid and daffodil tumbled from his fingers, eternally unwilting.

‘They are even more lovely than she,’ Truva smiled, inspecting the bouquet and feigning a sniff.

‘How dare you say such things! Lady Lothíriel is the most beautiful being I have ever laid eyes upon!’ declared Aferalend, snatching the bouquet away and darting off to present his gift to the Lady in question herself.

‘It seems his skills are numerous,’ Truva remarked as she took a seat upon the bench beside Mǽgwine.

‘Fulomd’s abilities in the kitchen far exceed those with the shepherd’s hook, yet he rejects anything associated with the labours of his parents – whether it be cooking or horses,’ sighed Éolend. ‘Though he is ever in the stables when I am engaged.’

‘He is headstrong and quick-witted,’ said Truva. ‘He will do as he pleases, and hopefully find one day that what he pleases earns him coin.’

‘One can only hope,’ said Éolend.

In silence, they filled each other’s cups and passed a tray of sliced apples from hand to hand, though Mǽgwine’ gaze soon came to fix quite intensely upon Truva.

‘You’ve been assigned to Aldburg, haven’t you?’ she said, discernment sharp as ever.

Truva forced a smile to allay her friends’ concern. ‘I have,’ she said.

‘When do you depart?’ Éolend pressed.

‘I know not,’ answered Truva. ‘I fear it shall be far sooner rather than later; the Dwarves are said to come anon from Glǽmscrafu, and I am expected to accompany them as far as the fortress.’

‘Aldburg is not so far from Edoras,’ said Mǽgwine, taking up Truva’s hand in her own. ‘Surely you will not be long absent from the capitol. And I shall be thankful for the excuse to refresh my memory of letters; we have rather fallen out of the habit of sending notes ever since— in the past year.’

‘I will happily welcome any cheer you deign to send me,’ said Truva, her smile now genuine.

In that very moment, the minstrels struck up a merry jig, and the entire hall leapt into motion. Tables and benches were once more relegated to the sides as the open space was flooded with revellers, tripping and leaping in dance. Seeing her friends’ feet tap to the lilting notes of the tabor pipe, Truva ushered them off, only to have a tankard of ale thrust into her face.

‘I hear you’re not one for dancing,’ said Gimli, taking Éolend’s newly vacated seat across from her. ‘We’ve not much in common, I imagine, but I suppose that’s something.’

Truva accepted the tankard and raised it in toast. ‘And how do you find your new residence?’

‘I cannot think of a more wondrous and fitting place for Dwarves than – how do you horselords call it? – Glǽmscrafu. Already I imagine many generations delving into its caverns and passageways, crafting the most excellent structures in reflection of and complement to the Caves’ natural beauty.’

‘We are thankful to find ourselves neighbours to such a steadfast community,’ said Truva diplomatically. She cast about desperately for any question she might as thenk; conversation did not flow naturally with the Dwarf – for though they had grown to be amicable, still they were not companionable. They were at last rescued by Elfhelm who, equally unfond of dancing despite his talent for it, came to challenge Gimli to a game of tæfl.

Song followed song, game followed game, tankard after tankard, and so the celebrations of the Eorlingas and their guests extended deep into the night. All were happy participants in what they hoped to be a lifetime event. The moon cast its wan light against the window panes of Meduseld, drowned out by the unfading blaze within until the moon, too, was outlasted by the revellers.

Truva’s mind grew hazy from sleepiness and ale, yet even in the wee hours of the night (or perhaps early morning), Éomer King had still not retired. Though no custom dictated such, Truva felt it respectable for his departure to precede hers. Truva looked to the others: Elfhelm continued to struggle in earning back his coin lost at tæfl, and Mǽgling sat wedged between a bench and the wall, entirely lost to the world. Even Beáda, the most wizened of advisors, had not succumbed to tiredness and sat in quiet counsel with the others.

It was Mǽgwine and Éolend who sought to depart first, with the intention of putting Aferalend to bed – much to the youngster’s chagrin – when a low hum could be heard from the doors opened by their exit. It was faint at the start, scarcely detectable over the minstrels’ song, but as the hall fell hushed and instruments were lowered, it grew more distinct.

Aragorn was first to his feet, striding towards the entrance. Éomer was close behind, as were Truva and Elfhelm and the King’s advisors, tumbling down the steps onto the path beyond. The entire congregation poured forth from Meduseld, the hum growing louder all the while. Gradually it could be discerned as a song, its words incomprehensible – for it was neither the language of the Mark, nor was it Westron.

The Eorlingas and guests came as a wave upon the main gate. They ascended to the battlements and looked out into the darkness where there stood, amidst constellations of bonfires and torches that illuminated celebrations beyond the walls of Edoras, a company of Dwarves.

‘’Tis the coronation song of the House of Durin,’ came Gimli’s voice as he huffed up the steps in their wake. ‘Never has it been heard by any outside of the Longbeards. They sing for you, Éomer Dwarf-friend.’

The King closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Truva allowed the low vibrations to rumble through her chest as the Dwarves’ voices eddied and swirled in the heady autumn night air; their song was the sound of the very earth itself, the depths of caverns and the pulse of rock and root. Surely they sang for only a brief while, yet it felt as though their notes encompassed all of eternity, and when the hum faded away, the silence that followed was heavier and more poignant even than the music that had preceded it.

‘My most heartfelt thanks,’ spoke Éomer, but before he had an opportunity to continue, the Dwarves faded into the crowd of villagers who stood about, listening in awe. The visitors were gone just as swiftly as they had come.

Gimli was the first to disturb the pensive mood, clapping the tall Eorling King on the elbow. ‘Your gratitude is warmly noted,’ said he. ‘Now come, let’s indulge in one final nightcap before I depart on the morn!’

‘Will your brethren not dine with us?’ Éomer asked. ‘Ought we not to send them food from our tables?’

‘I do not wish to bring unexpected guests down upon your feast,’ said Gimli as the party filed down from the battlements. ‘We Dwarves are not near so voracious as the Hobbits, yet we would still eat you out of a winter’s worth of salted pork, and that would not do.’

As the revellers ascended back towards Meduseld, Truva exchanged a glance with Elfhelm, who wove through the stream of onlookers until he was at her side. ‘I suppose that means you’re off, then,’ he remarked.

Truva nodded shortly. ‘I had best go pack.’

‘It will be nice to have the Marshals’ Quarters to myself at last,’ he quipped, giving an amused huff and tossing his head back to gaze at the brilliant stars.

‘I’ll not return too often, as not to disturb your privacy.’

‘No need to go to such lengths for my comfort,’ he laughed. ‘We shall miss you, after all, and I suppose I could endure the occasional invasion of the Quarters in order to have your presence among us again.’

‘I will return when Éomer King’s orders call for me, and no sooner.’

‘Ever the soldier.’

Elfhelm gave a brief wave before following after the main company. Truva deviated instead towards the training ground, and when Gamhelm and Gódring fell in beside her they did not speak a word, for none were needed. In silence they gathered only their most essential belongings, assembling with the remainder of the Marshal’s Riders in the stables a mere hour later as the first haze of dawn threatened to emerge over the eastern horizon.

They did not ride, instead leading their mounts by the reins along the path towards the main gates of the city where Truva spied Éomer, Aragorn, Gimli and Imrahil clustered together in hushed conversation.

‘Go well, Second Marshal of Rohan,’ said the Lord of Dol Amroth when the Riders drew near. ‘It brings me great joy that our reunion was not upon the field of battle, but rather the resplendent fields of your homeland.’

‘May you discover even greater joy upon further exploration of those fields,’ Truva replied.

‘I am certain I shall,’ said the Prince with an affable smile. ‘My daughter likewise offers her greetings, though she is yet abed – I rather fear her indulgences were not modest during the celebrations last evening, nor those of my sons.’

‘It would be the mark of a poor host were it otherwise. Please be sure to pause a while in Aldburg when you do choose to return southward; Lady Lothíriel may extend her personal greeting then.’

‘I anticipate we shall be reunited ere too long,’ said Imrahil.

‘In the meantime,’ Éomer cut in, ‘see to it that our eastern flank is once again reestablished to its fullest possible strength. When settlers have been sufficiently gathered to warrant an escort, I will send word.’

‘Your summons shall be eagerly awaited,’ said Truva, bowing low.

A roguish grin spread across the Eorling King’s visage. ‘Or perhaps you will grow overly fond of Aldburg and not wish to return, if even for a moment.’

‘My greatest desire is to be wherever I can best serve you, milord,’ said Trurva. ‘Whether that be Aldburg, Edoras, or elsewhere.’

‘And from Minas Tirith comes the service of the Gondorians,’ Aragorn interjected. He was not so discourteous as to reveal his impatience, yet Truva could sense it simmering beneath the surface – in part because she herself was unfond of protracted goodbyes.

‘You have also the service of my people,’ added Gimli.

‘And though we be but distant neighbours, Dol Amroth’s support shall ever be unwavering,’ said Imrahil.

‘Bright does the future look in which those who harbour good in their breast come together in harmony,’ said Éomer, clasping his brethren upon the shoulder.

With a final series of bows and parting words, those who made for Aldburg took their leave. Horns sounded as Truva and her small band strode through the gate, yet the company had disappeared from view before the notes had died away. As they made their way through the provisional city beyond the walls of Edoras, some revellers still sat drinking at tables beneath awnings while others slept propped up against unsteady hut walls. More than one Eorling called out in greeting to Truva or the Riders, while others stared at the stately Gondorian King and his Dwarvish companion. Unsettled by such scrutiny, each member of the party was glad to gain the outskirts of town and turn southward upon Hérweg.

There, settled into a shallow dip in the grasslands, sat the company of Dwarves who had appeared quite unexpectedly the night before. These reclusive visitors did not waste a moment, for already their packs were upon their backs; when they spied Truva and the others, they stood as one and fell in behind Gimli. With a wordless gesture, Truva ordered Gamhelm to take the lead beside Aragorn while she fell back to the rear guard with half of the Marshal’s Riders.

The pace was slow, for the Dwarves had no need of haste. In the half-light of dawn, they appeared stony-faced and unwilling to make conversation, for which Truva was thankful. Gamhelm and Gódring alone chatted animatedly at the head of the column, but otherwise a taciturn mood settled over the company as they made their way along the dusty Hérweg.

Truva set Roheryn loose, allowing him to amble at his own pace – grazing all the while – until he discovered he had fallen behind and trotted to catch up. Aside from the pony’s antics, there was little else to occupy her; even as the sun seeped its warmth across the land, her unceasing scans of the horizon disclosed nothing of concern, and each Rider she sent scouting afield returned with further confirmation that Elfhelm Marshal’s party had truly flushed the area of any threat.

The company stopped quite early for lunch, though there were few complaints to be heard from the Riders. Just as silently as they had begun their journey, the Dwarves sat and pulled waybread and dried beef from their packs, which they kindly offered to their Eorling companions. When the Riders presented leek pies in return, the Dwarves politely accepted them, but set the pastries aside; not one could be seen indulging in the renowned Eorling delicacy.

Even as she watched this exchange, Gódring returned from his patrol and immediately set upon his own noon meal. Nodding to Gamhelm to indicate she would go in his stead, Truva summoned Roheryn with a whistle and mounted up, turning southward to scout further along their path.

‘Wait!’ Aragorn called after her. Truva halted at once and turned to see the Gondorian King mounting up on Shadowfax. ‘I will accompany you.’

Truva delayed momentarily, allowing him to draw even before she continued on. They rode a time in silence, eventually breaking towards the Firienwít, where the greater potential for enemy cover lay in the craggy foothills. Not until they were certainly beyond hearing did Truva speak.

‘Do you not think two commanders scouting simultaneously will strike any as odd?’ she asked, her eyes surveying a ridgeline midway up the mountain of Ealhwít.

‘If any care to take note, I imagine they will dismiss it as the two most restless members going about a necessary duty, and be thankful the task did not fall to them,’ said Aragorn as he diverted towards a thicket of gorse. ‘And our remaining time together is not long; I am grateful for any time spent in your company.’

Truva repressed a smile. ‘As am I,’ she reassured him, ‘though the journey to Aldburg ordinarily takes little more than a day. At our current pace, I would be astonished if we arrived before late tomorrow evening.’

‘Most likely noontide the day after. As I said, not long.’

He circled Shadowfax back around to where Truva sat upon Roheryn. Her scrutiny finally diverted from the tree line and fell upon Aragorn, who appeared the reflection of her own sorrow. In his discerning look she saw he already knew the words she wished to say, but also that she wished to say them anyway.

‘I shall miss you,’ Truva whispered. ‘I do not question myself so thoroughly when you are by my side; I feel as though my position has purpose, as though it has not merely come to me by unfortunate happenstance.’

Aragorn nudged Shadowfax forward, drawing even nearer to Roheryn. ‘And I shall miss you, and the assurance you give me in each and every decision. In my youth I thought myself indomitable, as though each challenge was placed before me for the sheer purpose of being overcome; yet to watch the world dissolve around me, and feel as though I could do nothing to stop it…’

His gaze fell to his hands, which gripped Shadowfax’s reigns with such ferocity the knuckles blanched. Truva bent far over Roheryn to take those hands into her own. ‘It was your decisions that realised our victory upon those fields of battle,’ she assured him.

Aragorn turned his grey eyes upon her, their chill belying the passion that lay beneath. Leaning in, he closed the remaining distance between their horses. ‘And you will write?’ he murmured.

‘As frequently as your own “reports” – more perhaps, for I’ve the tim—’

Truva had not finished speaking before Aragorn swept a palm across her cheek, lowering his head to draw her in for a kiss. She sensed desperation in the rough press of his lips, the desire for solace, the despondency of knowing they were soon to be parted once more; she knew not whether they were his sentiments, or her own.

When their lips parted, Aragorn released a sharp sigh, though his fingers lingered upon Truva’s face, brushing along each of her features in turn. ‘And I shall miss touching you, for it is only then that I can know you are tangible, and real, and not some fabrication of my imagination.’

‘Then take my first letter,’ said Truva, drawing from beneath her tunic a note she had hastily penned in the brief time she had to prepare the night before. ‘Perhaps it will serve as some small testament to my existence.’

Aragorn stared a moment at the paper she held out to him, too astonished to accept it. He pulled her back in for another kiss before ultimately taking the letter in hand and tucking it beneath his own tunic.

‘Come now, the others are sure to be waiting,’ Truva said then, urging Roheryn forward.

Indeed, when she and Aragorn returned to the company, the Riders had already finished their meal and stood about with their horses. The Dwarves still had not taken so much as a single bite of their pies, and several disappeared into rucksacks or horses’ mouths, though the Eorlingas feigned not to notice.

The company renewed its leisurely pace along Hérweg, and the afternoon proved equally as uneventful as the morning had been. Townspeople who had warmly greeted Aragorn on his journey to Edoras once again amassed to witness the passing of such a motley band of travellers. Many hung back upon spying the mass of surly Dwarves, however – that is, until the company came upon the third settlement.

Truva and the others passed through the heart of the village, exchanging no more than the perfunctory greetings with the residents who stood clustered together, staring. Yet even as the company made for the outskirts of town, a young girl darted forward with a basket of purple asters.

She first offered one to Aragorn with a mumbled, ‘Milord,’ averting her eyes shyly. Gimli was next to receive a periwinkle blossom. Then, before either could so much as thank the girl, she began to weave through the ranks of Dwarves, offering each a flower in turn. Nor were the Eorlingas exempt (or their horses), yet when the girl stood at last before Truva, still there were a good many stems in her basket.

These she gathered in her hands and, extricating a ribbon from her braided hair, bound them into a nosegay. ‘For you, Marshal,’ she declared, her voice strong and assured.

‘Thank you,’ said Truva, accepting the flowers.

In a split moment, the girl leapt forward and wrapped her arms about Truva’s waist. With equal suddenness, she raced back to the crowd and buried her face in her mother’s skirts, refusing to look as the company set out once more. Only at the last moment did she turn to wave goodbye, a gesture the Eorlingas enthusiastically returned. Even a handful of Dwarves joined in.

It was well before dark – and beyond sight of any settlement – when Gimli diverted from Hérweg and bore towards the Firienwít. Confused, Truva made her way to the head of the column.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ she asked. ‘Do you intend to take a brief rest for evening before continuing on into the night? Why do we deviate so far from our path?’

Gimli pointed off towards a rocky outcrop in the distance. ‘We Dwarves do not like to sleep in the open, and much prefer stony defences. Though last night’s open field sleeping arrangements were unavoidable – as we had no knowledge of the precise time of departure – I was still subject to a great many complaints from my brethren. I do not wish to hear such protestations two nights running.’

‘If we pass by this secure position, who is to say when we will come upon another?’ Aragorn added, the corners of his lips ever so slightly upturned.

Truva pursed her lips but did not argue. She was as eager to gain Aldburg as she was loath to part from Aragorn, and as the Dwarf’s expression brooked no argument, Truva resigned herself to their early retirement. The company swiftly settled in for the evening, lighting small fires to ward off late autumn’s encroaching chill. Far fewer pies were shared, though the Dwarves were still generous with their own fare.

Observing these peculiarities as she tucked into her own modest meal beside Aragorn and Gimli, Truva asked, ‘Pardon my asking, but do Dwarves not eat pies?’

‘Vegetables, Marshal,’ said Gimli. ‘We’re not overly fond of vegetables. Most like pies well enough, but prefer to stuff them with tender beef or pork, and only as many carrots as absolutely necessary; then wash them down with a pint of ale and a hearty word of thanks!’

Truva surprised herself by giving a short chuckle. ‘I think you’ll find yourself in agreeance with many Eorlingas in that regard.’

‘There are a reasonable few amongst you lot, to be sure.’

Gimli leaned back against a grassy hummock and pulled out his pipe contentedly. Truva stretched out as well, her eyes tracking movement throughout camp as Riders executed their duties. Night had quickly fallen about them; Truva struggled to rest, for the comfort she had learned to take in being outdoors was now tempered by the War. Her heart raced as memories of sitting about camp upon the eve of battle choked her mind and set her hands trembling.

Folding her arms across her chest to hide the tremors, Truva propped her back against a small boulder and closed her eyes. The image of sleeping forms in the Grey Wood before the attack on Mundburg immediately arose in her mind and would not dissipate no matter how she strove to waft it away. A feeling of disconcertion burgeoning in the depths of her stomach, Truva rose and approached the bulky form of Blackbramble, yet he did not stir when she gently shook his shoulders. The figures surrounding her were eerily still; there were so, so many of them, stretching endlessly into the darkness across the shale fields of the Black Gate – the Grey Wood had vanished entirely. Then in front of Truva arose a small hillock with an immense boulder upon it: Bron’s grave.

Truva fell to her knees and laid a hand upon the stone, eyes already awash in tears, only to leap up in terror at the sound of shifting shale. From behind the grave lumbered a tremendous Gorgoroth Troll – the very same that had eviscerated Bron, moving with lighting speed. Truva felt as though she were submerged in a jar of ageing honey, limbs thrashing sluggishly, paralyzed by indecision whether to fight or flee. The Troll wrapped its talons about her arms and torso with ease, squeezing her lungs as she struggled to inhale viscous air—

‘Marshal, Marshal!’ Gamhelm whispered urgently, hands clutched vice-like about her elbows. ‘You’ll wake the whole camp!’

Truva sucked in a desperate gasp, the cool night breeze jolting her into wakefulness. After several panicked moments of confusion, her breathing evened and her racing heart slowed. She patted Gamhelm’s hands thankfully and he released her, though even in the feeble light of the fire’s dying embers she could see his expression remained deeply concerned.

‘Thank you,’ she croaked by way of reassurance.

‘It’s your turn for watch,’ said Gamhelm warily. ‘Though perhaps I’d better rouse Gódring instead.’

‘No, some activity with purpose will do me good,’ Truva answered. ‘Get some rest.’

Gamhelm hesitated, but Truva shooed him away. With a final uncertain glance back over his shoulder, the captain sought out his pack and tucked in for the remainder of the night. Truva rose and made a wide circuit about camp, ultimately taking a position just below the lip of the rocky outcrop Gimli had so carefully selected.

Not a quarter hour had gone by before the gentle rustle of movement caused Truva to leap – senses heightened from her nightmare as they were – but in the very next instant she recognised the steady, sure pace. Aragorn’s figure emerged in the dark to wordlessly take a place beside her, and together they passed the remainder of morning watch in silence, each comforted by the mere presence of the other.

The second day passed perhaps even more unremarkably than the first. Hamlets petered out and disappeared, leaving the company to progress without event. Scouts returned throughout the day with nothing to report. Come evening, the Dwarves were eager to pitch camp just as swiftly as they had the previous night.

In contrast with the company’s untroubled atmosphere, however, Truva’s unease only increased. She knew not what tasks awaited her and the Marshal’s Riders at Aldburg, yet it was a definitive destination, and she longed to gain it; the dawdling pace of their current journey frustrated her. Determined to make her unruly agitation useful, Truva moved to take first watch as the others sat down to their evening meal, but Gamhelm caught her by the arm.

‘You took morning watch, and scarcely slept the night prior, Marshal,’ he said. ‘Let the lads keep us safe tonight.’

‘I shan’t sleep, as it is,’ Truva countered. ‘They can rest.’

‘Nay, Marshal, I’ve something that might be of aid to you,’ Gimli interrupted. Setting aside his waybread, he dug around in his rucksack and extricated a leather pouch.

‘I thank you, but I do not smoke,’ said Truva politely. This only caused the Dwarf to chuckle.

‘’Tis not pipe-weed, lass,’ he said, pulling spidery tendrils from the pouch. ‘Nothing save simple valerian root. Brew it strong enough and your sleep is sure to be dreamless.’

‘What if I am unable to wake, should some misfortune befall us in the night?’

‘Were it that effective, my rest would have been far better these past few months,’ he muttered, as if to himself.

Truva caught the hint of a frown through the thick mass of his beard. Startled, she observed the Dwarf carefully. She knew of her own struggles, and had spoken – albeit however briefly – of such things with Aragorn and a select few Eorlingas; yet Gimli had always appeared steadfast to her, unperturbed by the emotional upheaval of Man. What she saw before her now was a glimpse of the stalwart Dwarf was not as insouciant as he would have others believe.

Truva accepted the mug of tea with a word of thanks when it was offered her, and drank its bitter warmth down all at once – for the Eorlingas were notoriously unfond of herbal drinks. It did not immediately lull her into sleep, but when she settled into the grassy tussock of her makeshift bed, Truva’s heartbeat did not accelerate uncomfortably and her mind did not succumb to overwhelming thoughts. The quiet rustle of the company soothed her; she did not notice when it fell away, and when she awoke seemingly in the next moment, it was in actuality the following morning. As Gimli promised, she had been subject to no night terrors, and her body felt mildly refreshed as she stretched each limb in turn.

When Truva stood, a small object fell from her lap to the ground. Bending to pick it up, she discovered it was the pouch of dried valerian root, the leather embossed with incomprehensible Dwarvish runes and tied with a thin string.

‘Don’t go drinking it all at once, now,’ said Gimli, appearing behind her. ‘Make a single mug only when you need it most, otherwise it’ll come to be no more helpful than drinking hot water.’

‘I shall keep that in mind,’ said Truva, tucking the pouch into her rucksack. ‘Thank you.’

Gimli gave a short nod and noncommittal grunt before stomping off after Aragorn, who was already forging a path back towards Hérweg for the day’s travels, followed by a string of Dwarves and Riders.

The sun was still only four fingers above the horizon when a forward scout returned looking particularly pleased. ‘You’d best keep a sharp eye, Marshal,’ he said. ‘We’ll be at our destination before too long.’

Even as he spoke, the modest spires of Aldburg appeared from behind a rocky promontory, bleak and foreboding. What few dwellings remained along Hérweg all showed signs of abandonment. No residents came to greet the company as they had outside Edoras.

Intimately aware the peculiar composition of their company could be cause of concern – regardless of how widespread knowledge of the Glittering Caves’ new residents was – Truva raised the Horn of the House of Éofor and signalled their approach. From the gates came the answering call. The company pressed on.

Just as Aragorn had predicted, it was noontide before they drew even to the Burg. With a cursory wave to those they had escorted, Gamhelm and Gódring led the Eorlingas through the gates of Aldburg and into the bailey. Silent as ever, the Dwarves merely returned a nod before continuing on without so much as a pause. Aragorn and Gimli alone lingered to speak with Truva.

Gimli eyed the Burg’s dilapidated battlements and its ramshackle surroundings. ‘Perhaps my people ought to return here after we have completed construction at Minas Tirith,’ he remarked. ‘Aldburg is, after all, the secondary defence of Glǽmscrafu – following the White City.’

‘I am certain Éomer King would eagerly welcome any pretext by which he might strengthen relations between the Mark and her new neighbours,’ Truva replied. ‘I fear my Riders and I did not prove to be the best of company upon your journey.’

‘It was but two days,’ said Gimli. ‘There are yet ages in which the cantankerous Longbeards might be coaxed from their shell. In the meantime, I wish you the best of luck – for I believe you shall need it.’

‘And may you be met with equal fortunes, Gimli Lord of Glǽmscrafu,’ said Truva.

The use of this title seemed to please the Dwarf, for he marched off after his kinsman, smile visible even behind his beard.

Aragorn and Truva stood in his wake, neither moving closer to the other, intimately aware of several guards peering down from the wall. The two commanders’ eyes roamed from their grazing mounts to the Dwarves’ departing figures, from the bobbing heads of yarrow and chicory blossoms to their own hands gripping sword pommels – everywhere save upon each other, for neither wished to begin. To begin meant to part.

It was Aragorn who at last broke the silence, saying, ‘It is at such times, when I wish most desperately to speak upon the depths of my heart and mind, that my words fail me.’

Truva smiled ruefully. ‘Conversely, I have never been particularly adroit with regard to speech in any situation.’

Aragorn’s fingers twitched; a nearly imperceptible indication of the desire to reach out, to hold. Instead, he withdrew a neatly folded paper from the breast of his tunic. ‘As I cannot speak the words, perhaps you will read them instead.’ At last his gaze fixed upon Truva, boring into her with an intensity the Eorlingas’ honeyed eyes could never achieve.

Truva’s breath came sharp. ‘When did you have time to prepare such a thing?’ she asked, heart soaring.

‘Last night, as you lay asleep.’ Aragorn held out the letter, yet when Truva reached out to take it into her hands, he did not immediately release it. ‘It now falls to you to send the first letter upon our parting.’

Truva’s eyes flickered up to meet his squarely. ‘You have my promise,’ she whispered.

‘And you mine.’ Aragorn allowed the paper to slip through his fingers at last, though his hand hung in the air before falling to his side. He hesitated but a moment longer, then turned to follow Gimli and the others without a word; to speak of goodbyes was too definitive, too agonising.

Truva stood unmoving before the gates of Aldburg until the last vestiges of the Ranger disappeared into the land.