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Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Dernrid! I’ve duties to attend to,’ said Truva.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘That’s right,’ the Warden assured her.

‘And what of your patients? Still just the one?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Trap, yes it is,’ came the croaking voice of the figure.

Half a dozen other squat, round shapes emerged from the foliage, leaving no escape. Truva squinted in the impenetrable gloom; though her heart raced, the strange voice gave her pause. She lowered her weapon slightly.

‘Ghân-buri-Ghân?’

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

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

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

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

‘Yes, yes,’ said Dhûn-buri-Ghân. ‘We know.’

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

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

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

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

‘No, not that way,’ he chuckled.

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

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

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

‘Come,’ said Dhûn-buri-Ghân once more.

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

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

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

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

Dhûn-buri-Ghân motioned to Truva. ‘Come!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Will you not eat with me?’ asked Truva.

‘It is late. Ghân-buri-Ghân is not hungry.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Help us?’ asked Truva. ‘How?’

‘We give food, and seeds. Not much, but some.’

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

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

Truva’s brows furrowed. ‘What promise must I make?’

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

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

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

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

‘Think hard,’ said Ghân-buri-Ghân, the mischievous twinkle returning to his eye.

He motioned for Truva to follow as he exited the nest and descended its ladder. Curious Drúedain families watched their every move from afar, mothers and fathers holding tiny little ones aloft as all strained to catch a glimpse of the peculiar trespasser.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Even so—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I understand,’ Truva replied.

They passed the remainder of the distance in silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Éowyn!’ cried Truva. ‘What news?’

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

‘Is it good news or ill?’

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Barley,’ she said, her confusion only growing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Hál, Gríma,’ said Truva as he bowed deeply.

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

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

‘They do not judge unreasonably.’

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

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

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

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

‘Well met, Hámtu!’ Truva replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I have been away far too long, ’tis true.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Newly arrived from Aldburg,’ said Truva.

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

‘A messenger from Stoningland,’ said Éolend.

‘Maeron, at your service, milady,’ he said, bowing.

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

‘It is indeed,’ Truva interrupted. ‘Éowyn is with child!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Most certainly,’ said Mǽgwine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Good night,’ said Truva.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I suspect even the Béalu-síth would look inviting to you this morn, your highness,’ Truva said with a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And what of the eastern bank?’ asked Éomer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘A grand idea!’ Éomer King enthused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What a strange custom,’ remarked Gamhelm.

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

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

‘My Lord Faramir! Come quick!’

‘Whatever is the matter?’ he called in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

‘Milord, it is past time!’ cried the guard from without the King’s House, pounding insistently upon the doors of those grand chambers tucked behind the White Tower of Ecthelion. Aragorn glanced up from the papers scattered across his desk (many of them crumpled or bearing frustrated scribbles) and dropped his pen in exasperation – half at being interrupted, and half at his inexplicable inability to put his mind into word.

‘Yes, I understand. Thank you,’ he said in measured tone, careful to ensure his frustration did not seep to his speech. As the messenger’s footsteps disappeared back towards Tower Hall, Aragorn rose and shuffled the jumbled papers as one who mixes puzzle pieces about in a vain attempt to spot previously unseen patterns. He was quick to admit defeat, however, and with a sigh of resignation, he ducked out into the narrow stone byways of the Citadel.

Saturday had once again come far too swiftly. Facing Aragorn was the long, exhausting day in which Gondorians of any station, locked in conflict exceeding the negotiatory skills of both their local and sûza councils, could come and seek the guidance of their King. Though the hour was yet early, a great many petitioners were crowded beneath the black stone arches of Tower Hall when Aragorn entered in the wake of his advisors and door-wardens. A tremendous uproar broke out immediately, amplified by the marble interior – appreciative cheers and vocal grievances alike; for where fields are stripped bare by hardship, it is the weeds of discord that are most likely to sprout first.

Yet as Aragorn ascended the dais and stood before the throne, looking out onto the congregation, the Hall fell hushed; without command or gesture, the villagers and townsfolk yielded to complete silence. They bowed as one, respect for the resplendent figure towering at their forefront apparent in each and every motion. Aragorn took his place upon the throne as a guard stepped forward and declared:

‘Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye, all parties having anything to do before the honourable King Aragorn, now sitting in the Tower Hall within and for the Kingdom of Gondor draw near, give your attendance and you shall be heard!’

As the echoes of the guard’s cry died away, Aragorn inhaled a deep breath to compose himself before addressing the congregation at last.

‘Harrowing must your grievances be, to spare such time as takes to come to these Halls on a day that might otherwise be devoted to your own prosper,’ said he, voice reverberating within the stone walls of the Tower. Even those harbouring the deepest of resentments reconsidered the ills done unto them in that moment. ‘And thus address every one I shall – for a man’s unremedied injustice is a second injustice done upon him; and even in our disagreeances where no one party reigns true, compromise might yet be had. Speak your case to me, so that this Hall might be departed today in camaraderie rather than conflict.’

The guard once again stepped forward at these words. ‘Redhor and Nethor of Tumladen for your consideration, milord.’

Two men emerged from the crowd and knelt on silken pillows arrayed at the base of the dais stairs. ‘Milord,’ said the first. ‘I am but a humble farmer, and though my fields were blessedly spared the ravages of war by reason of being located in the secluded vales of Lossarnach, I know not whether last autumn’s yield is sufficient to supply the needs of our people. Every sennight, a new cart comes from the north, begging for anything that can be spared. Yet even in such desperate straits, my neighbour allows his herd to graze my land as though it were his own! Cows and goats all — they leave nothing behind!’

‘It has always been thus between us!’ cried the accused neighbour. ‘Ever do I supply you with milk and meat, and clear your fallow lands of their tangled weeds in exchange for access to your unused pastures. Just last Tuesday my wife brought to yours a pail of delicately churned butter, yet you would charge me with unfairly exploiting an agreement long held between us!’

‘Your herd ate near half my Bessy’s cabbages, and more of her parsnips! Such a mishap might be overlooked under ordinary circumstances, but it is unconscionable to treat our old agreement as though naught has changed, for things are not as they were when first we made it!’

Aragorn’s eyes fluttered closed as the farmer and herder continued to bicker loudly; each Saturday past had brought similar discord. Such simple conflict ought to have been settled by the lower councils, and yet limited resources had incurred limited patience of late, and those who were once friendly were now quick to quarrel – and bitterly.

Aragorn raised a hand for silence, and the two Lossarnach residents’ argument gradually abated.

‘Grim days are upon us, and we must all make sacrifices beyond those we are accustomed to making in the past,’ he said, turning first to the herder. ‘If there are no other lands upon which your livestock might graze, you shall pay doubly to your neighbour on all counts, and assist him in the sowing of his crops come spring.

‘As for you, Redhor, you cannot expect benefit without consideration; if you wish to continue receipt of Nethor’s gifts, make available to him your fallow fields, securing those areas which yet boast harvest. The rejuvenation of Gondor and its surrounding lands will require tremendous effort on all our parts, and necessitates extending a kindly hand in even the most trying of circumstances.’

‘This is the decision of the King!’ cried the guard, stepping forward once more to escort both herder and farmer from the Hall, still arguing.

The void they duo left was soon filled by a new group in conflict, and then another, and another. As a blacksmith defended against accusations of nonpayment for a charcoal delivery, Aragorn could not but allow his mind to wander the countless other issues pressing upon his mind: rumours streaming in from the southern Gondorian coast of Corsairs harassing townships there, or whisperings that the Haradrim perhaps gathered to mount an assault upon realms they deemed further weakened by a harsh winter.

He thought also of Lord Faramir, who protected Gondor’s eastern flank from any lingering threats that lurked in the shadows of Mordor. Yet the Steward was wholly consumed in caring for his bride of Rohan and the establishment of his realm in Ithilien – cleansing the Morgul Vale in the process – that his resources surely grew thin and could not be relied upon to hold.

What weighed most heavily upon Aragorn, however, was not political strife, nor militaristic manoeuvring, but that enigmatic letter.

Morning rays cast through the windows grew more defined, shadows shortening as the sun pulled towards its midday zenith. Still, the crowds did not thin. For each departing petitioner, three new crowded into the hallowed archways of Tower Hall in a seemingly endless stream of begrudging Gondorians. Aragorn did not take lunch, for he felt it was unseemly that he eat while others suffered, and thus the hearings continued late into the evening, long after torches had been ignited in their brackets to send flickering light skittering across the black marble floors.

It was in the wee hours of the night, when the guards stood sleeping upon their feet, that at long last the final petitioner (a fisherman who worked the waters of the Anduin, come to speak with his King about an unnatural poison sweeping through his local creek) took his leave, bowing low before shuffling out of the Hall. The wardens threw the doors closed. At the resounding clang, the guards bolted upright – as did the King’s advisors, who had been nodding drowsily in their seats. It was tradition that wardens alone served in shifts; neither guards nor advisors changed when hearings were in session.

‘Is that the last of them, my lord?’ asked one advisor by the name of Aphadir as he stretched with a yawn and rub of his bleary eyes.

‘It would seem so,’ replied Aragorn, rising stiffly from the throne and carefully flexing each muscle. He once more reminded himself to have the seat refurbished, for in its current state it caused his legs to go numb within the span of half a sneeze.

‘Let us retire, then,’ sighed another advisor, who was already halfway towards the exit.

Aragorn turned to the Captain of the Guard. ‘Your men have more than earned their rest,’ said he. ‘Hurry now, and send for their replacements.’

And so the Captain scurried from the Hall, nearly outpacing the second advisor.

Before Aragorn so much as descended from the dais, a new guard entered and exchanged places with the old. Those who had been relieved fell in behind their King, escorting him from Tower Hall in sharp formation. Rather than turning towards his chambers, however, Aragorn made as if to enter the lower levels of the city.

‘My lord,’ said Aphadir, close behind. ‘Are you not going to your repose?’

‘There are things yet to be done this night,’ he replied. ‘But they are my responsibility alone; I free you from all official obligation or duty.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Aphadir, unwilling to question the King’s determination when it so perfectly aligned with his own desires. He and the others bowed before departing along their separate paths: the advisors to their accommodations in the upper levels, and the guards to their quarters down below.

‘So many petitioners—’ their complaints drifted off into the night as their footsteps grew distant.

No sooner were they out of sight than Aragorn turned to his own destination, towards the rear of the sixth level, where the rock of Mindolluin encroached upon the city – for that was where the modest stables of Minas Tirith were located. He slid the sturdy wooden door aside and greeted the stable master with a nod before making his way to the endmost stall, from which gentle snorts greeted him.

‘How now, Shadowfax?’ he said, rubbing the beast’s velvety nose. ‘Why so restless?’

The regal Mearas gave another snort and made as if to nip Aragorn’s hand, though he merely played it as conversation. ‘Is that so? How have you come by such information, and I – the High King of the Reunited Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor – have not?’ He slipped his hand beneath the neck of Shadowfax’s blanket and rubbed the horse’s withers. ‘You say she misses me? Ah, that I had your confidence! Yes, I know, I know— the letter must be finished, and anon. But how am I to put into words that which cannot be expressed, save through look and touch and feel, and even then is insufficient to convey the true feelings of the heart?’

Shadowfax leaned into Aragorn’s rough scratches throughout the lengthy confession, then turned to gaze into the King’s eyes. Aragorn knew in that moment he was being reprimanded by one of the few creatures who saw beyond his composed façade.

‘Yes, yes, all right, I shall go and leave you to your peace,’ he said.

Shadowfax gave another snort.

‘And to write the letter, yes, of course. It is only that I cannot help but be reminded of her when I see you, as your homelands are one and the same, and it brings me some small sense of comfort.’

Aragorn adjusted Shadowfax’s blanket and exited the stable, returning back along deserted stone streets to the King’s House. It felt cold and empty as ever; no number of furs spread across the tile floor, no length of tapestries hung upon the wall could give warmth where none existed. High arches – a reflection of those in the Tower Hall – merely served to amplify the slightest of sounds as Aragorn crossed to his writing desk and sat before it once more.

It was indeed not for warmth that Aragorn had laid the furs, as he had endured freezing climates in the North, the likes of which Minas Tirith had rarely known. Nor was it for comfort he chose to forego the traditional Kings’ boots, which scuffed noisily wherever he went, and donned instead the soft, silent leather he had worn as a Ranger in Arnor. No, it was the haunting echoes of the Home’s high arches that reminded Aragorn he was, for the time, alone.

He sat with a sheet of parchment before him, pen dipped and dripping inky spots upon the beige desert of its surface, yet the jumble of thoughts in his mind would not organise itself into words he could put down upon the page. Aragorn found himself ensnared in memories more difficult to evade than the webs of Ungoliant, and was cast back to his initial meeting with Truva, upon the golden plains of Rohan.

How unremarkable she had seemed then, how very unlike the fair Rohirrim maidens! Yet her historical acuity had been apparent from the outset, and it took little time for Aragorn to learn her prowess in battle was likewise not to be underestimated. It had, however, taken him considerably longer to learn his initial perception of meekness was wholly mistaken; for Truva’s quiet nature belied a dragon slumbering beneath the surface. He could not shake the vision of her standing upon the Hidland scaffolding, rallying newly freed prizefighters about her—

He was awoken by yet more pounding upon the King’s House door. Sitting bolt upright, Aragorn glanced out the windows, only to find the night’s darkness cleared from the sky. Beyond coloured panes of glass rose up the city’s stoneworks, bordered by surrounding farmland and enclosed by the Rammas Echor. At the edge of vision to the east cut the Ephel Dúath, still dark from their days of Sauron’s occupation – though long ago had the gloomy mist dispersed from their sharp peaks. Between the Ephel Dúath and Minas Tirith lay the glimmering Anduin, snaking southward to its outlet in the sea of Belegaer from its source in the Grey and Misty Mountains, far beyond the Wood of Green Leaves.

Upon recalling the Wood of Green Leaves, Aragorn leapt to his feet. He cast about, the knocking at his door growing more insistent the longer he delayed.

‘My lord?’ called the voice of Aphadir. ‘Are you all right, my lord? You’ve a great many duties to attend to today – it would not do to delay much longer, my lord.’

‘Yes, yes, I am awake!’ cried Aragorn in response. ‘That is to say, I am all right!’

He raced to strip himself of the previous day’s raiment and don new clothes, wondering all the while how many more ‘my lords’ Alphadir could insert into his speech. It was not Aragorn’s manner to sleep overmuch, and so to find himself in such a situation left him feeling entirely disoriented and uncharacteristically short.

‘I am fine!’ he repeated when he at last opened the door and came face to face with his terribly concerned advisor. ‘As you have said, there are a great many tasks to be done; let us begin promptly.’

‘My lord—’ said Aphadir, pointing hesitantly at the King’s face.

‘Whatever is the matter, Aphadir?’

‘Did you fall asleep at your desk again, milord? You’ve what appears to be ink spilled all across your cheek,’ the advisor explained.

‘Is that so?’ Aragorn asked, wiping the offending cheek with his hand.

‘Oh dear, now you seem to have gone and made it worse – your hands are covered as well, my lord,’ Aphadir fretted. Aragorn held up his right hand, the forefingers and palm of which were stained an inky black.

‘A brief moment, if you will, Aphadir,’ he said, ducking back into the King’s House to scrub his face and hands in the freezing water of a washbasin. He gave a cursory glance in the polished mirror to confirm he was presentable before emerging from his chambers once more. Aphadir still stood shivering in the street just beyond.

‘To the gardens first, is that not correct?’ Aragorn confirmed as he strode off in the direction of their first appointment.

‘What of breakfast, my lord?’ said Aphadir.

Aragorn halted quite abruptly; in truth, all thought of breakfast had entirely escaped his mind. ‘Have you eaten, Aphadir?’ he asked in counter.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Very well, that’s settled then. Let us proceed straight away, as I am not hungry.’

‘But my lord—!’ said Aphadir, yet the King was already some distance down the street. Aphadir rushed to keep pace.

The morning air bore a terrible chill. Aragorn wrapped his arms tight about his chest, wishing he had paused to don his cloak. Despite clear morning sunlight streaming down, a glance westward over the White Mountains showed thick, hazy clouds threatening snow; a smattering of flakes fell even as Aragorn came upon the Houses of Healing and turned into their gardens. In the very midst of the wintry scene stood Legolas.

‘My friend!’ Aragorn exclaimed, leaping forward to greet the Elf with an affectionate embrace. ‘When was it that you came amongst us?’

‘Yesterday noon,’ said Legolas, ‘though I was informed the council of arbitration had already begun, and thus delayed my salutations. It was said this week’s number of petitioners exceeded all other counts since your ascension.’

‘By nearly a score,’ Aragorn sighed. ‘The harshest days of winter are not when the weather is most foul, but when the promise of spring is imminent yet still intangible. But how fared you on your journey?’

‘Exceedingly well!’ Legolas enthused. ‘For even in winter are the beds of Lossarnach bountiful with the blessings of Ivon. And I have discovered there are gardeners in South Gondor who harbour a fondness for all that is green which near rivals that of my brethren, and whose knowledge might even be said to surpass our own in some ways.’

‘And you return so learned, to bestow unto our humble city the beauty of the natural world?’

‘Not only knowledge, but many plants have I returned with.’ Legolas led Aragorn deeper into the garden. ‘Daphne and quince, clematis and honeysuckle shall grace the austere streets of Minas Tirith, and many fruit trees of the far south will find their home in Osgiliath. But let us begin with this garden here, for given its proximity to Houses of Healing, it must necessarily feature most prominently those plants that boast medicinal properties: hyssop and feverfew, lungwort and burdock—’

‘If I might, my lord,’ interrupted Aphadir, for he had grown weary of standing about like a second spoon at the supper table and spoke at last. ‘But as I’ve no head for herbs, and an ever-increasing list of duties that must be seen to, might I be excused—?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Aragorn, motioning for his advisor to take his leave freely. ‘You are a busy man, indeed, and I am sorry to have kept you for so long.’

‘I am very grateful, my lord, as there is so much to do, you see, and many people to meet, and so on and so forth…’ he said, bowing to the King and wandered off, muttering all the while to himself about all the tasks mounting upon his shoulders.

‘“No head for herbs”!’ scoffed Legolas. ‘Any man can learn, if he be willing. Now where was I?’

Soon regaining his train of thought, the Elf spoke in extensive detail as he escorted Aragorn about the garden, expounding upon his plans for the coming spring: a flower garden for marigolds and milk thistle, and the treacherous corner that would become home to hawthorn, foxglove, and nettle. He spoke of the white willows they would plant, and of bay laurels that could be grown within the Houses themselves. They came at last to a vast bed, raised slightly from the main lawn and enclosed with etched stone tiles.

With an elegant gesture, Legolas indicated the exposed dirt, which lay frozen as white drifts of snow began to accumulate. ‘Soon, this is to be your crowning glory.’

‘Athelas?’ Aragorn surmised with a wry smile. He could already imagine the salty scent of the sea wafting up when the plant leafed in spring, though he thought now also of steaming horses after a hard ride.

‘It is only natural,’ said Legolas, returning his smile.

‘May it provide for many generations to come.’

But while his own remark inspired hope within, Aragorn strove to push from his mind the letter and its intended recipient – and the uncertain future that lay between them – as he and Legolas exited the gardens of the Houses of Healing. Along the ascent to the Citadel, Legolas explained his further designs for Minas Tirith:

‘We ought to begin with the Place of the Fountain,’ he said, ‘for though it is a powerful symbol of Gondor and its renewed leadership, it is currently stark and uninviting. I do not think hedges of laurel would be amiss – but it would not do to detract from the new White Tree sapling, which endeavours to throw up its milky branches to the falling snow even now.’

‘You do not find me in disagreement,’ Aragorn acknowledged before the duo descended to the lower tiers of the city. Legolas swept his arms along each street and eave, speaking of his desire to swathe residential areas in the most fragrant of herbs and flowers, and encourage wisteria to spread its enchanting tendrils along shop fronts and mingle with the scent of lilac. The market district would become home to great trees whose foliage would spread so wide they would provide a refreshing haven in summer months.

‘This city of stone shall be transformed into one even Elves lingering in distant realms will flock to, so that they might observe its wonders with their own eyes.’

‘I trust you to make it so,’ said Aragorn. ‘But come now, let us descend further to greet our old friend – though I suspect you have already done so.’

‘I did not so much as pause to lay aside my burdens of the road before I woke that lethargic boulder from his rest,’ laughed the Elf.

As the pair wended their way through the bottommost streets of Minas Tirith, heavy clouds gathered to obscure the sky. Only a feeble glow could be discerned of the sun at its zenith; yet even that light grew dim as snow began to fall more thickly, inching across the city and toward the Fields of the Pelennor.

No sooner had Aragorn and Legolas exited the main gates than they came upon swarms of Dwarves heaving their weight against an array of massive black stones. A gruff voice called out in greeting at once.

‘The King himself has come for a tour, has he?’ Gimli emerged from the crowds of his brethren with a broad smile upon his face.

‘To be learnt in the ways of stonemasonry from the masters themselves,’ said Aragorn.

‘Well met, my lord!’ said Gimli. ‘As you see, our newest shipment of stone has just arrived – this time having been sourced at the head of Ceols, brought up from the south upon the Great Anduin, and unloaded in Osgiliath.’

Aragorn nodded, listening intently while observing two groups of Dwarves standing to each side of one tall boulder. As they heaved in turns upon ropes tied round the rock’s top, it wobbled forward, almost as though it were walking. Even in the overcast light, its crumpled, sable surface gleamed entrancingly, like a starless night.

‘It is our intent to reinforce Minas Tirith’s walls first and foremost,’ Gimli continued. ‘Deep within the forges of Erebor shall a prodigious gate of mithril and iron be crafted – so great in its construction that it cannot ever be sundered by the hand of man, yet will be open always to the many friends of Gondor.’

‘Words cannot express how deep my gratitude runs, my friend,’ said Aragorn.

‘We shall repave your streets with the purest of white marble also, and rebuild your towers to greater heights and more magnificent beauty!’ cried Gimli, then with a glance to Legolas, added, ‘Now what does the Elf of Eryn Lasgalen have to say to that? For I daresay his gifts are not so grand! Such is the generosity of the Glittering Caves, and the Lonely Mountain.’

‘I daresay the strength of stone and gentleness of nature shall balance each other quite harmoniously,’ said Legolas.

‘Indeed, it is for the benefit of all the north that we resurrect Minas Tirith,’ said Aragorn. ‘The city shall serve as a haven for those who would seek sanctuary, and a bulwark against those who wish to incite chaos in an attempt to disrupt our hard-earned tranquillity. Come, let us lend a hand to your efforts, Master Gimli, so that they might be completed all the sooner!’

And with that, the three set to work, heaving stone amidst the clang of iron upon rock as the Dwarves enacted their miraculous skills. The company laboured throughout the afternoon, the passage of time marked by drops of sweat rolling from their foreheads to drip from noses and chins and mingle with fluttering snowflakes.

As evening drew nearer, the flurries came heavier, and deep banks began to accumulate. After a time, the snow grew too troublesome even for the stubborn, industrious Dwarves (on some of whom the deeper drifts came up as high as their waists). Determining their work concluded for the day, Gimli ordered the great boulders organised as best they might be, and tools stored in the guardhouses before the company began their long ascent to the upper tiers. But even as Gimli followed his brethren to their lodging and Legolas turned once more to the Houses of Healing, Aragorn noticed a frantic Aphadir emerging from the Tower of Ecthelion.

The advisor scurried across the courtyard until he drew near. ‘Milord!’ he gasped, breathless.

‘What is it, Aphadir?’ asked Aragorn.

‘A courier from Pelargir has arrived bearing news from Belfalas, my lord,’ said he. ‘The fiefdom of Lebennin has once more found itself confronted by Corsairs, though our forces stationed there were able to stave off the attack. My lord, we shall be beyond fortunate if the additional grain shipments arrive by spring. As it is, we are scarcely subsisting on imports from the south; if anything were to disturb the supply further, our people will suffer terribly.’

‘Perhaps I ought to send a detachment south after all,’ Aragorn mused before addressing Aphadir again. ‘I shall summon a council tomorrow morn to discuss the matter; send word to all advisors and captains.’

‘Very well, my lord. Shall I send an errand-rider to Lord Faramir in Ithilien?’

‘No, I am certain he is preoccupied with… other matters,’ said Aragorn. ‘Should the conclusion of our considerations tomorrow require action on the Steward’s part, let us disturb him only then.’

‘As you wish, my lord,’ said Aphadir before bowing and rushing off to complete another of his countless tasks.

With weary steps, Aragorn returned to the King’s House. His doublet and hose – soaked in cooled sweat and freezing snow – seized his body in shivers. It was a relief he had not worn his cloak, after all, for it would have been but one more sopping layer to his heavy ensemble.

The instant the doors closed behind him, Aragorn stripped bare and crossed to the fire, thoughtfully set in the hearth by Aphadir during his absence. Wrapping himself in a dry blanket, Aragorn sat gratefully beside the leaping flames, lost in thought for a time. When some warmth had seeped back into his bones, he donned an opulent robe (insisted upon by Aphadir) and sat once more before his desk. Crumpled papers still littered the elegant surface, obscuring a patchwork of stained glass which depicted the great Anduin winding its way from the sapphire Bay of Belfalas up through the emerald lands of Gondor – splotched by the ink he had spilled in his slumber the previous night.

Aragorn set the inkwell upright, then wet a rag in the basin to clean the glass tapestry. As he worked, his mind was absorbed in contemplation of the north and what tasks he had yet to accomplish in Arnor, for it would take immense effort and a great deal of time to rightly unify the two kingdoms into one. But in spite of his concern, some levity was wrought in Aragorn’s heart when he thought of the land that lay between Gondor and Arnor – levity which was all too soon shattered, for still he could not bring himself to put pen to paper.

He sat miserably in his chair, staring at the parchment whose very blankness seemed to taunt him; for though Aragorn was a quiet man, he was not an ineloquent one, and it frustrated him beyond all measure that the very topic upon which he wished to wax poetic was that which continued to render him speechless.

It would not do to regale Truva with the tedious details of daily governance, as he was certain she had her own concerns as Marshal of the East-mark to occupy her; nor did he wish to bore her with additional questions regarding circumstances in those lands, so many had she already answered. She seemed far too proud for vain pontifications on her finer aspects – and yet even if it were not so, Aragorn was convinced there were no words in Westron or Eorling, or even in the tongues of Elvish that were sufficient to convey them.

He was determined to make an attempt anyway:

Dearest Truva,

He immediately scribbled out the elementary greeting, then began again directly below. Yes, a draft would have to come first:

Truva, mighty Arien to my reckless Tilion, golden sun for which the silvery moon longed…

…What fate is it that, upon the moment of our union, we are sundered once more; would that we…

What of Roheryn? Does he take well to the climate of the Mark?

Each was struck as soon as it was written. Resigned to defeat, Aragorn crumpled the paper and cast it into the fire. He sat brooding for a time, eyes lingering upon the flickering flames. With practised movements, he lit his pipe, though he became so lost in thought that he unwittingly let it go out.

Quite suddenly he sat up, a spark of inspiration having taken ahold of him. Yet no sooner had he taken pen once more in hand, determined to make a second endeavour, than a rap sounded at his chamber doors.

‘My lord, another errand-rider has come from Ithilien!’ called the voice of Aphadir. ‘He wishes to come before you now; he says he conveys a message of the most pressing urgency.’

‘Very well, let him in,’ said Aragorn, standing and wrapping his robe more tightly about himself. Aphadir shoved the doors inward and allowed the errand-rider to sweep into the King’s chambers. The White Company guard bowed low, yet before he could so much as speak, Aragorn deduced his purpose in coming.

‘Is it time?’

‘Yes, milord!’ cried the messenger.

‘You come hard upon the heels of your brethren who bore the initial news, but I suppose a child arrives precisely when he means to, and not a moment sooner or later,’ said Aragorn, turning then to Aphadir. ‘Ready my horse and prepare an escort. We ride for Ithilien at once!’

‘Now, sir?’ asked Aphadir, eyeing the darkened skies with concern.

‘This very night. But first, see that this man receives a meal and repose; he may rest here in the meantime, or join us on our journey if he so wishes.’

‘Very well, my lord,’ said Aphadir, escorting the errand-rider out of the King’s House and in the direction of the Citadel mess hall. Aragorn immediately set about preparing a small pack, for as enthusiastic as he was for Faramir and Éowyn’s good fortune, it was something else that drove his haste: the knowledge conveyed by Captain Maeron that Éomer of Rohan made already for Ithilien – and that a certain Marshal rode in the Eorlingas King’s Company.

Chapter Text

Faramir and Éomer could do little more than pace, their turnshoes deepening tracks in the snow as Éowyn – along with the most respected healer in all north Gondor, as well as numerous lady’s maids – lay sequestered beyond the door of her sleeping chambers. The most disturbing sounds emanated from within, sending shivers (due in no way to the weather’s chill) down the spines of any within hearing.

The entire ordeal seemed to extend into eternity. The King’s Riders had raced to return from their watchtower excursion the previous afternoon, only to learn a paltry half-dozen Orcs had swiftly been dispatched by the Gondorian guards, and very little progress had been made since. Truva and the others had dined on a simple supper that evening before retiring to spend the night in fitful tossing and turning, reemerging the following morning to choke down dry toast and anxious thoughts.

Eager to make use of themselves, several Eorlingas accompanied their Gondorian counterparts upon watch or scouting tours throughout the lands of Ithilien. Éomer, however, could not be torn from his sister’s proximity, nor could he be placated with rest or food; he paced unceasingly before Lady Éowyn’s door, pausing only when a particularly unsettling cry rent forth.

Unwilling to abandon her commander, Truva had remained at Éomer’s side; yet after his seven hundredth lap, she could bear it no longer. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘I must go for a walk and distract myself from this excruciating tension. I will not go so far; give a blast upon your horn if there is any change in Lady Éowyn’s situation.’

‘Very well,’ said the King distractedly. ‘I do not begrudge you your desires; would that I myself might escape this torment – though well I know it is impossible until both my sister and the babe are safe.’

‘It shall be so,’ said Truva, laying a reassuring hand upon Éomer’s arm before bowing and turning from the cabin.

She went first to her own lodging: a small tent – nothing more than the promise of respite from the elements – though the canvas was well-oiled to keep the damp out and the heat in. Plucking her winter cloak from where it lay neatly folded on top of her pack, she layered the heavy grey wool over her shoulders and emerged once more into the overcast midday. The skies had cleared briefly in the night, chilling the air yet further, but come morning the clouds had returned to dust the scene with an additional layer of snow.

Truva walked amongst the immense pines, listening to their soughing as cheery waxwings and redpoll finches flitted from branch to branch. A magical tranquillity hung upon each bough and bole, enshrouding Truva in a rare moment of peace and giving space for her spirit to breathe. As she wandered further, the trees thinned slightly and so flurries fell thicker to the ground, creating a blank canvas upon which she might write her thoughts.

When Truva was a considerable distance from camp, however, her attention was snared by a dark figure darting between the white trunks of an aspen copse just behind her. The shadow was far too large to be a bird, too stealthy to be any of the larger wild animals; perhaps a guard of Prince Faramir’s White Company, about his patrol?

When Truva increased her pace, however, the figure did as well; when she slowed again, so too did it. There was no purpose for any Gondorian soldier to mirror her speed – nor avoid approaching her outright.

Truva’s heart began to race. She feigned not to notice the shadow, continuing away from camp as not to risk leading the threat towards Éowyn and the others, and surreptitiously drew her dagger as she did so.

Veering her path ever so slightly in the direction of the dark form, Truva drew nearer. She kept it in the corner of her eye, not daring to look directly – then suddenly it was gone from sight. She took immediate cover behind the nearest aspen, frantically scanning the winter landscape for a splash of misplaced darkness, but there was nothing to be seen.

Truva swallowed her breath, listening, listening to the quietude.

Several tense moments elapsed before she heard the crunch of snow behind her. Whirling about, she leapt to strike at the figure with her dagger, driving the blade towards the joint between neck and shoulder. But then she abruptly pulled back her arm.

‘Aragorn?’ she said breathlessly, not willing to believe her eyes.

‘Truva!’ he exclaimed in equal surprise, his own blade raised. ‘You are not an Easterling!’

But already Truva’s shock was abating, and the panicked racing of her heart was replaced with that of seeing Aragorn before her at last. ‘You thought me to be the enemy?’ she accused, half in jest. ‘Have you so swiftly forgotten me?’

‘One figure looks very much like another when swathed in a winter cloak,’ said he. ‘And it would not have been the first time I drove off a wayward band of adversaries from these very woods; countless times has the warning horn sounded during my visits to Lord Faramir this past winter.’

‘’Tis true,’ Truva conceded. ‘Just last afternoon, we encountered a company of Orcs just on the southern boundary of Emyn Arnen.’

‘Éomer informed me as much when I spoke with him upon my arrival,’ said Aragorn. ‘Those forces that linger in the East grow bold – or perhaps desperate. I am thankful – albeit unsurprised – you emerged unscathed.’ He took her hand in his then, murmuring, ‘But I chafe at your accusation that I could possibly forget you. How can I forget that which I think upon every waking moment?’

Truva’s heart constricted, overwhelmed by her affection for the august King, but then thoughts of his unforthcoming letters flooded back into her mind. She withdrew her hand and folded her arms across her chest.

‘Then why did you not write?’ she demanded.

Aragorn’s eyes fluttered closed, as though he had anticipated her words. ‘I did,’ he whispered, drawing a step nearer. The warm huff of his breath billowed in the chill air. ‘I did – perhaps a thousand’s thousand times, yet each attempt was successively more odious and inane. It would have shamed me to know you read such banal words and thought they were what you inspired in my mind; no – it was far better not to send anything at all, I think.’

Aragorn caressed her arms, brushed the lock of pure white upon her forehead back against the strands of black. Finally, with a quick glance around to ensure they were unobserved, Truva relented, allowing herself to be drawn into his embrace. They stood in each other’s arms for a blissful moment of respite, ignorant of time’s passage, and all that remained unspoken between them was understood.

After a spell, when her heart was eased somewhat, Truva withdrew. ‘How is it that you came to be here, in Ithilien?’ she asked, no longer able to fend off her practical streak.

Weaving her arm in his, Aragorn set out in the direction of camp. ‘Some weeks ago, an errand-rider from Ithilien came into the Citadel, informing me of Lady Éowyn’s condition,’ he said. ‘I sent Maeron to convey the news to Éomer; yet scarcely had the Captain returned when a second messenger came, insisting the infant’s arrival was imminent. And so I made with all haste across the river, only to find a pacing, agitated husband and brother, and a healer declaring it would be some time before any developments could be expected.’

‘Make haste and wait,’ Truva quipped.

‘As it is with matters militaristic, so is it with matters domestic,’ said Aragorn with a roguish smile, pulling Truva closer. ‘In asking after the whereabouts of the other Riders, Éomer told me they had gone about their separate duties; then, without prompting, he added that his Marshal had not long ago departed on a stroll about the woods.’

Truva frowned gently. ‘I fear Éomer King might be far more discerning than he appears.’

‘Perhaps; or perhaps he was merely concerned for your safety following the Orcs’ attack,’ said Aragorn. He stopped suddenly and turned to face Truva. ‘Yet loth as I am to dictate your personal affairs, we would not have to concern ourselves with Éomer’s discernment, were we to discover the issue which gave Gandalf pause, and the source of his reason to caution us against pledging our troth in haste.’

‘Spring is soon to come,’ said Truva, glancing away from Aragorn’s intense scrutiny, ‘at which time a great many issues will be settled in the East-mark. Until then, I must see to it that my people thrive; their needs shall always take precedence over mine.’

‘I cannot fault you for such, as it is a choice I have likewise made,’ he sighed.

They walked on in silence then, arms intertwined, until they gained the outer reaches of camp. Once more in the presence of others, they extricated themselves and resumed the façade of mere regal King and loyal Marshal.

In conferring with a guard, the pair learned there was no change in Lady Éowyn’s situation, and so they joined those taking lunch in the makeshift hall. It was a simple affair: bread and butter with honey thick from the cold, and a scant selection of cheeses – yet the prospect was more than sufficient to set Truva’s stomach writhing in hunger. She took a place at the Gondorians’ modest table, daring herself not to glance at Aragorn, who sat at its head as a matter of course and state.

In truth, Truva feared far more for Aragorn than for her own self. Maintaining their deception was the only means by which they might preserve their established roles without fuss, should the Wizard’s perplexing hints and suggestions result in some calamitous situation, and their union become impossible. It would not do to have the High King of the Reunited Kingdom snubbed (by all appearances) at the hand of some common soldier from an allying nation.

No, Truva thought it best to keep their distance until the mystery was unravelled.

She had her duty to the Mark to consider, as well; and yet, and yet… she found her vision drifting towards the head table against her will. Hastily asking one Rider to pass a jug of milk, she attempted to mask her peculiar behaviour, but still she could not prevent her eyes from flicking upwards. She flushed and quickly ducked her head to find Aragorn’s gaze upon her.

In that very moment, shouts came from beyond the hall. As one, the company leapt to its feet in a frenzied dash to Lady Éowyn’s rooms, where they stood with ears pressed to the cabin walls. Éowyn’s cries rang out more piercing than ever. Truva shied away in sympathy, yet Aragorn moved without hesitation to the side of Lord Faramir, who had ceased his pacing and stood more still than the Púkel-men of Dunharrow.

The gathering waited with baited breath. Each minute lagged more vexatiously than the last. Then, at terrible long last, the screams of a newborn babe could be heard within. With no regard for propriety, both Faramir and Éomer burst into the cabin as the others waited outside, shuffling awkwardly in the snow. Before long, Faramir emerged with the child in arm, swaddled tight against the cold.

‘I present to you Elboron, son of the Houses of Húrin and Eorl, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor!’ he cried. From the onlookers came a rousing cheer in response; they knew there would be no sleep that night.

‘Come, let the happy family to their rest, and we to our jubilations!’ said Aragorn.

As Faramir and the babe returned to Éowyn’s side, Aragorn extricated Éomer from the cabin and led the congregation in its return to the hall, for celebrations on a grand magnitude were in order. Musical instruments were procured as if from thin air, ale was doled out with liberal abandon, and what few provisions remained in stores were laid out to mark the birth of Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn’s heir.

Afternoon turned to evening, evening to night, and as the skies outside grew deeper in their darkness, the main hall grew increasingly boisterous. Each Man took his turn to show his musical worth – all save Truva, whose incompetence in that matter was well known to all. Even Aragorn graced the congregation with a solemn ballad in an Elven tongue, drawing a surreptitious tear from the eye of more than one. A sombre mood momentarily overtook the gathering, though it was soon uplifted by Gamhelm, who struck up a ditty concerning the cutty wren.

Tankard followed tankard, and encore followed encore. So enraptured was the gathering, and so unrestrained their libations, that few noticed when a man garbed in the livery of Minas Tirith slipped through the doors and made straight for the head table. Having partaken significantly less than the others, Truva observed with curiosity as the errand-rider bent his head to Aragorn’s ear. But in a moment he was gone, bowing to Aragorn and departing the hall just as swiftly as he had come.

Aragorn turned at once to whisper to Éomer, whose eyes widened. There was a subtle hastening of breath, an instinctive reach for sword hilts. Truva’s heart raced in alarm; another Orc attack, perhaps?

Aragorn stood and brought his fingers to his lips, issuing a sharp whistle that brought the revelry to an instant standstill.

‘Our strongholds in Lebennin have fallen,’ he said. ‘Corsairs now sail upon Pelargir.’

The shock of his words left the entire company speechless, the hush about them palpable.

‘Go now to your lodging,’ Aragorn continued. ‘Do what you might to sober yourselves. Then prepare to depart – all those whom Lord Faramir can spare shall sail tomorrow at dawn.’

At once, the hall emptied as both Gondorians and Eorlingas filed out to their various quarters in a flood of panicked conversations and hasty partings. The two Kings followed in their wake, Éomer beckoning to Truva as he passed. ‘There is to be a meeting in Lady Éowyn’s chambers,’ he explained.

Together, the company proceeded to the site of so much commotion earlier that day, joined by the Captains Gamhelm and Beregond. Upon entering the cabin, Truva’s eyes were drawn at once to Éowyn and the wee babe in her arms, both appearing exhausted yet content. Lord Faramir – unwilling to be parted from his wife and son for even the briefest counsel – sat beside her. Éomer quietly appraised him of the situation as the others gathered around, exchanging tense glances for a brief time until Aragorn spoke:

‘If the winds are in the Corsairs’ favour, we shall be too late,’ he said, worry heavy upon his brow. ‘Yet if these storms from the north hold, we might yet outpace them. Already a regiment marches from Minas Tirith; they shall set sail from Osgiliath and meet us upon the banks of the Anduin come morning. Word has been sent to Harlond, also, and we can expect reinforcements there.

‘If we are fortunate, we shall reach Pelargir with sufficient time to mount a defence; if we are not fortunate— well, let us hope that we are fortunate.’

‘Shall I send word to Edoras to gather my Riders?’ said Éomer. ‘Though the distance is great, our warriors might provide relief should our defences ultimately prove… unfavoured, as it were.’

‘Send word, but let the Muster array itself within your own borders. Rohan will need its own defence should we fail and our remaining troops become overwhelmed,’ said Aragorn. ‘Yet with regard to those Riders already amongst us, would it be presumptuous to hope you might accompany us south to Pelargir? Few in number though you are, your strength is incalculable, and the port’s cavalry is severely lacking.’

‘I apologise, my lord,’ said the Eorlingas King with a wry smile. ‘I assumed you knew us to be at your disposal.’

‘To know that it is you I draw my sword alongside once more brings me great reassurance.’ Aragorn gave a nod of gratitude. ‘There shall be room enough aboard our ships for your mounts to travel with us; I would not ask you to ride such a distance, then expect you to fight at the end of it.’

‘Nor would it do to leave the horses behind,’ said Gamhelm.

‘You may count my men amongst yours, as well, milord,’ said Lord Faramir. ‘Though it would be unwise to leave Emyn Arnen wholly undefended.’

‘Not only must the lands of Ithilien be protected, but also your wife and newborn child,’ said Aragorn. ‘I insist that you yourself stay.’

‘I will not argue your sagacity this day as I once might have,’ said Faramir, laying a hand upon the now gently slumbering figure of Éowyn, his lips pressed in a grim line.

‘We shall take only those of the White Company who can safely be spared; I leave that division to you, my lord Faramir,’ said Aragorn. ‘There is little else we can be certain of until our arrival, when we better know the enemy’s position and the status of our forces in Pelargir. And so let us adjourn for the night, each man to his rest, and reconvene in the morning.’

‘Very well, my lord,’ said Faramir, beckoning Captain Beregond forward to discuss the movements of the White Company as the others rose and filed from Éowyn’s chambers. With one final look of concern towards her cabin door, Éomer disappeared into his neighbouring accommodations, and so Truva found herself alone with Aragorn. Her heart – already leaping from the ominous circumstances – added a dash of happiness to the fear.

‘Where are your lodgings, my lord?’ she asked, a model of innocence for any who might yet be lurking.

An endearing frown passed across Aragorn’s face. ‘Do you refuse to call me by my name, even now?’

‘It is but a force of habit,’ Truva said with a shrug. ‘One of self-preservation; though I do believe I forwent your title earlier this morn.’

‘So you did,’ he said. His gaze then dropped to the ground, and Truva took the opportunity to study him intently for a time. Torchlight exaggerating the lines upon his face – lines wrought by the passage of years, and all the worries contained within them.

‘Where are your lodgings, Aragorn?’ she murmured.

He fixed his eyes once more upon her, a glimmer appearing in them. ‘Might I not escort you to yours before I retire?’ he asked.

Truva hesitated but a moment further, then threaded her arm through his in a remarkable gesture of initiative. They walked together, enjoying the quietude that had settled over the camp in the wake of the day’s tumultuous events. Snow had ceased to fall sometime around midafternoon, yet a thick layer still carpeted the scene, lending its weight to the stillness. When they came before her tent, Aragorn drew up short, breathing in the tranquillity.

‘How foolish was I to hope our troubles would conclude with the War,’ he sighed at last, the thumb of one hand caressing Truva’s knuckles. His eyes gazed off unseeing into the night. ‘Dark as those days were, it was easy to attribute my despondency to some sense of inescapable and inauspicious fate. I knew then that I loved you, yet had little hope that either of us would survive, let alone emerge together with shared sentiments.

‘To learn that you loved me in return – only to be sundered from you once more – was a new and unfamiliar torture to me; yet it was not one without hope. Now we find ourselves upon the brink of new dangers, and I cannot help but wonder when fortune shall ever see fit to favour us – or if it never will.’

Truva stood before of Aragorn then, drawing him into her embrace. ‘Do not be so disheartened,’ said she. ‘It is in the nature of Man to hope. Evil can never be truly vanquished, for even in its seeming absence does it bide its time in the darkest corners of the darkest minds. But nor can it wholly consume, so long as some yet dare to hope.’

‘Do you dare to hope, Truva?’ Aragorn murmured, looking for affirmation in her eyes, for a tether by which he might bind himself to an unmoving anchor, as to not drift away.

‘I do,’ she whispered.

As she spoke, Aragorn drew his lips slowly towards hers; and for the briefest of moments, the surrounding forest of Ithilien, the encroaching Corsairs, the empty fields of the Mark – all of Middle-earth faded away. Truva and Aragorn clung to each other, all too aware that the trials they faced would keep them separated until they knew not when.

At long last, Aragorn stepped away and held open the flap of her tent. ‘Rest,’ he said.

Truva pressed one last lingering kiss to his cheek before ducking inside. The tent flap fell into place behind her, yet it was several moments before she heard Aragorn’s footsteps crunching away in the snow.

In his absence, the silence was suddenly oppressive. Months of consternation brought on by governmental duties had worn Truva down, and to be thrust in the blink of an eye back into conflict only exacerbated her unease. She slept no more than a few restless hours that night; the sky was still dark when she surrendered to wakefulness, and packed her rucksack by feel before setting out in the early dawn.

There were several others already in the main hall when she arrived. They all sat about the tables, unspeaking; some attempted to down a stale slice of bread or two, but none were in the mood for a hearty breakfast or chatter. They merely waited for the storm to break.

The King’s Riders in their entirety, save Éomer himself, and some two score Gondorians – nearly half the White Company – had gathered before Captain Beregond appeared in the hall.

‘It is time,’ was all he said.

One by one, the warriors rose in silence, filing out into the purple dawn. Beregond led the Eorlingas to the makeshift Emyn Arnen stables, where they greeted their mounts. Truva spotted Roheryn at once, his shaggy fur easily distinguishable from the silky coats of the Mearas.

‘Have you had a fine rest?’ she asked, running her hand along his neck. Roheryn gave a pleased snort at the promise of activity. Truva tacked up quickly and rode out at the forefront of the others – for the absence of Firefoot indicated Éomer King had already set out for the riverbank.

The Eorlingas soon came upon the Gondorian soldier, who marched on foot, and followed their lead through a forest made pathless by snow. The morning air was chill and crisp; Truva shivered and pulled her cloak tighter about her, bowing her head against the light wind. Each exhalation crystalised into opaque clouds – a welcome distraction from the future that lay before her, or the fate of those she left behind.

The sun had just begun to emerge from behind the screen of the Ephel Dúath when they came at last upon Langflood. In the watery morning rays stood Aragorn, joined both by Éomer King and Lord Faramir upon a slight rise in the land. Truva’s heart tightened to see Aragorn’s noble stature pronounced above all others, to see the way in which the morning light graced his brow. How long had it been since a similar light had fallen upon his gleaming helm as he leapt atop the battlements of Hornburg to speak parley with the Orcs of Isengard?

The air about Éomer had likewise shifted – no longer was he the elated mother-brother of a newborn babe, but the grim-faced commander once more. He ceased his quiet conversation with Lord Faramir when the meagre troops arrived. The commanders’ expressions made it apparent the topic they had been discussing was not a hopeful one; yet neither Truva nor any other inquired as to what it might have been, for each was aware of the circumstances they faced. Dwelling upon such ills would not alter their fate.

A brooding mood fell over the assembly as the sun rose higher in the sky, though the sphere had not quite cleared the mountains before Éomer gave a low exclamation. North upon the Langflood came a single dromund, sixty oars a side dipping and waved along the river’s glimmering currents, the ship’s black hull and triangular sails quite clearly bespeaking its origin. Truva gave a grim smile at the irony of sailing against the Corsairs in their own ships, captured by Aragorn himself in Pelargir before sailing to the Pelennor Fields.

Others were not so amused. ‘Is that all?’ some of the Eorlingas whispered amongst themselves. ‘One ship? How large is this army we sail against? We shall be overrun!’

‘Even if reinforcements await in Harlond, surely we will be outnumbered,’ whispered others.

As the ship pulled aside their position, the gathered company spied three figures aboard: the first being Maeron Captain, who had led the contingent out of Minas Tirith. Of the other two, one was particularly tall, and one rather short – for not to be deprived of an adventure, Legolas and Gimli had insisted upon travelling with Maeron the instant they heard news of Pelargir’s predicament. All three waved in greeting as the ship was moored and a gangway lowered.

‘Did you think you’d sneak away to a fight without us, laddie?’ shouted Gimli across the distance.

‘I am entirely unsurprised to see you, my friend,’ said Aragorn, leaping aboard at once. The White Company guards swiftly followed in ones and twos. Last of all were the Eorlingas, several of whom were forced to dismount and coax their Mearas by hand onto a vessel the horses clearly did not trust.

Truva lingered to ensure all Riders boarded ahead of her. When it came her turn, she dismounted as the others had, yet Roheryn did not hesitate to ascend the gangway, and indeed seemed far more eager than his rider – for Truva had never stepped foot upon any ship. Until that very moment, she had not thoroughly considered what sailing to Pelargir would entail, what floating upon water with mere planks of wood between her feet and the depths below might be like. She stood with one foot upon the gangway and one on solid ground, reluctant.

In that very moment, however, Aragorn peered over the bulwark to determine what waylaid their progress. Unwilling to be the cause of his concern, Truva swallowed a steadying breath and laid a hand upon Roheryn, allowing him to guide her aboard.

The gangway had not even been fully retracted before the dromund cast off and the snow-laden banks of Langflood – where Lord Faramir and Captain Beregond alone remained – began to drift by. As the White Company guardsmen greeted their Gondorian brethren from Minas Tirith, the Eorlingas and their mounts were escorted down a series of temporary ramps to the lowest cargo hold, where a bank of stalls lined the hull.

No sooner had Truva aided the hands in securing a sling about Roheryn’s scruffy belly than the boat’s uncomfortable sway grew overwhelming. She gave the pony a quick rub of the nose before stumbling up steep ladders, which had swiftly replaced the ramps, back to the main deck.

‘Steady on, there, Marshal,’ said Maeron, catching the crook of Truva’s elbow as she nearly toppled over.

‘It is well to see you so swiftly after our parting, Captain,’ said Truva, struggling to right herself. ‘Though I apologise, I do not seem capable of gaining my footing.’

‘First time upon the water?’ he asked.

‘It is my first time sailing, yes,’ said Truva.

‘There are some who take to it quicker than others,’ said Maeron. With a quick glance about, he added, ‘The Dwarf in particular has voiced nothing save protestations – indeed, he proffered his breakfast to the fishes not half an hour after our having set sail.’ When this anecdote coaxed a smile from Truva, he beckoned her forward. ‘Come, let me impart some practical knowledge.’

He led her to the bulwark, and together they leaned upon the rail as the winter wind whipped past their faces. Light snow had resumed, fluttering to where the dromund oars disappeared and reappeared within the river water below, ushering the vessel more swiftly southward.

‘Do not look down,’ Maeron advised, pointing instead far out into the distance ahead, along the banks of Langflood. ‘Choose a spot, and let it anchor you. That is what the captain of my first ship told me.’

‘Did you once feel as I do now?’

‘Significantly worse, I suspect,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I could scarcely eat for a week, and my legs were like that of a newborn lamb.’

‘My goodness,’ said Truva, her stomach queasy at the thought.

‘Do not worry overly much; our journey is but a short one, and you shall soon be on land again,’ he said. ‘Now, loth as I am to part you from such a steadying view, we’ve business to attend to – indeed, I was just on my way to seek you out; King Aragorn has requested all leaders assemble in the captain’s quarters.’

Maeron led Truva aftward and through a door to a cramped passageway. At the very end sat a tiny navigation room off the captain’s cabin. Aragorn stood conversing with a tall, narrow man as Legolas and Gimli pored over a map upon a circular table. When Truva drew near, she too drank in the details of Pelargir and its peculiar layout, but Éomer and Gamhelm’s swift arrival did not afford her much time to do so.

‘I believe brief introductions are in order,’ Aragorn began at once, gesturing to his unfamiliar companion. ‘Our current venture falls under the supervision of naval captain Bardlorn, commander of the Harlond docks, and his vessel the Alcarindur.’

‘It is never a pleasure for first meetings to come under adverse circumstances,’ said the Captain. ‘Yet it reassures me greatly to know such renowned warriors as yourself sail in our company.’

‘I ask only that you look kindly upon my warriors, who are entirely unaccustomed to such means of transport,’ said Éomer King.

‘I chafe at the implication that we would not do our utmost for those in our care,’ said the Captain with mock affront and a kindly smile.

‘We have no intention of impugning your hospitality, Captain, for already it has proven to be exceptional,’ said Truva. ‘Though I would add but a single request to my King’s: that you share what circumstances we might expect to face in Pelargir.’

‘Our information is limited,’ said Aragorn, stepping forth. ‘The only news out of the south is that several of our ships encountered a Corsair fleet just off the island of Tolfalas, at the mouth of Anduin. I suspect the enemy was attempting to mount an ambush on Dol Amroth in the southwest, yet upon securing victory they altered course – for they knew the defences of northern Gondor would be weakened, and perhaps susceptible to attack.’

‘What of the forces already in Pelargir?’ asked Legolas. ‘Surely the city was not left wholly undefended. What manpower still remains available to us?’

‘We shall find moderate support at the port itself; at the conclusion of the War, several regiments were dispatched from Minas Tirith to reinforce our position there,’ said Captain Maeron. ‘Even so, I suspect we shall be outnumbered; it is said the Corsairs sail with at least half a dozen immense dromund ships – larger even than those we repurposed – and more might sail behind.’

‘What of the city layout?’ said Éomer.

‘The main fortifications lie along the confluence of the rivers Anduin and Sirith, in the heart of Pelargir,’ said Bardlorn, turning the map so those most unfamiliar with it might see better. Truva leaned in close, examining the dizzying triangular maze of waterways as the Captain’s finger traced along the vellum. ‘These outer battlements were largely undamaged in the War, yet the city’s waterways are quite porous and challenging to defend, even when the portcullises are lowered.’

‘Of even greater concern is the western bank of the Sirith: the agricultural district,’ said Bardlorn. ‘It has only developed in recent times, and so has few defences and remains quite vulnerable.’

‘We shall have to divide our forces,’ said Aragorn. ‘The brunt of the Corsairs’ strength is sure to come down upon the eastern docks, but they will also strive to advance up the Sirith. In conflicts past – before the Sirith wharfs were constructed – the Corsairs attacked Pelargir’s western battlements directly from their ships, but were easily repelled. If they succeed in establishing a base within the agricultural district, they will find it far easier to launch an assault on our flank, and all hope will be lost.’

‘Might I suggest establishing the Rohirrim in that area, my lord?’ said Maeron. ‘Limited fortifications as there are, the horselords’ mobility would allow them to mount a stronger defence, whilst still offering retreat across the bridge spanning the Sirith.’

Aragorn’s glance flickered briefly to Truva, mouth set in a grave line as he contemplated this proposition. Truva flattered herself to think his hesitancy was due in part to a reluctance to place her in the position of greatest danger; yet she knew it was but a passing fancy, for Aragorn was far too sagacious to arrive at decisions based upon the guidance of his heart rather than that of his mind. Indeed, in the next moment he spoke:

‘Yes, I do believe that is our strongest option – should King Éomer be willing.’

‘I am,’ said he.

‘As for Captain Maeron,’ Aragorn continued, ‘the defence of the bridge – and thus the Rohirrim’s retreat – shall fall to you.’

‘Yes, milord,’ replied the Captain.

‘Bardlorn, maintain whatever strength of crew is sufficient to obstruct the Corsairs’ fleet, should they drive north past Pelargir and towards Osgiliath. You must also prevent them from entrenching upon the east bank of the Anduin; it is a somewhat less advantageous position than the agricultural district, for the river is wider there – yet allowing them to gain even the slightest foothold could prove disastrous.’

‘Understood, milord,’ said Bardlorn. ‘Any sailors not necessary to that end shall go to supplement your own company.’

‘What of us, Aragorn?’ asked Gimli (not one to be left out) with a nod to Legolas.

‘It was my hope that you two would join myself and the Gondorian ground forces along the battlements of the eastern wharfs.’

Gimli gave a grunt of approval; a central position at the heart of all developments and information conveyance pleased him greatly. Otherwise, silence filled the navigation cabin as the leaders looked amongst themselves or upon the map, their concerns only mildly eased by the first outlining of a strategy.

‘I believe that is all,’ said Aragorn after a time. ‘I’ve yet a private word to speak to the Captain, but you are free to inform your warriors.’

The company began filing out, Maeron striking up a conversation with Éomer King as they exited. They were soon followed by Legolas and Gimli, who were engaged as ever in their secretive musings. Truva was last to leave, casting a brief glance back into the navigation room to catching Aragorn’s gaze. For no more than a moment, she saw how the grey seas of concern and composure battled there, before he bent over the map with Bardlorn once more.

Truva closed the door behind her. She chastised herself for having allowed hope – no matter how fleeting – to seep into her heart; to believe that the seemingly impassable distance between King and Marshal had been narrowed ever so slightly by peace and the promise of Gandalf’s revelations. Yet that closeness had perhaps only served to exacerbate the widening chasm between them, born of their current plight.

She exited onto the main deck just as the Alcarindur gained Harlond. Five additional black-hulled and -sailed dromunds emerged from the harbour to drift along behind the flagship, like goslings after their mother. But renewed snowfall resulted in limited visibility, curbing the effect of Maeron’s method of coping with vertigo, and so Truva descended belowdecks rather than face the frigid temperatures of the open.

She soon found the mess by the jovial sounds emanating from it – for the White Company had been swift to make introductions between the Eorlingas and the soldiers of Minas Tirith, some of whom recognised each other from the Pelennor Fields or subsequent ventures. It was thus with ease that the warriors sat amongst each other, exchanging news and tales and songs. Several decks of playing cards had been procured, though neither the Marksmen nor the Gondorians were familiar with the games of the other, and so they took turns teaching their own renditions and swiping their companions’ coin.

The passage of time belowdecks was difficult to gauge, but there was no mistaking noontide: a bell clanged over the soldiers’ din and a meal of boiled meat and biscuits was distributed. But as inviting as food appeared, Truva’s nausea only worsened at the sight of it; each sway of the boat, each scrape of the soldiers’ spoons against their bowls, each waft of stale air caused her stomach to roil. Passing her portion to Gamhelm (who was more than thankful for the double serving), Truva evacuated back to the main deck.

She lurched to the ship’s side and only scarcely managed to position her face over the railing before that morning’s mouthful of bread fell to the water below. But the alarming drop only exacerbated her queasiness. Her body heaved again, and then again – yet not even when her stomach was empty of all its contents did she feel in any way improved.

‘Ai-oi, a true warrior of Rohan, I see!’ came a laugh from nearby.

Truva was too preoccupied to look up. For once, she did not consider the phrase complimentary. The voice did not heed her silence, however, for it continued: ‘Too accustomed to land and horse, not enough of the water. You’ll soon get used to it – or not.’

‘Thank you for your shrewd insight,’ said Truva. She wiped at her acrid mouth with the back of her tunic sleeve and slumped forward against the railing, head hanging overboard. The rush of chill wind was mildly refreshing, though it was not enough to fully clear her head.

‘Birds fly in the sky, and fish swim in the sea,’ she said. ‘We make poor sailors, but I would gladly put our lowliest Eorling against Stoningland’s most accomplished rider.’

‘I intended no offence, my lady,’ said the sailor, ‘and I apologise if I made you to feel slighted. Many a great mariner has set their first sail as you do now. Here, take some water, and in apology I shall make you a tea to help ease the nausea when my task is done.’

Truva at last raised her gaze to lay eyes upon a young man, scarcely more than a boy, who sat on the deck with spindly legs splayed beneath a heap of sailcloth. When he found himself under Truva’s scrutiny, a smile pulled at the dusting of freckles spread across his cheeks, short-cut hair flopping in his eyes.

He held out a waterskin, which Truva gratefully accepted. But a deep draught did little to rinse out her mouth, and even less to settle her churning stomach. Desperate to divert her mind to any other topic, she returned her focus back upon the boy. ‘What is your name?’

‘Fofrin, my lady,’ he replied.

Truva ignored his repeated use of a title she did not hold. ‘What is it you do on this ship, Fofrin?’

‘I am a rigger, my lady.’

‘And what is it that a rigger does?’

‘At the moment, repair this sailcloth,’ he said with an even wider grin, holding up a large swath of black canvas and a thick needle. ‘But at other times, I can be found aloft, furling and releasing sails as I am ordered.’

‘Explain to me the mast system,’ said Truva, looking up at the immense tree-like boles of the Alcarindur and their flaxen sail-leaves and vines of rope. As Fofrin worked expertly at the cloth, he elucidated upon the mechanics of the Corsairs’ dromund, from its layout to the rigging and daily tasks its sailors were set to; and for a time – though her nausea had scarcely abated – Truva was able to find a new point in the distance.

When darkness settled in full, those sailors who did not have watch were summoned to dinner by another sounding of the bell. Whilst Truva wished to have no part in the meal, Fofrin urged her to accompany him belowdecks, bidding her wait in the mess momentarily as he disappeared, only to return with a small tin and a tea kettle in hand.

‘Ginger,’ he said simply, ladling a rough, golden powder from the tin into a cup before adding boiling water. ‘Though I’ve no honey. I expect it shall help with your sickness; it certainly did when I first started.’

‘You experienced such things, as well, yet allowed me to believe it is the Eorlingas alone who are unsuited to travelling by ship?’ said Truva incredulously. ‘You are a right scamp.’

‘Aye, well, it’s in our nature to have a bit of a laugh whilst under sail,’ he said, giving his hair an abashed ruffling. Then, with lowered voice, he added, ‘Especially with what’s to come, and all.’

Truva studied Fofrin’s face intently then. It became apparent how truly young he was – in more than appearance. ‘Did you fight in the War?’ she asked gently.

‘No, my lady – and in truth I’m not meant to make for battle even now,’ he said. ‘But as many of our sailors had been sent southward to defend the coast, there were none save me with familiarity enough to fly rigging when the summons came.’

Truva took a sip of tea to hide her scowl. It did not bode well for Gondor if it was babes and inexperienced sailors who had been called upon to lend succour in their campaign. But what caused her far greater concern was how uncomfortably reminiscent Fofrin was of Eilif, the ill-fated brother of Chaya, whose youth had been so suddenly stripped from the world by a fellbeast. Images of the boyish Hidlander’s plight sprang unbidden into Truva’s mind, ensnaring her thoughts.

‘Might I ask you something?’ Fofrin asked. When she did not answer, he took her silence for acquiescence. ‘You are Truva, Marshal to the King of the Rohirrim, are you not? The shieldmaiden who single-handedly slew a giant Gorgoroth Troll, and who saved our King Aragorn on multiple accounts?’

‘If that is what you believe, the stories you have been told were greatly exaggerated,’ she answered, shaking off her momentary preoccupation. ‘Though it cannot be denied my name is Truva.’

‘What is it like?’ Fofrin whispered. ‘Fighting, that is. Battle.’

Truva fixed her gaze most intensely upon the boy, staring into his eyes even when he squirmed under her scrutiny. ‘I hope in earnest you shall never discover for yourself the answer to that question,’ she stated at last.

Fofrin was blessedly spared the task of responding by a commotion arising when Éomer King descended down the steep stair into the mess. ‘Clear your meals and gather your rucksacks, Eorlingas,’ he called. ‘It’s time to make bunk.’

Truva leapt up from the bench. ‘Thank you for the tea,’ she said to Fofrin, though the bulk of her gratitude was reserved for the excuse not to drink the unpalatable beverage.

‘My pleasure, milady,’ he said, his smile far too endearing. ‘In truth, my intentions are purely selfish; I don’t fancy cleaning up a wayward Rider’s sick – not even from the main deck.’

With a grimace in the impish sailor’s direction, Truva joined the others gathering at the rear of the mess. As Éomer King escorted the Riders towards the crew’s quarters, they were joined by several Gondorians bearing sacks of netting, which had previously hung over the ship’s bulwarks. When the company gained the cramped confines of the cabin, squeezing in amidst coffer and barrel, they observed these sailors lashing rope to the beams of the overhead deck with puzzlement.

‘What is this?’ asked Gamhelm, speaking for all the Eorlingas. ‘Where are our beds?’

‘These are your beds,’ one sailor explained, climbing into a hammock to the horrified reaction of his audience. Despite the sips of Fofrin’s ginger tea – which seemed to have limited effect as it was – the discomfort in Truva’s stomach redoubled.

‘Surely you cannot be serious,’ she murmured.

‘I have been on many a boat, yet never one so large as this,’ said Éomer. ‘It is a new experience for us all, and one that we ought to embrace. Captain Bardlorn assures me these are far more comfortable – and practical – than beds, or even laying upon the floor.’

The Eorlingas eyed the netting with scepticism, only stowing their packs beneath a chosen bunk once they realised there would be no alternative offered. The more adventurous amongst them attempted to clamber into the netting, several becoming so turned about that they fell back to the floor, much to the amusement of their Gondorian spectators.

Not yet bold enough to try their hands at sleeping in such unwieldy slings, the Eorlingas returned to the mess to pass the remainder of their evening in more alluring pursuits. Truva did not join them, however; hoping that sleep might bring her some respite from sickness, she attempted the hammock – but only once she was alone in the quarters. The swaying bed was indeed precarious, and it was only by sheer luck she managed to settle in without falling as the others had.

As she closed her eyes against the rolling of the boat and her rising nausea, Truva thought back upon events of the past several days. From sleeping in the Drúedain nests to boarding her first boat, she had spent far too little time with feet planted firmly on the ground for her liking; yet with what was expected to come, she felt as though she were about to lose her footing entirely and be swept off to sea.

When she awoke the next morning, her condition was somewhat improved. She knew not whether it was due to Fofrin’s ginger tea or the hammock’s surprisingly comforting sway, but she felt ravenous upon extricating herself – oh so carefully – from her peculiar bunk. The galley was already abustle with morning preparations despite the early hour, and so she accepted a simple breakfast of bread and cheese from the scullery boy with gratitude.

Retreating abovedecks to the open air, Truva observed the passing landscape as she dined upon her meagre breakfast. There was little to see save the fields of Lossarnach to the west and the wild forests of South Ithilien opposite, all hidden beneath a shroud of white. Though no snow fell, the weather was deeply overcast and the wind cut sharper than any Morgul blade. A brooding mood hung upon the Alcarindur’s black lateen sails, and it dragged Truva’s course of thoughts down into the depths with it.

Her doleful introspection was soon interrupted by Maeron Captain, just returning from his rounds. ‘You’ll not take a more hearty breakfast, Marshal?’ he asked, joining her at the railing.

‘It is best not to risk it,’ said Truva wryly.

‘Aye, well, we shall be ashore soon enough,’ he reassured her.

‘Only to be met with an entirely new reason to be sick to our stomachs.’

The Captain’s brow shot upwards before his face cracked into a smile. ‘Such is war,’ he said with a droll laugh. Leaning his forearms upon the railing, he threw his head back against the wind and fell silent. But he was a cheerful fellow, and had no penchant for gloomy contemplation in the way Truva did. Only a few short minutes passed before he was straightening and making for the stair.

‘Perhaps I might finally best the Eorlingas at one of their own card games,’ he said. ‘Would you care to join me?’

‘No, thank you – I’ve given up long ago,’ she quipped.

‘I hope one day I shall be so wise!’

As Maeron returned below, Truva lingered upon the deck as featureless scenery slid by. There were few other pursuits by which she might pass the time. Noontide came and went, as indistinguishable as the riverbanks she gazed upon; the rotation of the sailors’ watch was all that disrupted the monotony until the overcast skies grew murkier, indicating the unseen sun had begun to fall towards the western lands. Only once the darkness had grown so profound that it felt impenetrable did a cluster of lights upon the horizon emerge, and the city of Pelargir became visible to those upon the Corsairs’ ships.

Chapter Text

The Alcarindur drew abreast of Pelargir’s eastern wharfs. In the darkness loomed the city’s battlements, so massive that little was visible beyond, save the crest of a few turrets. At the forefront of the city rose the grand Tower of the Ship-kings, its very foot plunging into the converging waters of Sirith and Langflood. From this tower to the northern reaches of the city, portcullises had already been lowered where waterways disrupted the stone wall. The sheer mass of Pelargir’s outward face dwarfed the newly-arrived reinforcements.

‘I did not think it possible to like any mode of transportation less than those confounded horses, yet I do believe boats to be entirely more detestable,’ groused Gimli as they disembarked onto the staith.

A man most tall and dark – his features clearly boasting of Númenórean origin – stood waiting patiently to greet the forces out of the north. Upon spying Aragorn, he fell into a deep bow.

‘My Lord,’ said he. ‘Long has it been since you have come to our docks, and during equally troubled times.’

‘It is unfortunate that our paths should cross again in this way, Minister Tinnedir, but there is neither need nor time for such genuflection,’ said Aragorn, bidding the man rise. ‘May I introduce King Éomer and his Second Marshal Truva, who by mere happenstance were in our midst when the summons came?’

‘Ah, King of the horselords!’ said the Minister, turning to Éomer. ‘Though you do not know of me, I have heard a great deal about you. With great humility do we thank you for coming to our aid; more than once have your lands lent succour to the furthest reaches of our kingdom, and once again your Riders prove an unexpected boon.’

‘For too many years have the warriors of Gondor protected the Mark’s Eastern borders, and kept at bay the rising tides of evil,’ said Éomer King. ‘It is but our duty to repay that heavy debt.’

‘No debt lies between the Mark and the Reunited Kingdom,’ said Aragorn. ‘We come together under a united cause, alongside Legolas of the Woodland Realm and Gimli of the Glittering Caves – though perhaps, Minister, you are more familiar with our Gondorian representatives: Captain Maeron of Harlond, and Captain Bardlorn of the royal navy.’

‘Bardlorn and I spent several years in each other’s company when we were mere sailors,’ said Tinnedir. ‘As for Captain Maeron, I do believe we have exchanged extensive communication with regard to transport between our wharfs – though it has been some time since Captain Bardlorn overtook that capacity.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Maeron. ‘I was about on other business at milord Aragorn’s behest this past winter, though my path likewise finds me here now.’

‘Well, it is good to meet you at last, though the circumstances of our meeting are somewhat less than fortuitous,’ the Minister replied. ‘But come, let us turn to matters and decisions inescapable.’

He turned and made for a narrow gap in the fortifications, ascending a shallow stair that fed into a junction of narrow streets. Beyond the heavily fortified gate, central Pelargir finally revealed itself: spires of old governmental buildings, courts and gardens, trade schools and libraries of record, residences, bathhouses, taverns. Bridges crisscrossed a veritable web of watery channels, no less numerous than the cobblestone roads. Each was traversed by fitting vehicles, whether long, flat-bottomed boat or narrow cart or otherwise. The sights rivalled even those of fair Osgiliath – for the port city had endured far less destruction in the many years preceding the War than its northern counterpart.

Truva gazed about in wonderment. To see everything she had been called upon to defend laid out in front of her — homes, shops, an elderly poulterer and his equally wizened wife making with all haste northward through streets busy with soldiers — the weight of expectation fell far more heavily about her shoulders. This was not a battle for the mere retention of some Gondorian burg, but the safeguarding of its residents’ very way of life.

‘Accommodations have been readied for your soldiers – those that will not remain aboard the Alcarindur,’ said Minister Tinnedir, shaking Truva from her reverie. ‘It is best they get some rest, for I fear all their strength will be required anon.’

He beckoned to a deputy, who stepped forward with a pair of stable hands. Taking Firefoot and Roheryn into their care, the deputy gave a short nod to the Minister and marched off towards the city’s military complex, northern reinforcements in tow.

The Minister escorted the commanders in the same direction, albeit at a slower pace. The two kings fell in together, as did the two captains, leaving Truva to trail silently behind, followed by Legolas and Gimli. The company was led past officers’ quarters and advisors’ residences, then crossed a bridge, beyond which the recruits were already filing into regimented, utilitarian barracks abutting the battlements.

Just past the military complex lay the citadel walls and its ornate iron gate. With a hail from the guard, the company was granted access to the inner courtyard: a maze of low hedges and lawns and scattered trees, regimented rose bushes and bubbling fountains. Not even the Corsairs had seen fit to lay waste to such beauty during their brief occupation of Pelargir.

Where the deltoidal courtyard came to a point, the Tower of the Ship-kings rose skyward, pure white and smooth-sided. At the very height of the tower blazed a flame eternal – never extinguished, for long had it guided ships ere the fall of Númenor. Truva craned her neck to discern the light radiating from the tower’s cupola: a brilliant beacon undimmed even by the enemy’s approach.

When the company drew near, the tower’s immense doors – carven with the images of bygone fleets and battles upon the seas – opened unprompted. An entrance hall lay beyond, with doors branching off to countless chambers and a grand staircase at the far end. This the guests ascended, eventually coming to double doors, through which lay the Minister’s Hall. Thick rugs in the elegant sable of Gondor lined the floor from wall to wall, and busts of the Kings of old stood upon podiums in every corner. A long bank of arched windows overlooked the confluence, with the Langflood flowing past upon their left and the Sirith to their right, each river a swath of nothingness in the invading night.

The Minister strode to a stout table nearly half the expanse of the hall. Spread before the commanders was a map of far greater detail than Truva knew to be in existence; areas of Near Harad had been filled in with cities and roads, as had the havens of Umbar. She leaned in close, peering at this new information as the consultations began.

‘What news have you of our position, and that of the Corsairs?’ asked Aragorn at once.

‘Every inch of our battlements have been reinforced a hundredfold; we are as secure as we might be in that regard. Residents of the western bank have all been evacuated northward beyond the bridge; others in the central city have elected to relocate outside the city gates. Some even make for the refuge of Tumladen.

‘Accounting for my troops sent south on patrol, who have not yet returned, those that remain in Pelargir do not surpass five companies. As for the position of the Corsairs themselves,’ the Minister paused, concern apparent upon his visage, ‘I suspect they shall come upon us this very night. Reports put their numbers at ten dromunds’ worth or more, with a flotilla of smaller vessels – nigh uncountable.’

Momentary silence greeted this statement. Gazes lingered upon the map, unseeing, each leader consumed by the storm within their own mind.

‘Even so, it is great fortune our arrival preceded theirs,’ Maeron commented at last.

‘Come, let us not despair,’ said Éomer. ‘All the forces of Umbar could not so much as hope to stand in opposition to a mere handful of the finest warriors the lands of Gondor and the Riddermark have to offer.’

‘Oh aye, we’ll give ’em a fight they’re not ready for!’ enthused Gimli.

Yet eyes shifted uneasily from one to the other as they discussed plans that had been set upon the journey southward. There was little dissent from Minister Tinnedir, who agreed it would be best for his troops to oversee the defence of Pelargir’s massive battlements, though he appeared somewhat less certain as to the Eorlingas’ placement upon the western bank.

‘It is a jumble of streets, you see,’ he said. ‘I cannot so much as give you a map – for the routes alter in a day, and no record of them is ever accurate longer than a week. Horses or no, it is a dangerous position, separated from the main city as it is.’

‘We cannot afford to relinquish control of the agricultural district, and by extension access to the bridge,’ Captain Bardlorn reasoned. ‘It will expose our entire flank.’

The Minister pursed his lips and thought in silence for a time before giving a resigned sigh. ‘Very well; it is not as though we have many options available to us,’ he conceded.

‘If that is settled, let us position ourselves before events are set into motion,’ said Aragorn.

With final glances towards the map and muttered words of parting, the commanders streamed from the Minister’s Hall and made for their individual bunks and berths. Returning to the military complex, Éomer King and Truva discovered Gamhelm in the first barracks, pacing about the hearth as he awaited their return. Some Riders had opted to take a brief rest in the bunks provided, while others still sat about, sharpening blades. Few had found the heart to eat, though they had been supplied a generous feast of vegetables and roasted meats, cheeses, and even seafood – a rare treat to the landlocked Marksmen. With horses running through their hearts, however, they found the idea of taking sup unappealing.

Once they had all been roused, a deputy appeared and led the Eorlingas to the stables – even more austere than those of Mundburg – where their horses waited impatiently; having been constrained in the bowels of Alcarindur for nearly two days, they were as restless as their riders.

With Éomer King at their helm and the deputy jogging ahead to guide them, the Eorlingas rode through the streets of Pelargir, making their way eastward towards the Sirith in a clatter of hooves upon cobblestones. They passed through a square and along a wide avenue beyond, where buildings rose up directly from the waterline of a canal running parallel to the thoroughfare. Armouries and captains’ quarters transitioned into the offices of scribes and record keepers, each establishment flush and contiguous with its neighbour. It was a city unlike any other Truva had ever seen or imagined.

At last they came upon the single gateway of the river Sirith. One cluster of Pelargir residents swarmed through, burdened with all manner of household goods. The Eorlingas stood aside to allow them passage as they immediately turned and crossed a bridge into the northern sector of the city. At their tail strode a guard of the court, who greeted both deputy and Riders.

‘That’s the last of ’em – the final stragglers have been evacuated from the agricultural district,’ he informed them.

‘Very well,’ replied the deputy. ‘Go now to the shelter; I shall join you anon.’

The guard bowed one last time before departing after the residents. The Eorlingas then emerged from the gateway onto a narrow bridge, scarcely two carts in width, stretching out over the rushing waters of the Sirith to a wooden quay upon the opposite bank. A heavy array of Maeron Captain’s soldiers now stood at regular intervals, staring out into the darkness, though they turned and bowed as the Eorlingas struck out across the bridge. When the foremost Riders drew near to the central post, the Captain himself stepped forward.

‘My lord Éomer,’ said he, the quaver in his voice only detectable to those who strained to hear it – those who knew the misfortune of surviving the Great War, only to fall in the next conflict, was all too possible. ‘I find great reassurance in knowing I fight alongside so renowned a warrior.’

‘Helm keep you,’ said Éomer.

‘And you,’ said the Captain. Loath to say anything further should courage fail, he and Truva momentarily clasped hands – no more.

The Riders continued on towards the quay, noting the darkness before them; all illumination in the agricultural district had been extinguished, the western bank abandoned.

‘We have done all within our power and limited time to erect defences,’ said the deputy as the company gained the far bank. He turned southward and led them downriver, past sacks of sand and earth hastily stacked in two short berms along the makeshift quay. ‘Unfortunately, the main battlements’ reconstruction took precedence, and the agricultural district was never heavily fortified to begin with. Let us hope the central city endures the brunt of the attack, and the measures we have taken to secure this area will prove excessive.’

‘Thank you for your assistance,’ said Éomer King. ‘And may your assessment prove correct. As I know you’ve duties yet to perform and your own safety to consider, you are dismissed – we shall manage well enough on our own from here.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ said the deputy, bowing one last time before scurrying back across the bridge. When he was gone, the Eorlingas looked about at the empty, desolate streets, the shabbily constructed livestock pens and derelict barns, the paltry defences.

‘Groups of four,’ said the King. ‘Spread out evenly along the quay and appoint a runner. Prepare incendiaries; if the Alcarindur is any indication, the Corsair ships’ blackness is due to the timbers having been soaked heavily in pitch: excellent for repelling water, but also for going up in flame.’

The Eorlingas divided with a chorus of ‘ayes’, but Éomer halted Truva and Gamhelm, beckoning them close.

‘Take a position nearest the bridge,’ he said to Truva, ‘and serve as the connection between Maeron Captain’s forces and ours. I will defend the southernmost area, where the Sirith debouches into the Langflood. Gamhelm, you will be the line of communication between these two points.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Gamhelm.

‘I will reinforce the Stoningland regiment and ensure the bridge is not taken, should it come to that,’ said Truva.

‘Let us hope it does not,’ said the King. ‘For while I have the utmost faith in you, my Marshal, the Corsairs’ taking of the bridge would mean that I myself was first to fail.’

With a series of stoic shoulder-clasps, the three spun their mounts about and took up their individual posts, Truva leading her designated Riders back to the bridge and dismounting.

‘Look for scraps of cloth,’ she ordered as they hitched their horses in a storehouse directly behind the quay. ‘And sulphur, oil, alcohol – anything that will flame.’

The other Riders nodded shortly, then strode off on their search. Truva began to construct a firepit just behind the first of the makeshift fortifications, flush with the quay wall. As she worked, she strove to empty her mind of all the worries that crowded in: uncertain enemy numbers, Bron’s absence, the Pelargirian evacuees crowded just beyond the bridge. It was in such a distracted state that her hand fumbled beneath her armour for Aragorn’s Star.

During the War, Truva’s concern for her newfound Eorling brethren had been assuaged by the illusion of undying grandeur and fortitude, of invincible righteousness, and yet the unthinkable had nevertheless occurred. Their lifeless forms haunted her waking and nighttime hours, quickening her heart – and thus Aragorn’s prowess in combat no longer afforded her any reassurance. If one so brave and noble as Théoden King, if one so dearly beloved as Théodred, if one so deeply respected as Éothafa could be struck down upon the battlefield, so could any.

Though Aragorn was no more than a bridge away, the distance between them felt insurmountable. Truva longed to be at his side, to wield her shield and sword in his defence; yet she was not oblivious to the fact she would be more hindrance than help. She would have to be content in her place, and in the knowledge that each position – no matter how seemingly insignificant – would be crucial for victory. That was how she could best protect Aragorn: by fulfilling the role tasked to her.

Truva briefly wondered whether he felt concern for her, too, as they stood upon the precipice of battle – then swiftly dashed the notion. The security of his entire kingdom, as well as that of the Mark, depended upon the successful defence of Pelargir; surely Aragorn could not spare a thought for his lowly Marshal.

Roused by an approaching Rider, Truva gave her nose a brusque wipe and set about arranging the straw he presented to her for tinder, for she had no intention of fanning the already high tensions of those under her command with her own display of unease.

Nor was the Rider the only one to return; all three came and went frequently, sometimes with wood for the fire, other times bearing materials with which they might conduct their warfare; one Eorling even managed to secure a vat of cooking oil.

Once the blaze was sufficiently large and a promising stockpile of fuel gathered, the Riders set upon their resources, first tearing an untreated sailcloth into small strips, then dipping it into the oil and tying it about many of their arrowheads. But all too soon, what few tasks they could conjure were complete, and their hands fell unoccupied to their side.

‘Get some rest while you can,’ Truva said. ‘Beútan, take first watch. I will explore the area to gain a feel for its layout. Sound your horn should you spy anything amiss.’

With a silent nod, the stoutest Rider took a seat beside the bonfire as the others nestled themselves against the bags of sand. Truva set out into the agricultural district, and through her wanderings was able to begin constructing a rough map of the area in her mind. The structures here were far less developed than those in the heart of the city – little more than haphazardly constructed wooden warehouses, tiny homes, barns, shops. There was no order; buildings did not align, streets meandered with crooked pattern, and dead ends seemed to outnumber thoroughfares. At times, the streets were uneven cobblestones, other times no more than beaten earth.

Truva allowed her mind to wander alongside her feet, worrying pointlessly over things she could not control, dwelling on things she most dreaded. All the thoughts she sought to eradicate in her soldiers she indulged in herself, becoming lost along pathways more twisted than those of the agricultural district.

It was absorbed in such preoccupation that she turned a corner and nearly collided with Éomer King, whose drawn expression was surely a reflection of her own. Yet no sooner had the King opened his mouth to speak than the sound of Beútan’s horn reverberated upon the air. With a momentary glance of resolution, the two commanders dashed towards the quay before diverting to their individual posts. When Truva returned to her Riders, she found all three roused, crouching just behind the first berm.

Utter silence bound them as they waited with bated breath, eyes trained upon the confluence. With all lights in the city doused, Truva strained to make out much in the darkness, save one or two Eorlingas shifting beneath the tension. Roheryn gave a snort in the warehouse behind, a messenger darted across the bridge and disappeared into the main city, but otherwise an oppressive stillness lay over the scene.

Then the first dromund bowsprit eased into view. Its dark prow glided ominously upon the waters of Langflood, black sails emerging from behind the screen of buildings to reveal a vessel far larger than the captured Alcarindur, accompanied by several smaller sloops. Hands tightened about sword pommels and bow grips as the Eorlingas prepared for the onslaught.

Yet they watched in confusion as the dromund continued past the mouth of the Sirith and on towards the Tower of the Ship-kings, its double-banked oars straining against the river’s current. The horsemasters’ breath eased; perhaps the deputy had been correct – the Corsairs would not seek to establish a position on the west bank, after all.

When the dromund drew abreast of the eastern battlements, she slowed until she no longer made any progress upriver. There she bobbed, oars still dipping in and out of the water, giving no indication of aggression nor any attempt at parley, her presence alone a looming menace.

But far too long had Umbar preyed upon Gondor’s weakened southern lands, and still the sting of having lost Pelargir to the Corsairs during the War ached in the hearts of the city’s defenders; they would not be victim to suggestions of peace made in bad faith! And so a cry rang out from the northern battlements, followed by a hail of arrows.

The Corsair ship retaliated at once, loosing their own volley up into the battlements. A trio of additional dromunds then materialised from the south, racing to reinforce their brethren’s position. Already the Corsair numbers reached the upper limits of the Gondorians’ estimations.

In that same moment, the Alcarindur and her support emerged from the darkness as if ghosts, bearing down upon these assailants with surprising speed. Yet their position was less advantageous than they could have hoped for, and the Corsairs reacted quickly, angling their dromunds nearly parallel to the attack and avoiding the worst of the damage.

Even as the sound of hull scraping against hull reverberated across the water, more Corsair dromunds appeared. Far larger than their companions, these were positioned directly before the Tower of the Ship-Kings, shielded from the Alcarindur by the first flock of ships. It was no paltry smattering of arrows this second fleet cast upon the stone defences of Pelargir; a scarlet glow flared on each deck before several fiery bundles arced towards the high Tower windows. One hit its mark, shattering elegant stained glass and igniting all flammable materials within – yet the others, even in falling to the depths below, combusted upon the water itself. Tongues of flame flitted up the stony Tower face.

‘Hold!’ came Éomer’s relayed order. ‘Hold!’

Truva strained against the barricade, unaccustomed to standing by when others were in need. She stared in horror as a second rally of incendiaries sailed up into the battlements – the very ramparts where Aragorn stood.

It was then the third cluster of dromunds appeared. Slightly smaller than the others, these slipped towards the mouth of the Sirith, but Éomer’s company leapt into action even as they did. The King, too, had made ready a blaze, and the first ship sailed so close to the western bank it made an easy target. Yet when the Eorling archers struck their fiery arrows into the dromund’s hull, it did not so much as smoulder, let alone burst into flames.

‘They’ve covered the hull in drenched hides!’ Truva hissed, though a perverse grin crept across her face.

‘Then let them come,’ said Beútan.

But even as these words left his lips, skiffs innumerable were lowered over the dromunds’ sides. Once upon the water, they disseminated like tiny hatchlings from a mother spider, making with all speed for the quay. The entire bank devolved into chaos as the Eorlingas sought to sink the crafts whilst dodging the Corsairs’ own cover assault.

Truva knelt and ignited several arrows, handing each in succession to Beútan, their strongest archer. He succeeded in setting one of the skiffs alight and sent its occupants spilling into the waters of the Sirith, but still they came, striking out towards shore.

Drawing her own bow at last, Truva aimed for any foe that had not been pulled down into the river’s currents by their armour, or that still advanced in unsundered vessels. Yet the Corsairs were so numerous and the light so low she could scarcely determine whether any bolt was effective; all she could see was they grew ever nearer – uncomfortably nearer – the quay.

‘Draw back to the second berm!’ she cried when the gleam of axe heads became visible in the moonlight. ‘Fall back! Fall back!’

In an instant, the four Riders scrambled some twenty paces to the next line of defences, followed by other Eorling companies similarly compromised. From this new position, they observed as the first skiffs pulled along the riverbank, from the mouth of the Sirith to the very bridge itself. Corsairs poured forth, only to be met with the Eorlingas’ arrows as they came over the top of the berm.

Even still they did not stop, merely crawling over the bodies of their fallen brethren – or using them as cover, for they were desperate along the featureless quay.

As their numbers increased, however, the Corsairs grew more brazen. Emboldened by the Eorlingas’ limited defence, they swarmed across the quay. Not only axes, but also their armour became visible – individual features, eyes, their own barked orders audible. When even Beútan renounced his bow and drew his blade instead, the inevitable had come at last.

‘Mount up!’ Truva cried. ‘Go to your horses; I will cover you!’

Beútan and the others did not even hesitate as Truva sprang up over the berm and dispatched two Corsairs with a single arrow. In the same fluid motion, she unsheathed Fréodhel, relishing in the feel of the sword’s leather grip as she faced down the encroaching foes.

With a clatter of hooves, the three Riders emerged from the storehouse and fell upon the Corsairs, Roheryn just behind. Truva was in the saddle in an instant, immediately fighting off one snarling Corsair that snatched at her leg in an attempt to unhorse her. Clutching the pommel, Truva swung her other leg back over and delivered a sharp kick to his woeful helmet, stunning the Corsair before sending him sprawling with a second kick. Roheryn’s own contribution ensured he would grasp at her leg no more.

To the south, Éomer King let loose a wild cry and urged Firefoot forward, his sword flashing in the light of several flaming skiffs: his own vessel upon a sea of enemies. The first wave of foes fell easily to his blade, and the blades of all the King’s Riders, for the Corsairs bore few pikes; they had not anticipated the Eorlingas’ presence.

But ever more arrived – until the dromunds’ entire force had spilled onto the quay and the number of adversaries swelled nearly tenfold. Beset on all sides, Truva looked to the bridge, where Maeron Captain’s men handily defended its entrance against a small detachment of Corsairs. When she turned towards the mouth of the river, however, Éomer’s company had been overrun – forced to retreat into the byways of the agricultural district, yielding their position to the unrelenting press of enemies.

‘Retreat!’ cried Truva to any Eorling warrior still fighting upon the quay. ‘Retreat into the city! Retreat!’

She regrouped her Riders and led them into the district’s twists and turns, the map she had conjured in her head quickly becoming muddled. Though she tried to tack north towards the bridge and escape, their path was driven in unexpected directions as the Corsairs gained the Eorlingas’ abandoned fires, lit their own brands, and began systematically applying them to the buildings. The meagre wooden structures were easily set alight, flames racing from rooftop to thatched rooftop as the Eorlingas struggled to stay ahead, a fiery crackle raging in their ears and acrid smoke choking their lungs.

Truva dove down a narrow lane, but a cluster of Corsairs leapt from an alley to their right, sending their horses skidding. As the frontrunner charged forward, Truva quickly dispatched him with a quick parry followed by a well-placed thrust through the eye-slit of his helmet, but too many came behind. The Riders were forced to retreat even further southward.

After a series of sharp turns, they found themselves alone, the flames some distance away. Judging by the circle of massive barns clustered about a single, immense corral, they had stumbled upon the livestock quarter.

A figure lurking at the edges of the closest barn caused Truva to ready her sword again, but as it emerged further from the shadows, the shape of Éomer King became distinct, silently beckoning her company forward. They slipped into the confines of the barn, where eleven other Riders huddled, the earthy scent of hay beneath their horses’ hooves heavy upon the air. Truva glanced about for the remaining Eorlingas.

‘Is this— is this all who have made it?’ she whispered to Éomer.

‘No,’ replied the King. ‘Gamhelm and the others are trapped in a granary some distance south of here.’

‘What are we to do?’ asked Beútan. ‘There are simply too many Corsairs!’

‘Our position is untenable,’ said Éomer, the stony look upon his face scarcely visible in the gloom. ‘The west bank cannot be held; we have failed in our mission. There are but two options: the first is to flee beyond the outer limits of the agricultural district and pick off the Corsairs as they pursue us, hoping that the majority turn to aid the main attack instead.’

This proposition was met with glowers and consternation.

‘It is a very good thing there is a second option,’ said Truva.

‘Which is to push northward and hope Maeron Captain has kept the bridge,’ Éomer continued. ‘From there, we can reconvene with Stoningland’s main forces and fight upon the battlements of the central city.’

‘We mustn’t abandon the others!’ exclaimed Beútan.

‘No, we certainly must not,’ said Éomer. ‘I will seek them out. Truva, lead these Riders back across the river and reinforce Aragorn King’s position.’

‘Your safety cannot be compromised, my lord,’ said Truva, dismounting. ‘It is the Second Marshal’s duty to assume the greater risk of a tangential mission. But take Roheryn with you, for these confounded flagstone alleys give our horses’ positions away far too easily.’

The King frowned. ‘Very well,’ he said after a time. But as the others made their way to the barn entrance, he turned once more to his Marshal. ‘Truva—’ he began, voice low.

‘Go now and secure a path,’ she reassured him gently. ‘We shall not be far behind.’

Éomer said nothing in response, merely pursed his lips and took a place at the Riders’ head. With no sign of the Corsairs about, they slipped out into the night – Roheryn in their midst – and disappeared amongst the northward streets.

Truva immediately set off in the opposite direction, keeping to the corral perimeter before slipping into the shadows of a tannery. Yet even as she did so, the clatter of a Corsair company drew frighteningly near. Shimmying up the tannery’s front posts onto its roof, Truva pulled her toes out of sight just as the first Corsair came around the corner. A score of adversaries stormed through the corral, following the path Éomer and the others had taken.

With a murmured word of supplication to Helm for her King’s safety, Truva continued on her way, sticking to the district’s roofs as she did so. Flames continued to lick along buildings, growing ever closer from the south and east, filling the night air with a searing heat; yet the firelight proved useful, illuminating the district – and a granary silo jutting above the rooftops.

It was towards this Truva made, evading several additional Corsair parties as she did so. They moved through the convoluted byways with far less purpose than those that pursued Éomer, but even so, they encroached far too near Gamhelm’s hideaway for her liking. It was with relief that she gained the low, squat granary and found no sign of the Corsairs.

Peering over the roof edge into a small open square below, Truva gave a soft whip-poor-will call, only for an answer to sound from within the granary. The door cracked open. She darted to the entrance and wasted no time in giving orders.

‘You must go at once!’ she whispered fiercely to Gamhelm and the half dozen Eorlingas gathered there in the dusty granary. ‘Éomer King drives across the bridge even now!’

‘We are surrounded, Marshal!’ said Gamhelm ruefully. ‘Would it not be best to make a last stand in a more… defensible position?’ They looked about at the nearly empty space, the granary’s ramshackle walls. Truva shook her head.

‘Go west, then take the second alley on your right,’ she urged. ‘You will find the least resistance there, and it will set you on a northward path.’

‘What of you, Marshal?’ asked Gamhelm. ‘You have no horse!’

‘I will set a distraction. There is no time to waste in arguing – go now, go!’

Even as she spoke these words, the Corsairs drew in close about the Eorlingas’ position, for they too had heard the call of the whip-poor-will and thought it odd in a wintry city. If the granary had not been surrounded before, it surely was now.

Chapter Text

Gamhelm and the other Riders clustered at the door of the granary, casting last, uncertain gazes between each other and towards their Second Marshal.

‘Go!’ Truva urged, giving Gamhelm’s horse a heavy pat on the hindquarters.

With one final gasp of courage, the company burst forth from the entrance, hoping to take advantage of the element of surprise. But a hail of arrows streamed down at once, and though the Eorlingas succeeded in driving westward, a party of Corsairs gave chase.

Truva peered from the doorway in an attempt to time her own movements. But even as the pursued and the pursuit disappeared into the haze of chaos, a second group of Corsairs caught a glimpse of her lurking in the shadows. They swarmed the granary, thrilled by the idea of assailing a singular, undefended Rider. Frantic, Truva barricaded the entrance and looked about for anything that might come to her aid.

In a moment of pure fortuity, her eyes fell upon a stockpile of flour sacks. She hurriedly took her dagger to one and swung it about, scattering its fine grain into the air, repeating this process until only empty burlap lay at her feet and flour choked her throat.

All the while, the faction of Corsairs pounded at the door, wielding axes and iron staves that made light work of its insubstantial construction. Truva threw herself into the granary loft above and began to strike at the thatch roof with Fréodhel, making only the smallest of holes. Sun-stiffened reeds caught at her shoulder and the chinks in her mail as she shoved her body through the narrow opening. But then, just as her adversaries tumbled into the granary, Truva’s leg snagged on a branch.

With half her body lying on the roof, Truva came face to face with a tongue of flame as it leapt from the nearest rooftop to that of the granary. In one desperate motion, she jerked her leg free and crouched upon the rotting thatch. Her sword she returned to its sheath, instead drawing her bow. From her quiver she selected an arrow, still wound with the pitch-soaked sailcloth. She touched it to the fire, setting it alight, and aimed through the hole she had hewn. The Corsairs were visible, scrambling up into the loft below, covered in white powder.

When Truva let her arrow fly, the granary combusted into an inferno, fire leaping from one mote of flour to the next in less than an instant. Truva was thrown from the roof by the blast, landing in the alleyway below. She scrambled to her feet at the clatter of approaching Corsairs – curious as to what had caused the explosion – and slunk off into the darkness, circling around behind the granary and away from the flames before striking out northward.

She ducked into nooks and crannies as more adversaries flew by, amassing upon the granary to aid their compatriots. Slowly but surely she made her way back through narrow alleyways, coming at last to the river’s edge. Taking cover behind an overturned wagon, she peered over it to find a route back to the main city’s battlements.

All air left her lungs. Corsairs swarmed along the bridge; Maeron’s guard had been beaten back. Even now, the last of the Eorlingas galloped towards the main city’s defences, chased by a contingent of enemies.

But when Firefoot’s tail slipped through the gateway and the doors slammed shut, the Corsairs did not fall upon the walls at once. Rather, they withdrew to the midway point of the bridge and milled about, neither retreating nor advancing; they merely waited as a single vast dromund slowly positioned itself at the crux between bridge and battlement.

Then a low chant broke out amidst the Corsairs – a word in their own tongue Truva could not distinguish over the sounds of battle and the roar of the burning agricultural district. They thumped axes upon shields and spears upon the ground. Once their clangour reached a fever pitch, a spout of flame erupted from the dromund’s prow, arcing across the Sirith and splattering upon the gate like a waterfall of fire.

Truva smothered her cry of terror. The glowing stream ceased in a matter of seconds, yet she continued to stare in astoundment. Even in all the quiet trickery of Gandalf and the fearsome acts of Sauron, never had she witnessed such a magic, so terrifying a weapon!

A second spell of the fiery substance flared up, sure to make short work of the central city’s gate if the Corsairs were not stopped.

Truva felt a strange warmth building within her – a sensation she had felt more than once before; yet now there was no compulsion, no need to part her lips and speak the words within her breast: Aiya Eärendil Elenion Encalima! Emerging from behind the wagon, she took her bow in hand. All chaos faded from around her as she selected an arrow and nocked it, felt the hum of the string as she drew it, the tension of the grip straining against her thumb.

Truva inhaled deeply, and – though she knew she oughtn’t to – closed her eyes.

When she opened them once more, the arrow was already streaking along its path, halfway across the river. It lodged in the hull of the blackened dromund. She nocked another. Surely it would be of no use; if all the countless arrows of Éomer King and his Riders had not been effective, of what hope were her paltry bolts?

Yet even as she watched, a spark flickered. A tongue of flame followed, then a deafening explosion; the Corsairs’ liquid fire poured forth from the dromund deck as a roiling column of smoke was sent skyward into the night. In mere minutes the entire vessel was alight, its occupants diving from the deck into the waters below. A neighbouring dromund – just a little too close – soon went up in flame, as well.

But Truva did not allow herself a moment of gratification. She ducked back behind the cart, beyond sight of Corsairs who marched back and forth along the quay, and assessed her options. She was of little use separated from the Eorlingas, but if she was to return to the city centre, it was not to be by the bridge now overrun with enemies. The defences of Pelargir were nearly impenetrable, yet surely there was some way in which she could reunite with Éomer King and the others.

Steeling herself, Truva dashed across the quay, keeping low as she vaulted over each berm in turn and plunged into the inky Sirith. Shock jolted through her as the river’s frigid currents – pure Firienwít snowmelt from the exceptionally harsh winter – swallowed her. It was all she could do to prevent herself from inhaling a lungful of water.

A cutting chill seeped into her bones as she swam towards the opposite bank, dipping below the surface each time a Corsair drew near or a swath of their strange, magical fire flickered ahead.

But she had been spotted.

Even in the water the Corsair appeared massive, sinewy arms bulging as he made directly for Truva. Spurred into a panic, she swam frantically, kicking with all her might – but he was faster, gaining on her with each passing stroke. His head skimmed the water as he drew ever nearer, like an aquatic predator stalking its prey.

There was nowhere to hide. Truva drew her dagger and turned to strike just as the Corsair fell upon her, but her movements were slowed by the water. Before she could land a blow, he had wrapped his legs about her waist, trapping her dagger hand against her own body, and snuck an arm about her neck. Truva thrashed furiously, which only served to drag them both underwater before she could take a last breath.

The Corsair’s assault did not slacken, however; indeed, he seemed entirely comfortable beneath the water’s surface, tightening his grip as they sank even deeper, locked in combat. With her free hand, Truva sought to land any blow against her assailant, but her fists held no power. A fuzzy haze began to encroach at the edges of her consciousness. She desperately felt up and down the Corsair’s side, her mind screaming for air.

His dagger! Truva drew the weapon from her enemy’s sheath and, fumbling slightly, turned it about in her hand. Slowly, slowly, she slid the tip along his breastplate until she found a weak joint and drove the blade into his ribs. Once, twice, thrice she stabbed him, until his clench slackened and at last she was able to extricate herself from his hold.

As the Corsair’s dark figure sank into the depths, Truva struck up towards the surface and emerged sputtering into the night. A barrel floated past; she gained it in a few strokes, and clung to it for a moment’s respite as she surveyed the scene about her.

The flaming hulk of the two Corsair dromunds had begun to drift downstream from the bridge, blocking most of her view, but beyond lay the masts and rigging of those floating before the Tower of the Ship-kings, their assault still in full force. Several additional tiers of the Tower had gone up in flame, and sections of the eastern battlements gave off a fiery glow. Projectiles flared on arced paths, illuminating a series of chaotic vignettes in the darkness below.

Perhaps, Truva thought, she ought to wreak as much destruction as possible outside the battlements before rejoining her brethren.

Still buoyed by the cask, she allowed the current to propel her as she skirted the wrecked dromunds and crossed the remaining distance to the second flotilla. When she drew close to the nearest ship’s hull, her luck held out: dangling from overhead was the trailing end of an improperly stored mooring line, cast overboard in the chaos.

Like a drowned rat, Truva pulled herself from the Sirith and hand over hand ascended the rope, slimy from accumulated algae. Wind whipped her soaked gambeson and hose beneath her armour, sending quivers through her body and making the climb all the more difficult.

At last her fingers curled over the bulwark. Keeping her head low, Truva peered over the railing at the pandemonium upon the main deck. Tall, bulky men clustered at the bow or darted here and there, putting out the fires of Gondor’s own assault or ferrying supplies from fore to aft, port to starboard, above and belowdecks. Three mangonels were always in motion, either being loaded or fired or reset by at least a dozen men, whose shouts crowded out the din of battle upon the ramparts.

Under the veil of chaos, Truva slipped unnoticed over the bulwark and onto the deck. She nearly stumbled; it was crowded with barrel upon barrel, clay pots and projectiles crammed into every corner of free space. In ducking behind these to avoid detection by a Corsair – come to collect several nail and hemp projectiles – she detected a strange scent wafting up from the stockpile. When the coast was clear, she pried open the lid of one barrel and inspected its contents: a thick, viscous liquid smelling strongly of tar and peat – naphtha, or the like. Examining other barrels revealed them to be full of vinegar or sand, the clay pots with sulphur or unslaked lime.

Truva stared at this immense array of materials in terrified wonderment; if Saruman had a mind of metal and wheels, these Corsairs had minds of fire.

Wildly outnumbered as she was, Truva had few options for assault; merely foiling her foes’ plans (whatever they may be) would have to suffice. Slipping out of sight each time the Corsairs came and went, she stealthily dumped the barrels’ contents one by one before replacing them as they were. More than half the barrels had been emptied before one Corsair spied an oozing rivulet of naphtha Truva had failed to contain.

He gave a gruff shout to two nearby compatriots, but Truva was upon him before he could turn, darting from behind the barrels and driving her sword into his unarmoured back. Another of the three Corsairs approached, clay vessel clutched in hand – which Truva shattered against his chest with a kick, sending a yellow puff of powder billowing up into his face. As he clawed at the irritating powder, a second, more powerful front kick propelled him backwards, tumbling over the ship’s bulwarks into the waters below.

The third Corsair was given the advantage of time, however. He leapt forward to slash at Truva with his curved scimitar. She scarcely had time to parry before he circled and swung again – but far too wide. Truva ducked and drove into his legs until he fell to the deck. She slammed her forearm into his nose, stunning him, then used his own sword to sever the veins in his neck, all in short succession.

But even over the roar of battle, the fracas had not gone unnoticed. A clamour arose amongst the Corsairs. Those about the mangonels now raced towards the aft. Truva used all her might to upset the remaining stockpile, toppling barrels and sending clay pots hurtling in the advancing Corsairs’ direction. When the foremost adversary drew within striking distance, she gave one final toss of powdery sulphur and dashed to the ship’s railing, leaping overboard. Even as the Corsairs’ fingers reached out, they grasped naught but air.

Frigid waters enveloped Truva once more, the impact driving the air from her lungs. Arrows blossomed around her as she struggled to the surface; and so, taking a single gasp against the press of waves, she dove under once more.

Yet even when she resurfaced against the shelter of the dromund’s massive wooden body, shafts continued to rain down. Taking a deeper breath, Truva struck out towards the aft, hoping to escape the Corsairs’ notice by gaining the port side. She followed the barnacle-encrusted hull, lungs searing and desperate for air, until she came to the stern. Here, she allowed her head to drift to the surface again and, in failing to spy the enemy above, rose further out of the water. She cast about for flotsam to cling to, yet the sight she beheld in doing so immediately revealed why the Corsairs had ceased to pay her any regard:

There, beside the dromund bow, a raft had been lowered into the water. Its platform was stacked high with wood and kindling, pots of smouldering embers nestled amongst the branches, and those of naphtha hung above, strung between four poles with twine. The barge was rowed by two sailors – one in a skiff – towards the Tower of the Ship-kings. This pattern repeated across all dromunds gathered there, some half-dozen rafts in total.

A long-distant conversation with Gimli surfaced in Truva’s mind. During his stay in Edoras for Éomer King’s coronation festivities, the Dwarf had spoken of his intention to use traditional methods when establishing his kingdom within the Glittering Caves; for in days of old, the Dwarves of Nogrod and Belegost were known to use fire when mining the mountain depths, setting flame to stone before dousing it with vinegar, causing even the most solid of rock to split.

The Corsairs intended to bring down the entire Tower with the same methods!

Truva propelled herself forward, gaining on the small flotilla with each stroke. Yet even as she watched, the Corsairs moored the fire ships at the Tower’s very base and bent to scatter the embers over the kindling. No sooner had the barges’ contents been set ablaze than the Corsairs absconded into their skiffs, passing back towards the dromunds without so much as detecting Truva.

She pulled harder, willing herself to cut faster through the water. Upon gaining the platform of the first wooden raft, she clambered out of the water – only to be struck by a projectile with such force she was sent tumbling back into the water, dazed.

She had not evaded the Corsairs’ notice after all.

A rope had wrapped itself tightly about her neck, weighted by two stones now pulling her down, down into the depths of the Sirith. Her hands clawed at her neck; her head spun. The fires upon the barges faded from view and darkness swallowed the world.

Truva had long ago resigned herself to death upon the battlefield – perhaps even far from home – yet never had she imagined her fate would involve drowning in an unfamiliar waterway. Her mind was lost; it could think no further thoughts, not even of those she had once loved. As her body consumed every final wisp of air, her mouth opened to gasp its last.

Yet even as the water rushed in, fingers tore at the rope, releasing Truva from its weight. Hands grasped the back of her armour and she was drawn upwards, up towards the glimmering surface, towards fire and battle and chaos once more.

Sound assaulted her ears when she broke the surface. Her skin seared in the heat. A hand pounded her back, causing her to expel water. As she lay prone upon the very edge of the barge, its contents burning but a few feet from her, Truva’s senses slowly returned. Legolas knelt at her side.

She waved a hand weakly. ‘I am all right.’

‘Good,’ said Legolas. The back-thumping ceased. ‘It would not do to die now.’

Truva brushed aside the Elf’s nonchalant response to her near-death. ‘Where did you come from?’ she asked.

Legolas turned and pointed towards a rope dangling from one of the lofty Tower windows down to the very water itself.

‘It was difficult to extinguish the fires with any accuracy from such a height, and so I descended to deal with them directly,’ he explained. ‘I have eliminated the fire-setting Corsairs as they returned to their ships – perhaps buying us some time before their compatriots notice their prolonged absence. Even so, it will not be long before we are discovered. Come, let us see to these fire ships!’

He slipped back into the water, seemingly unperturbed by its frigid temperatures, and swam for a second barge. After several steadying breaths, Truva applied herself to the first. Making sure to stay on the far side of the conflagration, out of the dromunds’ line of sight, she leapt up high and came down upon the edge of the barge, causing it to rock unsteadily. Again and again she repeated this motion until waves of water washed up over the top, lapping at the tangle of firewood. Smoke and steam were sent skyward, but still the bonfire roared.

The Corsairs aboard the dromund had meanwhile observed the barges’ rocking with some bemusement, and upon discovering the fire ship rowers’ lifeless bodies in the skiffs, discerned the plot against them. They began to pepper both Truva and Legolas with arrows, sending the bolts up and over the inferno – for though they could not see the northerners, they had deduced the fire ships’ only hiding place. Several arrows struck disconcertingly close to where Truva leapt on the raft edge.

‘One last push shall do it!’ Legolas cried as he made for another barge, the logs of both the first and second already drifting apart on the current. Their lashings had been severed by the Elf.

Taking a near extinguished brand in hand, Truva used it to disperse the still-raging fire, ducking this way and that to avoid the Corsairs’ assault. When the flames had abated somewhat, she was at last able to reach the vessels of naphtha-like liquid that hung above. One she cut down and tossed into the Sirith, but even as she reached for a second, its rope was consumed by fire, sending the clay pot hurtling towards the raft deck. It burst on impact, igniting in a flash and sending a streak of flames across the river, just barely missing Legolas.

‘Do not douse it with water!’ he shouted. ‘It will only burn all the more furiously!’

‘You know of what magic this is?’ Truva shouted in return, but the Elf merely shook his head. He had succeeded in unmooring the fourth raft, and sent it drifting back towards the dromunds.

‘’Tis a strange new evil,’ he said, rejoining her.

Together they worked swiftly to dispose of the remaining barges’ naphtha jars, and to douse the wood fires to mere flickers. More than once their armour proved its worth as Corsair arrows continued to rain down, and soon Truva and Legolas’ efforts reached the point of diminishing returns.

‘Now up!’ said the Elf, pointing towards the rope by which he had descended. Standing agilely upon a single, slippery log even as it rolled beneath him, he drew his bow and sent off a volley in the direction of the Corsair dromunds.

Truva swam for the rope. Her arms ached, the freezing water cut to the bone; and even as she pulled her body from the water, arrows clacked against the stone wall on all sides – though their pace had slowed somewhat, for the fire ship Legolas had sent in the dromunds’ direction proved a successful distraction.

A league Truva could easily run in times of peace, and yet the distance above her seemed ten times that. At first she swung from side to side as she ascended, hoping the enemy bolts would swing wide, but it proved too strenuous; shoulders searing and desperate to reach the safety of the Tower, she abandoned all evasive manoeuvres and climbed straight up.

Several floors below where Legolas had secured the rope, a window remained unshattered and fire did not rage within. Drawing her dagger, Truva used its pommel to strike the glass, shielding her head as shards rained down. She slid through the opening, teeth of glass still embedded in the frame scraping against her armour, and fell upon the carpeted floor of the Tower. It was but a few moments later that Legolas leapt in deftly behind her, releasing one final volley before stooping to aid Truva to her feet.

‘Gimli and Aragorn fight upon the battlements along the Anduin,’ he said. ‘They attack the Corsair ships there even now; let us lend them succour.’

Truva did not have time to answer before the Elf darted along the corridor, a door at the end of which led to the guard tower beyond. Soldiers occupied every embrasure and arrow loop, their shouts echoing from the tower’s lowest levels to its highest turret as they assailed the Corsairs’ remaining capital ships, or raced about to where their help was needed most. Following a small contingent, Legolas bounded to the stair and raced upwards, Truva not far behind.

They stepped out into utter chaos. Unquenchable fire flared all along the battlements and consumed several Pelargirian siege engines. Any undamaged trebuchets were arrayed facing northward – for having shrugged off the Alcariundur’s attack and succeeded in docking along the wharf, the Corsairs on the first wave of dromunds had disembarked and now assailed the city’s main gates far below. The bulk of Pelargir’s forces gathered there to contend with this new threat, leaving only a smattering of archers to defend against the seemingly indestructible ships before the Tower.

Legolas was gone from Truva’s side in an instant, leaving her to skirt fires and bumble through the smoke-obscured throngs in his wake. Where the fighting was thickest about a small bastion, they found Minister Tinnedir, who himself manned a ballista alongside several of his advisors. Truva swept into a bow, though Legolas merely inclined his head.

‘Prince Legolas!’ exclaimed the Minister. ‘I assume your sortie was successful, then. And Marshal Truva — how fare the Rohirrim?’

‘I had hoped you might be more knowledgeable than I on that matter, my lord,’ she replied. ‘I regret to inform you we were entirely overwhelmed, and I was separated from my brethren as they withdrew into the main city. I know not what became of them.’

‘All returned safely across the Sirith,’ called a voice.

The three turned to observe Aragorn emerging from the northern gatehouse tower, his brow bathed in sweat, with blood streaked across his armour. The raging battle seemed to still around him as he strode from inner stairs to bastion, that same serenity writ across his features – though it was tempered by grim determination. Truva’s heart leapt when he drew near enough to see the blood upon his armour was not his own, and his lowered voice spoke ease into her heart: ‘Including Roheryn. King Éomer and the Rohirrim now defend the western battlements in conjunction with Captain Maeron’s men.’

‘That is a relief,’ said the Minister. ‘Though I doubt they face as pressing matters as we.’

At these words, the entire company glanced over the parapet to where the Corsairs applied their terrible fires to the gate below.

‘Where would you have us serve, my lord?’ asked Legolas.

‘Perhaps your bow would best serve us upon the battlements—’

‘I think it better they fight at the gate,’ Aragorn interrupted, his tone pointed yet not insistent.

The Minister’s head inclined almost imperceptibly, though he did not question his King. ‘I will yield to your determination,’ he said at last.

Without a word further, Aragorn turned and made for the tower. Legolas and Truva raced after him, careening down the inner stair until they gained the military complex. They dashed past barracks and over a canal bridge, where even now the portcullis handily thwarted the Corsairs’ attempts to breach what they had mistakenly believed to be a point of weakness.

Dodging small contingents here and there, the trio came at last to the main gate. The Pelargirian soldiers held their position against the oppressive force of Corsairs – but only just. Smoke billowed from each crevice of the wooden gates, a crimson glow illuminating the soldiers as they sought to smother flames that sprang up between base and flagstone. The tide of red grew larger with each passing moment, bathing the scene in sweltering heat and drawing cries of anguish from those it drowned.

Aragorn gave a sharp whistle, drawing Truva’s attention to Gimli, who was passing barricade materials along a chain of soldiers. Upon hearing Aragorn’s whistle, the Dwarf looked up and pushed through the toiling masses to the trio’s position. He gave Truva a hearty slap on the arm, saying, ‘Glad to see you well, Marshal – I heard the Rohirrim were annihilated upon the Sirith.’

‘The Corsairs should be so lucky,’ she quipped in return, yet Aragon would brook no distraction.

‘Come, let us see what defences might yet be constructed against these seamen,’ said he.

But in that very moment, a thunderous boom sounded at the gates. Not content to allow fire to do their fell work, the Corsairs had begun to ply a ram to the weakened wood. Another toll sounded, as a giant knocking to request entry.

And they would deny it.

‘Let the gate burn!’ Aragorn cried. The bustle about the entry ceased at once. ‘Build the barricade ten paces back, so it does not catch fire. We shall trap the Corsairs in this passageway.’

‘What of the inner defences, Aragorn?’ asked Gimli. ‘Where shall we fall back to should our line here fail?’

Aragorn glanced about as soldiers rushed to obey his orders. With voice low, his eyes flickered back to his companions. ‘The citadel is the only remaining fortified position within the city itself; Pelargir’s waterways and convoluted layout have always made it difficult to defend, but what few posts it boasted were destroyed when the Corsairs took it during the War. We must hold.’

Gimli scratched his beard. ‘It’s not as though we’re facing a force of Mordor more than ten times greater than our own, at the very gates of the Black Land itself,’ he said gruffly. Aragorn gave his shoulder a pat, suppressing an amused grimace.

‘It is true, my friend,’ he said. ‘We have faced far less favourable odds in the past.’

‘Let victory be ours, as it was then,’ said Legolas with a firm nod.

‘Helm willing,’ Truva added.

‘Helm willing,’ Aragorn echoed with the wisp of a smile upon his lips, though it was swift to disappear at the sound of yet another battering ram crash. The four leapt to aid the Pelargirian soldiers as they piled whatever was at hand into a tangle of wooden beams and wine barrels, stout tables and spears. The din of battle still clamoured on the battlements high above as the defenders there rained down their assault upon the Corsairs below.

With each blow of the ram, the gate doors gave a little more. Smoke curled thicker and flames began to climb towards the topmost hinges. As Truva lobbed a chair onto the barrier heights, acrid air choked her lungs, leaving her dizzy and gasping for breath.

Then, with a final shudder, bolts and bars – weakened by the flames – were rent from their anchors to whizz past the defenders’ heads, joined by a cover salvo from the Corsairs. The Pelargirians’ own arrows were swiftly sent in answer, cutting down the first wave of adversaries to charge through the smoke, wielding crossbows and swords and fire.

With a swift kick to an unsteady beam, Truva sent two surging Corsairs tumbling back down the barricade. One was dispatched by archers on the walls above, but he was swiftly replaced by a half-dozen other foes – who were in turn supported by a score more. A spark rose upwards; in moments, the improvised barricade was aflame, igniting a scarlet screen before the Pelargirians. But still the Corsairs came, leaping through hidden pathways, unaffected by the scorching heat.

‘Fall back, fall back!’ cried a captain of the city guard, a man by the name of Loendir.

‘We cannot fall back!’ shouted Aragorn in reply. ‘Captain, gather your men and hold our position here. Is there no other means of accessing the wharf? No sally port, no postern door?’

‘None save the canals, milord. But the gates have been lowered; you cannot sail out.’

‘Then we shall swim,’ said Aragorn with a grim set of his jaw.

‘You are mad!’ exclaimed Legolas, never one to mince his words – not even with the King of the Reunited Realms.

‘Mad?’ said Aragorn. ‘Verily! Yet should this gate fall, the entire city will fall with it. The full brunt of the Corsairs’ strength will soon be directed here, now that their assault against the Sirith battlements has failed and their attempts to undermine the Tower of Ship-kings proven too time-consuming. If we grant them the opportunity to regroup, our defences here are sure to be overrun.’

‘Their numbers are greater than ours,’ said Gimli, his eyes glinting, ‘but I am certain their strength of heart pales in comparison.’

And so the four gathered a company of exhausted yet determined Pelargirian soldiers about them and stole north along the streets of Pelargir. It was not long until they came to the next canal, where they were greeted by a guard.

‘The Corsairs’ attention is fixed on the main gate,’ said one. ‘They ready for their assault, and do not watch their flank, believing that which protects us also protects them.’

‘We must move quickly, or our defenses will fall before we have a chance to strike,’ said Aragorn, moving to where street, wall, canal and gate all converged.

‘Follow the fifth bar, milord,’ the guard advised. ‘A small gap was left for those who know where to find it. You will not have to go so deep as the gate’s very bottom.’

Without answering, Aragorn slipped into the water. He was gone in an instant, soon followed by Legolas and Gimli. Then it was Truva’s turn. She gulped down a big breath of air and fear before throwing herself into the canal. One, two, three – she counted the iron stiles. Down, down into the depths she went, feeling her way with hands half-numb from cold in the utter darkness, climbing rail by rail until it seemed almost as though her lungs would burst.

Just when the edge of panic started to set in, her foot found nothing: the bottom of the gate! In a mad scramble, Truva ducked through the gap and raced back up the opposite side, breaking the surface just beside Legolas.

They clung to the edge of the wharf, observing the Corsairs’ activities as the motley company of Pelargirians, Gondorians, and Ithilien warriors emerged one by one into the slight bay behind them.

‘We must drive a wedge along the wall,’ Aragorn whispered. ‘Only in that way do we have any hope of rejoining our forces at the gate. We cannot overpower the enemy, but perhaps we have a chance of funneling them southward, back towards their own ships and away from our defenses. A retreat is the best we can hope for in these circumstances, I think.’

Grim looks were exchanged. Then, with one last silent nod, Aragorn pulled himself out of the water onto the staithe. Truva and a handful of warriors, including Legolas and Gimli, climbed immediately into position at his back. Crouching low and keeping close to the wall, they crept forward as the others came up wave by wave after them. Gradually their pace increased, until Aragorn was within a hundred paces and still their approach had not been detected by the Corsairs, shielded as they were by the fires’ roiling smoke.

With a final, guttural yell, Aragorn raised his glittering blade high and charged.

All semblance of order dissolved as the press of enemies turned to fend off this new attack. Truva attempted to follow Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli in a diamond formation along the wall, but a Corsair immediately came between them. Before he could even cast his first strike, Truva darted in tight, sweeping his feet out from underneath him and sinking her blade deep into his helm.

‘Drive forward! Drive forward!’ came Aragorn’s cry nearby.

Truva turned to assess the conflict just as a second adversary approached too close. She warded off his attack with a swipe of Fréodhel, but he circled easily away. Picking up the dead Corsair’s axe, she hefted it in her hand a moment then slung it in her opponent’s direction. He dodged but the heel caught his shoulder, driving him back a few steps. Still he was not dissuaded; he charged a second time. And so Truva wielded Fréodhel, catching the Corsair’s own axe between beard and handle and deftly disarming him. He joined his compatriot on the planks of the wharf.

Truva was now quite some distance from Aragorn and the others. The company was divided; a few of their number were pressed against the wall, having failed to forge a path through to the main gates – where Corsairs now poured into the city. The rest had been forced to the opposite side of the wharf and now fought with their backs to the water.

Yet even as Truva looked about, a shock of horror jolted through her to spy the young sailor Fofrin teetering upon the very edge of the staithe. His ungainly arms waved as he struggled to ward off the attacks of a short, lithe Corsair whose strikes came fast and heavy, always from a new direction, always obscured by feinting movements. Fofrin was only just scarcely able to bring his own blade up each time to defend himself. Blood poured from a cut above his eye. His left leg dragged as if wounded.

Truva shoved past foe and friend alike to come to the boy’s aid, but the Corsair succeeded in slashing him thrice more before she could get close. Then, in an instant, Truva leapt the remaining distance and tackled the Corsair, sending all three careening over the wharf edge and into the Langflood.

Unable to find Fofrin in the chaos, Truva latched herself onto the Corsair’s back and promptly drew her dagger across his throat. Limp, he slipped from her grip and was taken by the river. But when Truva surfaced, Fofrin was still nowhere to be found. Taking a deep lungful of air, she dipped back underwater and peered into the inky blackness, frantic, hope fading with each passing second. But then, by the gates’ fiery glow, she caught a glimpse of his dark figure sinking down into the depths.

Surging forward, Truva just barely snatched Fofrin by the crook of his arm. She dragged his limp form back onto the wharf with not a little difficulty, then leapt to her feet to defend him.

But she needn’t have bothered. Aragorn’s attack had indeed drawn many Corsairs away from the gate, but had not been sufficient to drive them southward along the wharf. Seeing the King’s company exposed and outnumbered, Captain Loendir had marshalled his warriors and led them in a desperate charge, bolstered by men sent by Minister Tinnedir. They poured forth from the gate, catching the Corsairs by surprise.

Overwhelmed by this sudden onslaught, the Corsairs scrambled in throngs back across the wharf towards their dromunds. But much to their dismay, the Alcarindur and her companions had regrouped as the conflict raged, and succeeded in unmooring the Corsair vessels. These enemy ships now bobbed near the middle of Langflood, unreachable.

Cut off from escape, many Corsairs simply leapt into the water and struck out, hoping for nothing more than to gain some distance between themselves and the warriors of Pelargir.

But Truva paid little attention to such details, once sure of her own safety. She bent low over Fofrin’s face, searching for any sign of life – any wisp of breath, any flutter of his eyes, any movement of his limbs.

There was none.

Truva’s chest grew as still as Fofrin’s own, her mind blank. In a moment of blind fury at all the paths that had led to this fate, she pounded his chest, a cry ripping from her throat. It was wordless, raw – repeated all across the wharfs by others struck with similar grief.

Captain Maeron, binding half a dozen Corsairs who had surrendered nearby, heard Truva’s shout. Rushing immediately to her succour, he knelt beside her and removed Fofrin’s armour. Then he, too, leaned close.

‘Well, don't stop!’ he exclaimed, straightening. ‘He’s not gone!’

Stunned, Truva resumed the chest beating, mimicking the motions Maeron demonstrated to her. She watched in amazement as the breath that had been indistinguishable to her at first became stronger and stronger, and gradually Fofrin’s breathing grew steady, albeit still faint.

Maeron sat back upon his haunches with a self-satisfied grin. ‘It is a method of resuscitation our naval forces have been experimenting with lately,’ he said by way of explanation, noting Truva’s wide-eyed expression.

‘It is like reviving one from the dead,’ she said breathlessly, peering into Fofrin’s pallid features and laying a hand upon his wet locks.

Her gaze then turned to Aragorn, who stood upon the wharf alongside Legolas and Gimli, observing a herd of adversaries swim across the Langflood and clamber aboard their ships. Even as they looked on, the first Corsair dromund drifted southward with the current, approaching those still lobbing volley after volley towards the Tower of the Ship-kings. All hope of breaking the Gondorian stronghold dashed, these too fell in behind their retreating companions, and at last the chaos came to a standstill.

Chapter Text

‘We must pursue them southward!’ cried Gimli.

Following an emotional reunion between Truva and Éomer King, the band of northern commanders had convened once more in the Minister’s Hall, despite their exhausted state and the dark night which transitioned to grey, early dawn over the Ephel Dúath in the east. They now waged a new kind of battle – one of words over what course of action to take.

‘We have set the Corsairs on their heels,’ said Legolas. ‘Is this not a perfect opportunity to rid Gondor of this unrelenting pest once and for all?’

‘Pursue them with what ships?’ asked Captain Bardlorn pointedly. ‘And with what men? We have destroyed two of their vessels – it is true – yet in doing so lost one of ours. Their numbers are still more than double our own. It was the advantage of our position behind battlements that allowed us to ward off their attack here; we would not be so fortunate upon open waters.’

‘Further, we know not whether reinforcements will come to their aid – perhaps to mount a second assault,’ Minister Tinnedir argued. ‘Pelargir must be prepared for that possibility. The city sustained extensive damage; we must see to repairs promptly.’

‘There will be no prospect of a second attack if we destroy the Corsairs before they have a chance to return!’ countered Gimli.

‘And if it be true that their original intent was to strike Dol Amroth, they might yet set their course for that city,’ said Captain Maeron. ‘We would do well to lend them succour.’

‘Lord Imrahil has defences enough,’ said the Minister. ‘And ships, too. Dol Amroth would fare far better than Pelargir, were the Corsairs in their weakened state foolhardy enough to descend upon that city; no, I do not think the Southrons would be so imprudent.’

‘If there is one thing the enemy’s actions have demonstrated to us, it is that they are neither predictable nor prudent,’ Éomer King remarked.

‘And such unpredictability nearly won them this very city,’ said Maeron. ‘Had our forces not come out of the north – only just making it in time – all would have been lost. Would we abandon Dol Amroth to the same fate?’

‘We speak as though there are only two paths of recourse,’ said Aragorn, breaking his own silence at last. ‘Go or stay, stay or go – we needn’t choose from this dichotomy. In truth, it would be unwise to remove our entire strength from Pelargir, yet Dol Amroth must not go unwarned.’

‘What would you suggest, my lord?’ asked the Minister.

‘I would advise that only a handful of Bardlorn’s sailors remain behind – if any; for they are not great in number, and their service is needed most aboard the Alcarindur and her companions,’ said Aragorn. ‘Maeron’s companies might be divided equally – or perhaps a greater number devoted to the defence of Pelargir, to compensate for the small number of Bardlorn’s men; though I would ask that both good captains accompany me south. As for my lord Éomer, it is not my place to command those who serve under his banner.’

‘I will go wherever you will me,’ said Éomer, ‘For ever shall the Mark serve as an ally of Gondor.’

‘Then I would ask that you accompany me south – for even unhorsed are your Riders a tremendous asset, and long has Imrahil expressed a desire for Dol Amroth to play host to so distinguished a guest.’

‘It would be an honour,’ replied Éomer.

‘If this be the council’s conclusion, I will not be excluded,’ said Legolas.

‘Nor I!’ added Gimli. ‘Tales of great cliffs along the southern coasts of Gondor have I heard, yet seen them I have not. I would very much like to rectify that.’

‘If there are no further objections, let us all to our rest,’ said Aragorn. ‘We shall set sail at noon, as not to allow the enemy to gain any great distance without being pursued.’

They rose as one – all save Truva who, in her soaked state, had been too fearful of ruining the Minister’s elegant chairs and thus chose to remain standing – and exited into the once-grand hallways of the Tower. Even now, Pelargirians scrambled about, extinguishing still-smouldering fires with buckets of sand. The commanders picked their way past these efforts and out into the courtyard, but while the Gondorians made for the military complex barracks, the Eorlingas proceeded to the stables – for there would be no rest for Truva until she laid eyes upon her horse. Her steps were quick along the flagstone streets, and Éomer lengthened his strides to match her hasty pace.

As they passed behind a guard post on the battlements, he turned his gaze to the sky and remarked, ‘I do not envy those with the unfortunate task of conducting watch after such a strenuous battle.’

‘Poor souls,’ Truva replied offhandedly, her attention determinedly ahead. ‘Still, I suppose their shift will be shortened.’

But there was something about Éomer’s trivial comment that piqued her attention. She observed him out of the corner of her eye; he fidgeted uncharacteristically, and did not stop even when they arrived at the stables. As Truva threw herself upon Roheryn, who had been groomed and fed and was now considerably drier than Truva herself, the King’s maladroit attempt at conversation continued:

‘Dol Amroth,’ he murmured, tending to his own horse. ‘It is a sight I will be seeing for the first time. Have you ever been so far south?’

Truva shot him a quizzical glance. ‘I have gone where you commanded me, my lord, and nowhere else.’

‘Right, right,’ said Éomer. He ran his fingers over his tangled golden locks with a rather sheepish look, then paused a moment longer before adding, ‘I imagine it is a lovely place, with the sea and all.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Truva, stroking Roheryn’s curly coat before sectioning off the hair of his mane. The Pelargirians had made a warmhearted attempt at braiding it, but no hands were so skilled as those of the Rohirrim at such tasks.

‘Spacious enough for Firefoot to run free.’ The horse in question gave a quiet nicker at this notion, as though he understood.

‘It is no tiny island, nor a deep cave or constricting valley,’ Truva reasoned.

Éomer’s absentminded air ever so faintly recalled his behaviour during last autumn’s coronation, when Prince Imrahil and the dignitaries of Dol Amroth arrived in Edoras to mark the occasion. But Truva did not press; Éomer King was a man capable of direct words – if he wished to speak his mind, he would do so.

‘Come, let us rest,’ said Éomer, returning to more sensible topics. ‘We’ve a long venture before us, I reckon.’ He roped off Firefoot’s stall and exited the stables. Her plaiting completed, Truva gave Roheryn’s nose one last rub before following.

The Riders were fast asleep and all lamps extinguished when the two commanders entered the barracks. Truva bumped her shin upon several low cots – causing their occupants to grumble sleepy complaints – before at last discovering her own quarters. She had scarcely removed her outermost armour before falling onto the bed and into sleep, leaving all tasks and concerns for the morrow.

It was full day – as indicated by the clatter and bustle outside – when she opened her eyes next. Éomer King had already vanished, gone about his tasks, and so Truva extricated herself from the comfort of her bunk, determined to make use of what little time they had before departure. She discovered her pack precisely where she had left it before battle, though in failing to find any clothing that so much as resembled clean, she merely slunk past the still-snoring Riders and out the barracks.

She immediately came upon a duo of Pelargirian guards, who stood before the barracks themselves, keeping watch over the Eorlingas. They snapped even tighter to attention as she approached.

‘Thank you for your service,’ Truva began, though neither responded, save to grip their spears tighter. ‘Pardon me, but did a bathhouse perhaps survive the destruction?’

‘Oh, aye, milady,’ replied one guard, who was clearly flustered as whether to bow or salute the strange foreigner, and so settled for both. ‘But you’ll have to cross the canal; the baths in the main city have been reserved for the use of common soldiers. Commanders can make use of the facilities of Iolbachor – which I have been led to believe are rather finer. Just head generally northward ’til you come to the bridge with the tree, where the canal diverges. After you cross, the bathhouse will be on your immediate left.’

‘Thank you,’ said Truva, turning to walk off in the direction indicated as both the soldier and his companion performed absurd displays of deference. Once out of earshot, she smiled to herself, grumbling, ‘How do these Gondorians still not recognise Eorling insignia? There’s a fair difference between a Marshal and a Lady.’

Striding along maze-like streets and over tiny bridges spanning narrow, watery alleys, Truva took in the rows of stone shops and businesses. She shortly came upon the canal the guard had spoken of, its current swift and dark as it flowed between two high retaining walls. In the stark midmorning sun, fishermen swarmed the many docks, as well as the mercantile district across the way. They tossed nets about and slipped their long, narrow crafts into the offshoot of the Sirith; for even as the city assembled to bandage its wounds, there were still mouths to feed in the wake of the battle’s destruction.

Truva stepped onto the wide stone bridge, dodging companies of Pelargirian soldiers and carts of building materials as they rushed towards the main gates to begin repair. She paused momentarily at the bridge’s crest and gazed down upon the elegantly carved boats and their stolid masters below, drifting out towards the more fruitful waters of Langflood. One or two even waved their hand in greeting, acknowledging her warrior’s garb.

The bathhouse was indeed not difficult to locate on the opposite bank, swathed in billowing steam as it was. Shrugging off the winter chill as she slipped into the muggy bathhouse air, Truva greeted the master, who refused her offer of payment.

‘No, Marshal,’ he said. ‘It would bring me great deal of shame if I were to accept remuneration from our defenders and allies – guests of the King himself.’ Pushing her extended hand and the coins contained within back towards her, the master instead led Truva along a marble hall, cushioned with rattan mats. They brushed past plants the like of which she had never seen – those that flourished only in the humid space of the baths.

When he came to a doorway, the master motioned her through an entryway then disappeared. Holding aside a curtain, Truva found herself in a small antechamber lined with shelves carved into the stone walls. She removed her clothes – filthy with sweat, soot, blood, and river water – and placed them upon a lower ledge before ducking past a second curtain into the baths beyond.

The vast hall left Truva in awe. Unlike Minas Tirith, constrained by its historic walls, the city of Pelargir had sprawled northward in ever increasing size. Its infrastructure had followed in kind. Here was a sight fit indeed for a king: row upon row of baths, boasting all manner of temperatures and healing properties. Fountains and scrolling ornamentation and lush screens of vegetation transformed the space into something beyond mere hygienic necessity.

Not one other being was present, and so Truva felt rather guilty for hoarding such luxury to herself. But she pushed these thoughts aside and sank, exhausted, into the nearest bath, allowing herself the tiniest touch of tranquillity. She sat in the scalding waters she knew not how long – perhaps slipping into slumber a short while, though she could not be sure – and when the soreness was leeched from her joints, she emerged at long last, steeled to face expectations and the journey south.

Upon reentering the antechamber, however, Truva realised her own attire was gone, replaced by a freshly laundered set. She had heard no one come nor go, yet when she lifted the clothes to her, they were still warm, as though heated before a fire. It was beautiful raiment: a cream silk tunic with hems embroidered in gold thread, and a sturdy pair of tights.

Absent her own, Truva had no other choice save to don the clothing; and so she did, surreptitiously exiting the chamber in hopes of evading notice in the excessively fine garments. Yet even as she brushed the outer curtain aside, she nearly collided with a figure just beyond.

‘Truva,’ said Aragorn, looking down upon her with an expression that, on the whole, lacked surprise.

‘My lord Aragorn,’ said Truva, realisation dawning upon her. ‘I suppose it was you who made these arrangements?’ she asked, motioning to her tunic.

Aragorn first looked about to confirm the bathhouse master was nowhere to be seen, then reached out and brushed his finger along the cranes embroidered mid-flight across the sleeves.

‘Yes, you shall make a fair sight upon your arrival at Dol Amroth, the very source of this fine fabric – as shall King Éomer, for I have provided him similar raiment,’ said Aragorn, cutting off Truva’s protests. ‘How poorly would it reflect upon my reign, if I allowed my allies to defend my borders, then did not so much as supply them clean clothes!’

‘Ah, I cannot be the source of his majesty’s humiliation,’ Truva capitulated.

With furtive smiles, they made for the bathhouse entrance, bowing to the master before ducking back out into the street beyond. They walked side by side along the cobblestone streets, unspeaking, retracing the path back to the military complex. Truva longed for nothing more than to reach out and take Aragorn’s hand in her own, yet the city was now even more crowded with all manner of soldier and resident alike, their joy for having survived the night palpable.

When the two arrived before the barracks, Aragorn made a motion as if to stroke Truva’s hair, then – with a glance to the two Pelargirian soldiers who still stood guard – thought better of it. ‘If only Gandalf had not seen fit to meddle, as always!’ he exclaimed softly.

‘To question the wisdom of Wizards is a foolhardy thing indeed,’ said Truva with a wry smile, her eyes downturned.

‘I fear it shall be a long while ere we might be afforded a breath of privacy.’

Truva’s eyes finally rose to meet Aragorn’s, her own frustration reflected there. ‘We have come together, only to spend but the briefest of moments in each other’s company,’ she said.

‘Yet they are the most precious moments to me,’ said Aragorn, drawing infinitesimally nearer.

‘And to me,’ whispered Truva.

Aragorn paused, hesitating, then said, ‘Noon is nigh; gather your Riders and prepare to set sail.’ He then turned and made off towards the citadel, long strides carrying him swiftly away. With one last glance after his retreating back, Truva entered the barracks and began to rouse those Eorlingas who still slept soundly.

It was not long before the south-bound forces were all arranged upon the quay, rucksacks packed and horses in tow. Each of the Riders and White Company guardsmen were adorned in fresh raiment, and though only the commanders’ was so fine as hers, Truva was glad to see she would not be so distinct from the rest of her company.

Fofrin was amongst their number, too – borne upon a stretcher, for he would be taken to Dol Amroth and treated there. The young sailor insisted his wounds were not grievous, and there was little space for him in the infirmaries of Pelargir, which were overrun by their own citizens, many of whom sported gruesome burns from the Corsairs’ assaults.

The armies boarded quickly, and soon the fleet’s anchors had been weighed; even as the sun began to dip into the clear, crisp air of the western skies, mist sprayed at the bow of the Alcarindur. Truva saw to it that Roheryn was tended to before ascending to the upper decks, her stomach already unsettled.

Much like on their initial journey from Ithilien, tension gripped the warriors – for they knew the Corsairs’ dromunds sailed swiftly before them. Who was to say whether the enemy would turn suddenly to catch their pursuers unawares, or send small sorties to harass them? But most of all, concern for their southern compatriots clouded the sailors’ minds – both for those Pelargirian ships that had fallen prey to the Corsairs before their northern assault, and for the city of Dol Amroth itself.

The Alcarindur had, to great fortune, avoided significant damage during the battle. Even so, there were many repairs to be seen to. Captain Bardlorn ensured the Eorlingas were put to good use; and in being tasked with duties aboard the ship, their restless hearts were provided some much-needed relief, in turn. Truva spent a shift rowing down below before volunteering to assist in the infirmary, struggling to keep the nausea at bay all the while.

‘How is it you do this day in and day out?’ she asked of Fofrin when she came to the foot of his bed – for indeed he was the only patient on the vessel. ‘How do you remain belowdecks, out of sight of water, and of land, and work like this every time you set sail?’

‘With practice!’ he laughed, seeming to find joy in her mild suffering, though each of his movements caused him to wince in pain. ‘At least you are not nearly so seasick as when you first came on board.’

‘That is so,’ said Truva, restraining Fofrin with a firm hand, for he struggled to sit up. ‘It is in large thanks to Maeron Captain’s advice that I have gradually grown accustomed to the infernal rocking of this ship. Perhaps I have even come to enjoy it somewhat.’

‘We shall make a sailor of you yet, Marshal!’

‘That I very much doubt,’ she smiled.

The two fell into a comfortable silence as Truva inspected Fofrin’s bandages. At first she thought his soft gasps were of pain, and strove to be even gentler as she extricated gauze from suspiciously weeping wounds, but then she saw he was summoning the courage to speak.

‘How do you do it day in and day out?’ he whispered, his gaze fixed on her. ‘Fighting, that is.’

Truva eyed him sharply. ‘With practice,’ she murmured, voice just as soft. Fofrin’s eyes fell to his hands as she continued, ‘The only good that comes of war is the protection of our people, and for that we endure what we must. But it is not a path we ought to glorify, and though we hail our returned warriors as heroes, never once have I felt as such.’

Fofrin closed his eyes then, and Truva was not sure whether it was from the pain of his injuries or her words, or perhaps both. She finished her duties as swiftly as she might without causing further pain, then laid a hand upon the young sailor’s arm in a gesture of comfort before rising and exiting the infirmary.

Through such small interactions, the hours of the first afternoon passed, and then those of the following day – at times more swiftly than others, but always too slow for Truva’s comfort. The fleet’s progress was unmarked save for the occasional settlement in the snowscape of southern Gondor’s farmlands, or the River Poros as it joined the Langflood’s southern journey. As the second day drew to a close, the river widened and the tiny dwellings upon the eastern banks faded from view; for the Alcarindur hugged the western reaches, cautious of being caught in an indefensible position – though still there was no trace of the Corsairs.

Grey skies donned the black of evening and storm clouds descended once again, further obscuring the scenery with a curtain of snow. Struck by the chill, Truva descended into the warm depths of the ship to rest, finding it inexplicable how the once treacherous hammocks had become so agreeable to her. Yet even as waves of sleep washed over her, so too did the waves in her dreams.

At first she drifted upon a vast expanse of water, no land in sight. Water lapped gently at the sides of the tiny vessel she was trapped in: a washtub scarcely larger than her own body. Slowly the ‘boat’ began to rock, though even when the swaying grew more violent Truva felt no fear; the boards beneath her tossed and rolled, and still her heart remained calm. Then, quite suddenly, the boat violently pitched forward. Truva was thrown into the water – but instead found herself face down upon the floor of the Alcarindur, awake once more.

Truva glanced about sheepishly, relieved to discover her fall had not disturbed any of the other Eorlingas. Sensing sleep would not come again, she crept abovedecks to stand at the bulwark, inhaling the night air. Its chill stung her nose and cut sharply into her lungs. Clouds had dispersed from even the highest reaches of the skies, and the moon shone down bright and clear upon the waters of Langflood, its light rippling along the river’s swift currents.

Then a peculiar mood overtook Truva, and she sensed all her disparate worries and concerns — the unending chaos, the Eorlingas who remained in the East-mark, Éowyn and her newborn child, Fofrin — converging within her mind to form a single, forward-moving stream, as though it were the Langflood itself. She felt vivified by the serenity around her.

From behind came the faint sound of shoe upon wooden deck. Heart racing, Truva spun round only to find Aragorn watching her from a distance. Relief washed through her, and when the King saw her eyes upon him, he beckoned her forward without a word. Taking her hand in his, Aragorn led Truva to the very prow of the ship and stood behind her, wrapping his arms about her and resting his head upon her shoulder.

‘Breathe in deeply,’ he said, voice not even a whisper. Truva did as he commanded, once more allowing the night air’s bite to prickle her nose. ‘What do you smell?’ he asked.

At first his question confused Truva. She stalled, inhaling several additional, unhurried lungfuls of air. But then a new sharpness cut through her senses, one not caused by the cold. ‘Brine, mayhap?’ she hazarded. ‘And the scent of pondweed, or some such.’

‘Look,’ said Aragorn, stretching one arm out over her shoulder and pointing far off into the distance ahead. ‘It is difficult to discern in this light, yet perhaps you can see it even now.’

Truva strained her eyes against the darkness; the stars offered little illumination in the moonless night sky. Before her she could see nothing save a black horizon, stretching infinitely to the ends of the earth. She told Aragorn so.

‘Precisely,’ he answered. ‘For before us lies the sea, and brine is the scent of its waves crashing upon beaches, the sands of which glimmer like mithril in even the faintest light. When the sun rises, you shall be able to look out across the waters to the far end of the sky.’

Truva’s breath caught in her throat, her heart fluttered in her breast – for at long last, a dream had come to fruition. In sailing south, she had assumed this eventuality would arise; yet the moment itself proved even more powerful than she had anticipated. To experience it within the steadfast arms of Aragorn defied belief.

‘So this is the smell of athelas to you?’ she asked, inhaling deeply once more.

‘Yes,’ said Aragorn, his breath gentle upon her neck. ‘To me, it is the scent of hope, and of opportunity; adventures yet unclaimed, and bountiful resources. I think you will find it smells nothing of horses.’

Truva laughed gently at the recollection – how long ago had it been that they had spoken thus, when Aragorn had treated her injuries with athelas in the infirmary of Hornburg! Only then did she learn the unassuming herb’s true power, yet how naïve she had been to think her journey would never take her so far as the sea itself.

‘It might not smell of horses,’ she admitted, ‘but for some reason I sense dreams yet unfulfilled.’

Aragorn released a sonorous laugh. ‘I have heard others describe it so, but never any man of the Mark.’

‘I find it inviting,’ said Truva, resting her head against his. Then suddenly she recalled her place, and glanced about the deck. ‘But what of the watch? Surely we cannot risk being discovered by sailors on their vigil!’

‘I sent them to their bunks,’ said Aragorn, a mischievous grin upon his lips. ‘No soldier worth his salt would refuse extra rest when offered by his King.’

And so the two lingered, tangled together in a rare display of affection, breathing in the brisk ocean air as the sun’s first light crept across the lands of South Gondor. The isle of Tolfalas rose up, dividing mountainous waves off the sea as they approached the coast and tumbled into the outflowing Langflood. Every roll of shimmering water seemed as if it would be the last, and yet it was ever followed by another, and another, each endlessly chasing its predecessor.

Beyond the isle’s barren, rocky spires stretched the infinite expanse of Belegaer. Even as Truva looked upon the Great Sea, its vastness evaded her comprehension, yet its increasingly rough waters also roused the Alcarindur’s passengers. Truva and Aragorn slipped from each other’s arms as the Eorlingas in particular raced to witness their emergence onto the salted waters of the sea.

Rather than sail forth across the mystifying depths, however, the cry of Captain Bardlorn could be heard: ‘Helm a-port!’

And so the fleet tacked westward, following the coast of Lebennin. The isle of Tolfalas fell away to leave the sailors’ view of Belegaer unobstructed. So enrapturing was the Bay’s vista that when Aragorn drifted towards the captain’s cabins to speak with Bardlorn, Truva remained at the prow for quite some time, gazing awestruck over the portside bulwark.

‘Every sailor can recall his first glimpse of the sea,’ said a voice at her elbow. Truva started and glanced towards its source, only to lay eyes upon Fofrin.

‘You ought to be in the infirmary, resting,’ she chided.

The young sailor grinned at her rakishly, spreading his arms in gesture towards the great expanse before them. ‘And not see the beauty of these waters?’ he said. ‘They are far more healing than any herb or serum!’

Truva smiled, for she could not fault his youthful enthusiasm – and perhaps he was right. Though she had sustained no significant injury during the battle at Pelargir, the emotional weight encumbering her heart ever since the company’s departure from Emyn Arnen seemed lifted; her breath came lighter upon the sea breeze. Giving him an acknowledging pat on the shoulder, she went about her tasks for the day, pausing on frequent occasion to observe the sea’s magnificence.

By that evening, the Alcarindur and her companions had drifted around the cape of Belfalas, situated at the very tip of a hill range which disrupted the open lands of Dor-en-Ernil. Come morning, the pure white tower of Tirith Aear was visible far off upon a distant outcrop in the west. Though a mere subsidiary of Minas Tirith, this southern bastion was not to be outshone; even the beauty of Gondor’s Sun itself seemed dim in comparison. Dol Amroth’s spires, visible from so great a distance, rose up in grandiose harmony with the surrounding lands.

The light of day began to fade as the Gondorian fleet drew around the promontory and sailed to the inlet of Cobas Haven beyond. Behind the Sea-ward Tower shone the dying rays of the sun, casting an umber light upon the city’s white walls. From across the waters came the sonorous toll of a bell. Within the topmost reaches of Tirith Aear a light was struck: a golden pool falling all about the tower and the lands it crowned.

Already a welcoming delegation had descended from the city. At its forefront stood the tall figure of Prince Imrahil – no less splendid for having exchanged his battle armour for raiment befitting more peaceful times – and his eldest son Elphir, surrounded by a great array of men all bearing the swanship emblem of Dol Amroth’s mighty fleet. Azure pennants fluttered on the sea breeze.

‘Well met, Lord Imrahil!’ cried Aragorn as he strode down the gangway, followed by Captain Bardlorn and Éomer King. Dodging the Dol Amrothinian sailors who raced to aid their northern counterparts in mooring the Alcarindur, Truva and Gamhelm led the remaining Eorling warriors from the ship, Maeron Captain and his own forces just behind. They all clustered tightly together upon the wharf, staring about at the majestic city which lay at the border between vast stretches of sea and land.

‘It is good to see you well, my King,’ said Imrahil, bowing to his knee. Elphir and the others were quick to follow his example. ‘Ill news we have had from the north, yet to see your smiling countenance, I suspect it to have been exaggerated.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Aragorn, drawing his commander up from supplication and embracing him. ‘I know not what news you have heard, yet I can assure you we have routed the Corsairs – for the time being. And it was not accomplished without the succour of our northern Rohirric allies.’

‘Ah yes, Lord Éomer,’ said Imrahil, turning to the newly ascended King and bowing. ‘Felicitations once more on your coronation; it seems but yesterday we celebrated in the hallowed halls of Meduseld.’

‘I accept with gratitude your congratulations,’ said Éomer, bowing in turn. ‘It gave me great pleasure to host the house of Dol Amroth in our humble city.’

‘And now that pleasure falls to us!’ said the Prince. ‘Come, you are sure to be exhausted; let us waggle our jaws less and shift our feet more. My younger children eagerly await your arrival.’

Aragorn fell in beside the Prince, and they set off through the port’s mercantile district. The eclectic company of Gondorian soldiers, Eorling Riders, and horses soon emerged onto a vast series of switchbacks leading up the hill towards the massive city walls. When they neared the gates – a good many of them rather out of breath – a deafening fanfare rang out. Even as the massive doors drew aside, a wave of cheers rushed to join the blast of trumpets.

Truva peered over the heads in front of her to catch a glimpse of guardsmen saluting from flanking towers, and an overwhelming press of Dol Amrothinian citizens gathered beyond. A wide thoroughfare ran directly from the gates to the citadel of Bar-in-Ciryn, yet it was narrowed by a microcosm of market tents and stalls. The company’s progress slowed. Men, women, and children alike showered the visitors with fluttering petals; beautiful nosegays of agapanthus and sea lavender fell at the feet of the newly-crowned High King of the Reunited Realms, and all who followed in his wake.

Many also gazed in astoundment at the Eorlingas’ unfamiliar uniforms. So far south had the stories of Éomer King and his peculiar Marshal spread that ripples of exclamations could be heard, even over the hubbub. One young boy darted out and pressed a single sprig of lavender into Truva’s hand before disappearing back into the crowd.

But he was not the only one seeking Truva’s attention.

‘Oi! Oi! Marshal! Oi!’ came a cry. Truva turned to see a path of Dol Amrothinians shoved aside, and then a familiar face emerged: Galador, the enthusiastic Swan Knight she had encountered in Ithilien following the battle of the Black Gates.

‘Have you any news from Minas Tirith?’ he asked as he strode alongside the Eorlingas, deftly diverting anyone who got in his way.

‘Alas, I bring you no word from the seamstress Aerin,’ said Truva; the man never saw fit to employ any affectation, and so it was no challenging task to discern the true purpose of his question.

‘It has been precisely one day and two hours since her last letter,’ said Galador, his crestfallen expression more than a little comical.

‘I will seek her out for your sake when next I am in that city.’

‘Thank you, thank you! Come sup with my family if—’

But Truva did not hear the rest, for the Knight was cut off by another spectator who did not take kindly to Galador coming between him and the procession.

At great last, the company arrived before Bar-in-Ciryn. Then, with a final wave to the crowd, the citadel gates were shut behind them. Truva marvelled as Prince Imrahil led them diagonally across the inner courtyard, amongst gently soughing willows and fragrant flower beds, to the northern arcade; if the architecture of Dol Amroth rivalled that of Minas Tirith, its gardens were surely unparalleled.

‘I must first express my most humble apologies,’ said the Prince as a quartet of guards opened heavy, oaken doors at the base of Tirith Aear itself, revealing a gilded hall beyond. ‘Though we have anticipated your coming for several days, our larders have fallen somewhat bare of late. It is with a great deal of humility that I can offer no more than a simple supper this night; but fear not! Tomorrow eve, we shall feast as two kings would see fit.’

‘To a soldier who has spent even but a few days on the water, a simple meal is – in and of itself – a feast,’ said Aragorn. ‘I am certain none shall find your hospitality lacking.’

‘Let such reassurances be reserved until you have seen what little we may offer you,’ said Imrahil with a wry smile.

The company was ushered along hallways speaking of ancient history. To Truva, the expansive tapestries hung on the walls of each corridor were reminiscent of those adorning Meduseld; rich and colourful, they depicted the age of Elves that had come before, the tragedies and glories that had befallen the great haven of Dol Amroth.

So absorbed in these stories was she that Truva unwittingly fell behind the others. Not until she came upon the end of one corridor did she stare at the three divergent passageways in a panic, finding herself entirely alone. She explored a short distance in one direction and then another, but could find no sign of her companions, and so fell hopelessly against the cool, rough stone wall.

In that very moment, Prince Imrahil himself appeared at the far end of the first hallway. He gave a low whistle and beckoned to Truva, who dashed to his side, relieved. Yet rather than rush off after the others, the Prince clasped his hands behind his back and meandered down a smaller, secondary passageway.

‘I see you have a great interest in our history,’ he remarked, looking upon the tapestries rather than his guest. Perplexed by the Prince’s behaviour, Truva nevertheless matched his pace.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yet though my education cannot be said to have been lacking, it was often tertiary; I believe the Eorling scholars’ knowledge extendeds little further than whatever texts the custodians of Minas Tirith’s libraries no longer saw use for.’

‘Let us hope the future brings greater concord between our peoples, to the benefit of all,’ said the Prince with a gentle smile. ‘There is as much we can learn from the Rohirrim, as you in turn can learn from us.’

He stopped then before one resplendent tapestry, its gleaming silvers interwoven with dark blues and blacks: a dark sea at night. Truva reached out, her fingers only just hovering over the threads.

‘What story does this depict?’

‘Long ago in the First Age lived the Elven maiden Nimrodel, who loved the King of the Wood, though she would not accept his hand in marriage. They agreed to sail to the Undying Lands from Edhellond together, yet upon being separated along their journey Nimrodel lingered here, whereas the Sinda King pressed on.’ The Prince paused to take a deep breath, though even after some time he did not continue.

‘What became of the lovers?’ Truva prompted.

‘The King elected to await his beloved on the ship that was to take them to the Undying Lands, yet even as he waited, a storm struck. He was swept out to sea. Loath to be parted from his beloved, the King leapt into the waters and struck out for land, only to be swallowed by the tempestuous waves.’

Truva drew in a sharp breath. ‘This King of the Wood you speak of is Amroth himself, no?’

Imrahil’s gaze shifted to her, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Though your knowledge be tertiary, do not let it be said that the Rohirrim are ignorant of all history.’

Truva smiled wanly in response, though she did not speak. The story weighed heavily in her heart; the dark colours of the tapestry threatened to pull her in and drown her as they had King Amroth.

‘Come,’ said the Prince. ‘I suspect the others will soon conclude their meal – humble as it is – and so I will have yours brought to your quarters.’

He led her along a maze of corridors and staircases, coming at last to a hallway directly below the citadel tower. ‘Éomer King is directly beside you, should you need him, or he you.’ He opened the door of the neighbouring chambers. ‘Otherwise, please make free use of the servants; I shall personally ensure even your slightest need is properly seen to.’

‘There is no need to go to such lengths,’ said Truva.

‘Whether it is necessary or not is of little concern; it is the Dol Amrothinian manner. We shall not soon forget that our Rohirric allies served to defend our lands – not once, but twice,’ said the Prince. ‘Now good night.’

As soon as the latch fell into place behind her host, Truva looked about the spacious accommodations – though her attention was drawn most strongly not to the room’s furnishings, but to its luxurious glass-paned window, beyond which stretched the sea. Little was discernible in the night, yet she could sense its vast expanse, feel the sorrow of Amroth and Nimrodel.

The waves’ comforting whisper eased Truva’s rest that night, and she woke in the soft, dim light of dawn with heart renewed. Emerging into the deserted corridor, the quietude that had fallen over Bar-in-Ciryn and its surrounding city pressed in on her. Truva made for a stairwell at the far end of the hall, yet no sooner had she begun to ascend than a servant descended from above.

‘Did you sleep well, milady? Did you find everything to your satisfaction? Was there anything amiss? Are you hungry?’ The questions came so thick Truva did not have an opportunity to respond, though that did not seem to give the maid pause. ‘If you are peckish, breakfast has already begun in the hall. I will lead you there, if you wish.’

Being otherwise unoccupied, Truva agreed and followed the bustling servant down stairs and through hallways to the south side of the complex. On the ground floor stood massive double doors, carved with roiling waves of the sea, which the servant threw wide open. She briefly stood aside to allow Truva entrance, then turned to a bell and struck it with a clang that resounded throughout the hall.

‘Milady the Second Marshal of Rohan!’ she pronounced. Truva gazed in astoundment, a red flush creeping up her face, yet the servant continued to pay her little heed. Without meeting Truva’s eyes, she backed out of the hall and closed the door behind her.

Truva’s embarrassment was alleviated by the near-deserted nature of the hall. She skirted the long tables, arrayed in a great rectangle, and made for the far corner, taking in the hall’s splendour as she went. Azure curtains – embroidered in gold and white – draped from the high ceiling to pool on the floor, dampening the hall’s sounds. A bay of windows along the opposite wall looked out upon the gardens of the citadel, stormy grey clouds casting a gloom over the lush trees and flowerbeds.

The porridge a servant placed before her seemed familiar enough, yet when Truva took a bite, she nearly spat it out for how salty it was. She scooped up a greyish, mushroom-like slice of meat with her spoon and inspected it carefully.

‘Abalone,’ said Erchirion, Prince Imrahil’s second son. His ever-present smile beamed as he took a seat beside Truva. ‘Many other cultures consider porridge the food of peasants, but this is fit for kings.’

‘Prince Erchirion,’ said Truva. ‘It is well to see you again. How have you fared since Éomer King’s coronation?’

‘Well enough,’ he said, grin only growing wider, ‘though there are times I long to return to Edoras’ cosy loom shop.’

Truva laughed pleasantly. ‘And the Princess Lothíriel?’

‘You might ask her yourself, though she is still abed – as is my brother Amrothos, whom you have yet to meet. Your absence was hard-felt yesterday evening.’

‘I found myself the unexpected beneficiary of your father’s generous tutelage. But the feast will surely prove opportunity enough to extend my salutations to all members of your family.’

They were joined just then by Gimli and Maeron Captain, both of whom were especially keen on the topic of feasts; and though Legolas was less enthusiastic, even he speculated as to what dishes might be served that evening. By the time the bell announcing Prince Imrahil’s entrance was sounded, a crowd of northern leaders had gathered in the dining hall.

‘I hate to disturb your pleasant ruminations,’ said the Prince, drawing near the table. ‘But I must request we convene over matters rather more grim.’

The commanders retired at once to the Prince’s study, where already Aragorn stood near the central table, a map of Gondor’s southern regions spread upon its polished oaken surface. When he turned from the immense window opening onto the aquamarine Bay of Belfalas, a furtive smile passed between them – no more.

‘To wit, the Corsairs,’ said Imrahil, indicating for the commanders to gather about the table. ‘For centuries have our easterly neighbours plagued these shores, yet with the resounding defeat of Sauron and his dark forces, I had thought the threat over.’

‘No sooner is one foe vanquished than in his lingering echo appears another,’ said Legolas.

‘Aye, and the poor blighters were shamed by their routing – both during the War and once again in Pelargir,’ said Gimli. Though his grin was not visible through his beard, it was apparent upon his voice.

‘I fear that may indicate trouble for us,’ said Aragorn. ‘They are not an easily placated people, the Corsairs, and they may now seek revenge – as it is, we know not what their initial motivation was. Encouraged by their victory over our scouts, they were overhasty in their attack upon Pelargir; I do not think they will make the same mistake twice.’

‘Then let us prepare our own assault, and strike before they can regroup!’ exclaimed Éomer, indicating Umbar on the map.

‘I would be more than happy to lend you many ships, and the men to command them,’ said Imrahil. ‘Though I will not leave Dol Amroth undefended.’

‘And I will follow wherever you direct,’ said Captain Bardlorn. ‘The Alcarindur is ever at your disposal.’

Aragorn mused silently a moment, his face blank and his thoughts unreadable. ‘We will sail,’ he said after a time, eliciting enthusiasm from several listeners. ‘But not to war.’

‘Aragorn!’ Gimli seethed. ‘These heathens attacked your lands unprovoked, as they have done for generations! For what purpose would you sail to Umbar, if not to retaliate?’

A frown pinched at the corner of Aragorn’s lips. ‘Perhaps the Captain of the Haven might yet see reason, and parley with us.’

‘Or perhaps he might see red – for when, in service of Ecthelion II, you burned their ships and slew the Captain,’ said Imrahil, eyebrows raised indicatively. ‘They say the new Captain calls himself Castamir, as in days of old.’

‘The Usurper,’ murmured Truva.

‘The Usurper! Bah!’ exclaimed Gimli, thoroughly unimpressed. ‘And what does he expect to usurp? There is one Dwarf yet in Middle-earth who still stands between Gondor and her enemies!’

‘Your optimism is commendable, Aragorn, but I believe it is misplaced,’ said Legolas.

‘I will have no more loss of life, if it can be avoided,’ said Aragorn sharply.

‘And so you would simply walk into the waiting jaws of the enemy?’ said Captain Bardlorn.

‘No – I am not so foolhardy as to go unprepared,’ said Aragorn. ‘We shall sail with as many ships as you can lend us, Lord Imrahil, and as many men. A small armada will remain at Tolfolas to defend the mouth of Langflood; the remainder of the fleet will moor at intervals between the mouth of the Harnen and the headlands. Only the Alcarindur will sail as far as the port itself.

‘The City of the Corsairs lies deep within the Bay of Umbar, and will be heavily guarded – but with our ships arrayed thus, we will neither approach wholly undefended, nor leave our rear exposed.’

‘There are a great many fortresses along the way,’ said Legolas. ‘A fast rider might easily travel swiftly over the narrow peninsula, and the Captain thus know of our coming ere we arrive.’

‘That is my very hope,’ said Aragorn. ‘That in knowing we are protected – yet seeing the approach of but a single ship – the Captain will be put at ease.’

‘It is a good plan,’ said Éomer. ‘I would see it carried through.’

‘It is with deep gratitude that I hear you speak thus, for the unstinting succour of your people has proven indispensable time and time again,’ said Aragorn. Though he spoke to Éomer, his eyes briefly flickered to Truva.

‘Well, I shan’t be likely to miss out on any such adventure,’ said Gimli.

‘Nor I,’ Legolas added. ‘I should greatly like to return to the city of Corsairs – for not since King Eärnil I delivered it unto Gondor have I seen its strange towers and arid lands.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Imrahil. ‘Give me three days’ time, and I shall have your ships and sailors. Let each man to his duties now, and we shall reconvene at the feast this evening.’

Chapter Text

The sun dipped low in the sky, casting glimmering streaks across the Bay of Belfalas and a warm glow upon the walls of Truva’s private chambers. She paced restlessly about the room, chafing at its confines – yet she found the prospect of a feast in Bar-in-Ciryn’s decadent hall even less appealing than lingering in the quietude, and so he made no haste in washing up. When she could delay no longer, Truva emerged into the hall and knocked on Éomer King’s door to see whether he had not yet descended.

She was entirely unprepared for the grand figure that greeted her. ‘Milord, your tunic appears exceptionally long,’ she remarked.

‘So I thought,’ said the King, smoothing his hands over the purple silk which fell well past his knees, golden embroidery glistening at the hems. ‘It was a gift from Lord Imrahil, yet I agree it does not suit me. I will change at once.’ He turned back into his room, but Truva stopped him.

‘No, milord, you look terrifically handsome,’ she said. ‘I fear for the ladies’ hearts, for certainly you shall not leave Dol Amroth without shattering a few.’

‘There is one to whom I have no intention of doing any such thing,’ the King murmured to himself, though Truva feigned not to hear as they made their way along the corridors to the dining hall.

The atmosphere was boisterous, for already the Eorlingas and northern Gondorians were deep in conversation with their Swan Knight counterparts, and libations poured freely. Prince Imrahil sat at the head table, Aragorn King to his immediate left and his sons Elphir and Erchirion to his right. Between them was the ever-charming Lothíriel, who sent an ethereal smile Truva’s way – or so Truva thought; a quick glance at the face of Éomer King and the joy that blossomed there made her question whether it had not instead been intended for him. Her suspicions as to why the King had been so preoccupied with his dress, on the other hand, were confirmed.

Upon spying the new arrivals, Imrahil leapt to his feet and guided Éomer to a veritable throne beside his own. ‘A noble warrior of such great renown must sit in a place of honour, to be shared with none save King Aragorn!’ he cried. But in that very same moment, Lady Lothíriel beckoned to Truva.

‘Sit with us, Marshal,’ she said, her smile now warm and clearly given to Truva alone. ‘We have missed you terribly.’

‘And it is high time you met our brother, Amrothos,’ said Erchirion. He indicated the young man beside him, who so strikingly resembled the others, with hair more black than the darkest Mearas of the Mark – though his stature was slight, and his demeanour more distant than that of his father or siblings.

Amrothos stood and held out Truva’s chair for her, which she took cautiously, unaccustomed to such grand gestures. The bombardment of questions began even before she was settled.

‘King Éomer and the other Riders have already told us a great deal about what transpired at Pelargir,’ said Erchirion. ‘But what of your trials? And the resettlement of the Eastfold? Aldburg was near-derelict when we passed through last autumn.’

‘What of the tapestry?’ pressed Lothíriel. ‘Was it hung, or was it soon forgotten?’

‘I can assure you the tapestry hangs in a place of great honour, at the very head of Meduseld,’ Truva reassured the princess. As platters began to stream from the kitchen, Truva launched into tales of recent days – but only the most lighthearted ones, avoiding any topics too distressing for such a joyous occasion as a feast.

Yet as she spoke, Lothíriel’s attention continually wandered to the head table, and Erchirion was drawn into conversation with his elder brother Elphir. Amrothos, on the contrary, seemed entirely absorbed in his own meal, and disinclined to put any questions to Truva. Relieved of the task of trying to fabricate light where there was little to be found, she allowed her narration to peter out, and humbly accepted the chalice of wine the youngest son of Imrahil offered.

‘I thank you for the kind hospitality of you and your family,’ she said.

‘Think nothing of it,’ Amrothos replied, taking his own cup in his hands and draining it with alarming alacrity. ‘We would not stand to be considered penurious hosts – not to such exemplary figures! I have heard many a story of your feats of valour upon the Pelennor Fields and before Morannon, though they are little more than what is expected of our warriors.’

‘Indeed,’ said Truva, a thin smile pulling at the corner of her lips. ‘I did but my duty—’

‘I myself was unable to accompany the Swan Knights on their campaign,’ said Amrothos, interrupting as a serving boy presented him several platters laden with extravagant delicacies. He transferred a heaping amount onto his plate, but gave no indication of sharing any with his guest – indeed, he left none of the roast quail at all. ‘I was tasked with protecting the fortress of Dol Amroth.’

‘And you executed your duty well,’ Truva acknowledged. ‘Your service must have rendered a great relief to your father. The Eorlingas were not so fortunate as to leave such a strong guard behind; even the King’s daughter rode out amongst our number.’

‘Yes, the tale of Éowyn and the Wraith reached our shores, as well,’ Amrothos tsked. ‘Silly little thing, abandoning her people and risking her life unnecessarily for something so intangible as valour.’ Amrothos poured himself another glass of wine.

Truva bristled. ‘Intangible though valour may be, does it not have the potential to outlast our physical form?’ she asked. Yet in determining he had no further interest in the Marshal, Amrothos turned to his siblings and began pontificating upon the significance of protecting one’s homeland and castle.

‘Do not mind him,’ said a soft, raspy voice at Truva’s other side, where sat a weathered old man dressed in brown robes, intently pulling apart a cluster of grapes. He took a moment to peer at her with one dark, wrinkled eye, before turning his scrutiny upon Amrothos. ‘He knows not what it is to sacrifice for a cause greater than oneself. ’Tis a relief such a cumberground is the Prince’s youngest son – though perhaps that relief is tempered by the fact he is not entirely uncunning.’

‘I do apologise, but am I mistaken in thinking we have not been formally introduced?’

Both of the man’s eyes were now trained upon Truva. ‘You perhaps do not know me, but I most certainly know you.’

‘Then my contrition is even greater for such an oversight,’ said Truva.

‘There is no need for such remorse, my dear, for it is true we have never met,’ he said. Truva’s mind was spun about by the old man’s words, though even as she studied his face for some hint, a slight smile played across his thin lips. ‘I have been expecting you, ever since Gandalf spoke to me of your little quest.’

‘You are Radagast the Brown!’ Truva exclaimed with a sudden gasp of recognition.

‘The very same.’ In the Wizard’s eyes twinkled the very stars that she had seen grace Gandalf’s.

‘But how came you to this place?’ she asked. ‘I was led to believe I would find you in the north – the Wood of Greenleaves, perhaps, or nearabouts the Shire, keeping watch over those Greyhame is most fond of.’

‘And so I was, so I was,’ said Radagast. ‘For a time. Yet upon receiving a rather curious request from Prince Imrahil, I found myself making my way southward – distasteful though I find travel to be – and wound up here, before the mild shores of Belfalas.’

‘What task was it that brought you here?’

Radagast’s smile grew deeper as he peered at her. ‘Oliphaunts!’ he said with a wink, eliciting a second gasp from Truva.

‘Oliphaunts?’ she whispered. ‘I watched them march towards the lands of Ithilien myself, yet I had heard naught of them since. Do they thrive here?’

‘Would you care to see for yourself?’

‘Very much so!’

‘Then I shall show you upon the morn, for I am tired and wish to rest,’ said the Wizard. ‘And a crowded hall is less than ideal to discuss the matters with which Gandalf concerned himself.’

Before Truva could so much as question Radagast about that very topic, he had risen and made off towards the entrance of the hall, greeting the fine lords at the head of the table with a casual, passing wave. Suddenly deprived of the Wizard’s company, Truva bent over her food, careful to evade the attention of Amrothos – though this had the undesirable effect of preventing her from speaking with the other Dol Amrothinian siblings, or gazing upon the head table, which sat along the same line of sight. Isolated and uncomfortable, it was with great relief that Truva escaped to her chambers the earliest moment her departure could not possibly be deemed rude.

Even as she strode along the torchlit hallways – for evening had settled in full over the city – Truva was struck by an urge to walk the citadel battlements and look out upon the waters of the Bay. Staircase by staircase she climbed until there were none left to climb, and all that stood between her and the outdoors was a heavy door. Throwing her shoulder against its oaken planks, the eastern battlements were revealed beyond: a wide stone walkway cluttered with the machines of war – silent now, but ever a remnant of all that had come to pass.

Truva skirted a series of barbettes and passed through the southeast corner bartizan, greeting the guard as she did, before emerging onto the seaward wall. But the tranquillity she sought was soon disturbed; Truva had not gone more than a few strides before she realised she was not alone. There, leaning casually upon the parapet, was Legolas, his lithe form relaxed yet giving every indication of repressed activity.

Truva approached with hesitation and rested her forearms against the rough cut of the wall. Looking out across the vast expanse, she allowed the waves’ soft soliloquy to fill the silence between them for a time, before speaking at last.

‘I ought to thank you for saving me.’

‘There is little need,’ said the Elf with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Such are things in battle; I am certain you would not hesitate to lend me succour, should occasion require it.’

‘I very much doubt you would ever find yourself in such grave danger, that I might be of aid,’ Truva scoffed.

Much to her surprise, Legolas laughed with her – a light, mannerly laugh, to be sure, but a laugh nevertheless.

Emboldened by his geniality, Truva asked, ‘What is it that brought you here this evening? Why do you not linger at the feast with the others?’

Legolas turned his piercing grey eyes upon her, studying every feature of her face. Truva wondered whether she had not overstepped her bounds after all; with the settlement of Gimli and his people in Glǽmscrafu, she had grown mildly more familiar with the Dwarf, but Legolas’ aloof manner seemed insurmountable as ever. She shied away from his scrutiny, and was only free of its palpable intensity once Legolas turned his gaze from her into the winds off the coast.

‘Too long has it been since last I saw the sea,’ he said. ‘Even to a Sindarin Elf such as myself – though I know not whether you have any familiarity with the distinction – it calls, whispering the sweet music of Ulmo. Oh, how I long to follow it!’

Truva strained her ears against the hiss of waves breaking against the sandy beach, and yet she heard no hint of music. ‘Then why do you not follow it, if that is what you wish?’

‘No, not yet,’ said Legolas wistfully. ‘Not yet.’

Then he lifted up his voice in song – though whether it was lament or praise, or even lullaby, Truva could not be sure, for he sang in a language of the Elves. The music was simultaneously soothing yet melancholic, and when Legolas’ voice faded into the wind, Truva stood for a long while as if transfixed, staring out over the black sea. When her senses crept back, she bade the unforthcoming Elf goodnight and returned to her chambers.

But no sooner had she closed her eyes than the sun was rising and she was striding purposefully through the hallways once more. Radagast had given no indication of where or when they were to meet – yet knowing the peculiarities of Wizards, Truva presumed their paths would align by one way or another.

In this thinking she was not mistaken. Immediately upon entering the stables, she discovered the Wizard standing just beyond Roheryn’s stall, waving a fresh carrot in the direction of the horse’s muzzle.

‘He is somewhat cantankerous in the mornings,’ she warned.

‘So I’ve heard,’ remarked the Wizard.

Before Truva could react, Roheryn reached out like lightning and snapped the carrot in half, the whiskers of his nose twitching contentedly. Truva watched curiously as Radagast ruffled the horse’s forelock; she had heard the Brown Wizard was particularly adept with all manner of animals, but the rapidity with which he had befriended the standoffish Roheryn was remarkable.

‘Come,’ said Radagast, breaking her daze. ‘We have all day, and yet I should still like to make an early start of it!’

He lifted an immense woven bag and slung it over his shoulder before crossing the stables to a stall on the opposite side. Truva had scarcely realised what was happening by the time he led a blue roan out into the early morning sunlight. She rushed to tack up and race after the Wizard, who was already halfway to the courtyard gates by the time she emerged from the stables.

‘I must speak with Éomer King and tell him of our departure,’ Truva protested when at last she had caught up. ‘And I do not know our destination, or how long we intend to be away, or what our purpose is.’

‘I have spoken with the King already,’ said Radagast, failing to answer her implied questions as he gave a congenial wave to the citadel guards. Truva shook her head at how his unforthcoming nature was so very like that of Gandalf.

‘Wizard, Marshal,’ the guards nodded as they opened the gates for the strange duo.

In spite of the early hour, the market along the main thoroughfare was already bustling. Carts in a kaleidoscope of colours were crammed side by side, their vendors calling out in a clamour of voices all manner of items for sale: fish, earthenware, medicinal herbs, sheep shears – the citizens of Dol Amroth wanted for naught. Any additional space not occupied by stalls was congested by shoppers, many of whom gazed up in astoundment at the unfamiliar visitors – though they were quick to wave or say hello then go about their business.

At last, Radagast and Truva came upon the city gates, which had been thrown open to the day’s travellers. Gone were the days when fear guided the guards’ actions, and free had the Dol Amrothinians’ travel become. Truva followed the Wizard through the gates, though he did not turn towards the harbour by which the Alcarindur’s crew had arrived, instead following a road that continued straight along the peninsula.

A great many houses were clustered beyond the gates – some elegant stone structures while others were of rougher construction, scarcely more substantial than the huts of the Hidlands. Clearly the city had outgrown its walls many generations ago. It was thus quite some time before the haphazard maze of dwellings gave way to open fields of wheat and barley, and row upon row of short, bushy trees.

‘Olives,’ explained the Wizard, noting Truva’s perplexed expression. ‘Perhaps you were too preoccupied with Amrothos’ irreverent behaviour to notice them on the table last night.’

‘I should have liked to try such a delicacy,’ Truva replied. Radagast merely harrumphed and spurred his horse on.

Come midmorning, the two riders arrived at Swan’s Neck, a narrow bridge of land connecting the peninsula to the mainland of Belfalas. Upon the western reaches nearest the city stood a tiny garrison with a single guard tower, the colours of its standard fluttering as the waves of the sea did. A horn sounded when Truva and Radagast approached, and a trio of mail-clad soldiers tumbled from the gate; for though the movement of Dol Amrothinians had become freer, still the Sutherlands’ shadow loomed threateningly.

One soldier casually sauntered up to Radagast. ‘Several days it’s been since last you came this way, Wizard!’ he exclaimed. ‘Did you enjoy your rest in the city?’

‘It was very pleasant, thank you,’ Radagast replied. ‘And I have brought you a little something.’ He reached into the bag at his waist and withdrew an immense bundle.

‘It is not simply treats for our horses and hounds and none for us, as it was the last time, and the time before that, is it?’ the soldier accused.

‘And kittens,’ said Radagast. ‘Soon you shall have kittens. But no, there are some delicacies I believe you, too, shall enjoy.’

‘Very much obliged!’ said the soldier, retreating with his comrades. ‘See you upon your return, then, I suppose.’

‘I do not think I shall be long.’

And with that, Radagast took off across the spit of land. Once beyond the peninsula, he and Truva cut inland rather than following the coast, making for a range of hills that lay towards the east: those of Dor-en-Ernil. A vast patchwork of farms spread clear to the sea, and as far northward as the eye could see, punctuated by small copses of oak and sage. As the morning dragged on into afternoon, however, the landscape became scarred by wide swaths of charred vegetation.

‘The fighting here must have been fierce,’ Truva remarked, noting two hilltops swallowed by a single tongue of black.

‘The north bore the brunt of Sauron’s fury, yet these lands did not go untouched,’ Radagast agreed. ‘So many innocent lives lost – not only of Men, but also of those often valued less…’ He trailed off, a hint of regret tinged with anger in his voice.

When they lapsed back into silence, Truva came to the realisation that Radagast had no intention of explaining Gandalf’s mysterious hints without prompting. She took a deep breath and steeled herself to broach the subject.

‘Why is it that Gandalf set me upon a path to seek you out? What information have you that he did not?’

‘He told me you would be very hasty,’ said Radagast with a soft laugh. ‘But your questions must wait; we have arrived.’

Some distance ahead, a small array of provisional housing sprang up between sparse vegetation: hastily constructed shelters and storage structures that bent their leaning frames against the wind off the sea. As the two riders came amongst the buildings, a half dozen barns reared up so high the entire pathway was cast in shadow.

A multitude of figures bustled about, all of whom paused to greet the Wizard as he and Truva passed.

‘Hullo, Radagast!’ called one, a rather dishevelled man who sat in the doorway of one barn, hands continuing to weave rope even as he spoke. ‘Enjoy the feast, did you?’

‘Only as much as was required, my dear Ennebyn,’ quipped Radagast in response. ‘How goes the work?’

‘Today’s been quite the busy day,’ said the man called Ennebyn. ‘Most all the ladies roused themselves to give us a hand this ’morn; must be somethin’ in the weather – never seen quite like it!’

‘Mayhap, mayhap,’ Radagast mused as he led Truva to one building that dwarfed all the others. It resembled the stables of Edoras, only tenfold larger. The Wizard dismounted in front of the entrance and hitched his horse to a post there, yet even as he did, a trumpeting sound could be heard from within.

‘Oh aye, Bertha, never you fret – I’m a’comin’,’ Radagast chuckled. Truva scrambled down from Roheryn as he pushed the immense barn doors aside.

The sight that greeted her caused Truva to stop in her tracks. In the space that could easily house an entire éored of Mearas stood fewer than a dozen stalls, dirt floors neatly swept and vegetation heaped in the rear. Only two stalls were occupied, yet the Oliphaunts within rose up as high as the defensive wall of Minas Tirith, great ears flapping in delight as Radagast came into sight through the barn doors. Their braying was deafening, and they danced eagerly in their stalls.

‘This is Alfred,’ said Radagast to Truva as he extended a hand towards the first Oliphaunt. The creature lifted its trunk to gently caress his palm. ‘She was named before we realised she was – in actuality – not a he. Indeed, each of the Oliphaunts rescued from the Pelennor is female, for it is thus that they naturally form herds in the lands of Harad. I suspect the cows are also a fair deal more trainable than the bulls, which is why they were put to use as animals of war.’

‘’Tis a good name, as it is: Alfred,’ Truva remarked. ‘Sounds nearly Eorling.’

‘Ah yes, well, that is due to the Oliphaunts’ names having come under advisement from one Peregrin Took and one Meriadoc Brandybuck – for the Hobbits’ languages of ages past are tightly connected to that of the Rohirrim, coming as both peoples did from the Vales of the Anduin.’

Radagast then moved towards the rear of the stables, where a second Oliphaunt struggled to kneel on the ground, her joints bloated with arthritis. Age was carved into every fold of her rough skin, and her ears drooped heavily forward, yet life seemed to resurge within her when the Wizard leaned his entire weight across the base of her trunk. He scarcely covered a quarter of its circumference.

‘Without Bertha, it is impossible to say what might have become of the Oliphaunts,’ he said. ‘It was her trust in the Gondorian soldiers that encouraged the others to follow suit, and thus we were able to transport southward all that remained of the herd.’

‘You can speak with the beasts?’ Truva asked.

‘Not speak, insomuch.’ Radagast rubbed Bertha’s trunk affectionately. ‘Every creature upon this Earth is capable of communicating, though some do it in such a way that is more comprehensible to us than others, and it varies on an individual basis. Do you not recall the way in which Bron understood each whim of your heart – often before you yourself were aware?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Truva. She did not ask how the Wizard knew of her relationship with Bron, and was quite determined to focus on the spectacle in front of her rather than the sorrow that lurked within. She eyed the Oliphaunt with trepidation; standing immediately before it, the creature that had appeared vast even from a distance now seemed a veritable behemoth.

‘Come, do not be afraid,’ said Radagast, beckoning her closer. ‘Reach out your hand, steady… No need for a soft touch, they are sturdy beasts…’

Truva’s palm inched closer to the thick, grey hide, yet no sooner had her fingertips brushed Bertha’s forehead than the Oliphaunt whipped her trunk around and drenched Truva with a shower of water. Radagast burst into laughter, and even Bertha’s eyes seemed to crinkle.

‘Ah, she does not disapprove of you!’ exclaimed the Wizard, wiping tears from his eyes.

‘This is a sign of affection?’ asked Truva incredulously, holding her dripping arms wide.

‘Verily!’ he reassured her. ‘But let us go now, and allow these girls their rest – and get you drying in the sun.’

Truva had to step quickly to keep pace with the sprightly Radagast as, after a final strong pat of Bertha’s shoulder, he exited the barn and made towards the foothills of Dor-en-Ernil. The gently rolling scrubland swarmed with activity; workers scurried about, burdened with logs balanced precariously upon their backs, or passing baskets of earth and rock from hand to hand. All movement was funnelled upwards into the hills, where the makings of a guard tower were beginning to emerge.

‘What is the purpose of all this activity?’ asked Truva, observing the chaos of construction.

‘As the land lies now, a rider wishing to travel between Dol Amroth and Pelargir must either circle wide north around Dor-en-Ernil, or veer sharply south of the hills,’ Radagast explained. ‘This proved to Gondor’s great detriment during the War. Do you see that narrow rift?’

He extended a knotted, wizened finger towards a steep ravine between two hills. Truva nodded.

‘The company here seeks to widen that and establish a direct roadway easily traversed by large companies, eliminating the need to circumnavigate the hills and exponentially reducing travel time between the two South Gondor cities.’

‘And the Oliphaunts?’ asked Truva.

‘Their work is precisely what you might expect,’ he said, looking ahead to where three Oliphaunts shifted incredible amounts of debris, driving machinery to break the earth and level the road behind. One easily did the work of a score of men. ‘They are our greatest strength, but each day, the creatures choose whether they will aid us in our work – and it is simply our good fortune they do more often than not.

‘To be quite frank, I am astonished they still bear some goodwill towards men; I do not like to think on what they might have endured at the hands of the Southrons.’

Radagast fell into a contemplative silence then as they continued their ascent, but not two moments later, Ennebyn came racing after them.

‘Wizard, wizard!’ he shouted. ‘You’d best see to Edith. I’ve had word she’s in one of her fits again, and she’s not eaten properly since you left.’

‘Ah, as I feared. No improvement?’

‘She was doing well enough this morning, but seems to have taken a turn for the worse.’

‘I will go at once.’ Radagast turned about and began to descend the hill. Truva made as if to follow, but the Wizard held his hand up to stop her. ‘Sincerest apologies, but I do not think it prudent to have unfamiliar Men about when Edith is in one of her moods. Would you perhaps prefer to work amongst the labourers? I will be but a moment.’

‘If I can make myself useful, I would do so,’ said Truva. If an Oliphaunt that approved of her saw fit to drench her in water, she was loath to discover what treatment a sick Oliphaunt might subject her to.

‘Excellent,’ said Radagast. ‘Ennebyn, if you would be so kind.’

‘Most certainly,’ said the caretaker. He guided Truva further up the hill as Radagast bustled off to investigate the source of Edith’s discontent. They soon joined a basket brigade, passing unfired clay along a long line of workers that stretched all the way from the bottom of the hills to the developing guard tower itself. Like their city counterparts, these Gondorian workers were polite and friendly, but did not make a fuss over the Marshal or press her with detailed questions.

For a time, Truva joined their ranks quite happily; she was grateful to have a productive activity to occupy her. But an hour passed, and then a second, and she began to grow restless.

‘How long do you anticipate it will take the Wizard to treat your sick Oliphaunt?’ she asked Ennebyn.

‘There’s no saying with Edith,’ he shrugged. ‘She’s a right mystery.’

The caretaker seemed quite satisfied with his own answer, and so Truva returned to the task at hand. The day wore on, the materials transported in her basket altered several times, but still Radagast did not reappear.

Truva grew even more concerned. She wondered whether she ought not leave Radagast and return to Dol Amroth alone; yet still she had not spoken with the Wizard about Gandalf’s cryptic warnings – and with the Alcarindur’s fast-approaching departure, she feared the opportunity for answers of any sort would vanish.

And so she laboured on. It was not until the shadows grew very long indeed that she spied Radagast emerge from between several buildings at the base of the hill, but in that very same moment a bell rang out. As one, the workers set aside their work, rushed down to the makeshift town, and stacked their baskets beside a storehouse. Truva raced after them, thinking some misfortune must have arisen – Corsairs, perhaps; they had struck at last! Yet even as she drew near to where Radagast stood waiting, the fragrant scent of roasting meat greeted her.

‘It is time for supper,’ said the Wizard, evident glee upon his face. ‘Let us enjoy our evening meal, and stay the night. Never fret – this was an eventuality I spoke of to your King,’ he added, noting Truva’s frantic expression.

Unease mildly alleviated, Truva took a place in line amongst the other workers and gratefully accepted a steaming bowl from the canteen chefs. When she began to follow those ahead of her towards a long, brightly-lit and boisterous hall, however, Radagast held her back.

‘There are rather more comfortable accommodations set aside for us this evening,’ he said, indicating the immense barn.

Before Truva’s very eyes, several Oliphaunts – fresh from a bath, deep grey skin glistening in the setting sun – stomped through the open barn doors and filed into their separate stalls, very much in the manner of well-trained horses. Awaiting them were huge satchels of hay and browse hanging upon the wall. These the creatures dug into with enthusiasm, feet stomping in freshly raked earth.

Truva and Radagast entered in the Oliphaunts’ wake. The Wizard made directly for Bertha’s stall, taking a seat in a pile straw beside her and inviting Truva to join him. It was not uncomfortable; indeed, it recalled to Truva the occasional nights she had spent with Bron when he was unwell. For a time, she became preoccupied with suppressing her surging emotions with the Dol Amrothinians’ roasted quail.

‘You eat well,’ the Wizard remarked.

Truva did not respond; her throat was so tight she couldn’t. As it was, Radagast had no genuine intention of engaging in trifling pleasantries. He too was preoccupied, attention devoted to picking apart his supper rather than eating it. Truva did not interrupt his ruminations.

‘I have no great reason for delaying the conversation you seek, save that I myself understand little of it,’ he finally began. ‘I know only those snippets which Gandalf mentioned obliquely – in and of themselves no more than guesses constructed from mere hints of old tales. I have heard, too, whispers from my animal friends that roam the lands.’

Truva did not respond, but her eyes were fixed on the Wizard, his figure rendered obscure by the dusky twilight in the barn. Only his voice was distinct as he continued, ‘Let me first ask what you know of Valinor.’

‘Valinor?’ Truva questioned, her brows forming a deep furrow of confusion. ‘Never have I heard this name before.’

‘The telling of its history is long and complex, and involves the creation of the very world itself,’ explained Radagast. ‘Valinor is a land apart, and the beings that dwell there are not of the like of Men or Elves or Dwarves; yet love these Children they did, and to shield them from the terrors of Sauron they sent five emissaries.

‘I was called Aiwendil in those days, and bade to accompany Curumo – whom I believe you know as Saruman. Gandalf you also know, though he too bore a different name: that of Olórin.’

‘And the remaining two Wizards?’ asked Truva, already enthralled by the tale.

‘It is unknown what became of Alatar and his companion Pallando. They departed for the East with the intention of defusing any conflict that might arise, and to impede Sauron’s influence in the region from the Ered Mithrin in the north to the Sea of Rhûn in the east. Whether they still live I cannot say, for no news of their activities was ever delivered unto us; yet it would seem they failed in their mission, for a great many Easterlings fell into rank behind the forces of Mordor during the War of the Ring.’

Despite the warmth of the barn, a shudder ran through Truva. ‘Why is it that Gandalf grows concerned with them now? The War is over and Sauron has fallen.’

‘This past autumn he confided in me his suspicions that Middle-earth would swiftly grow unsettled once again, even in the wake of Sauron’s destruction – for ever does evil labour with vast power and perpetual success. The Corsairs’ attack demonstrates just that. And though Gondor’s list of allies grows longer than ever, its lands are weakened by war and winter. Perhaps Gandalf believed that, in having failed once, Alatar and Pallando could be convinced to redeem themselves, and lend succour to the West.’

‘Is that all Gandalf wished for me to know?’ asked Truva. ‘Of what relation does such information have to me?’

‘I imagine very little, quite frankly,’ said Radagast. ‘Save that rumours from the birds and the bees suggest a connection – however faint – established between Rhûn and your Hidlands: a supply of slaves for fighting, sourced from the Inland Sea and smuggled west by an undetermined clan of Dwarves; for the descendants of several Houses still linger there. I suspect Gandalf merely wished to use this tenuous connection to prompt your involvement in the matter; that you might venture East in search of answers about your past, and in doing so perhaps also stumble upon what became of the Ithryn Luin – the Blue Wizards.’

‘Why does Gandalf not go in search of them himself?’

Radagast gave a soft chuckle. ‘He is rather preoccupied with another Wizard at the moment.’

‘Saruman,’ Truva hazarded. Radagast nodded.

‘Saruman was the source of great destruction in the Shire after the War, but slipped away even as the Halflings closed in around him. Gandalf has been seeking him out ever since.’

‘So learning of my own origins was merely a pretence,’ Truva mused, somewhat peeved. ‘Had Gandalf simply tasked me with searching out the Blue Wizards, I would have done so freely.’

‘Who can predict the convoluted workings of a Wizard’s mind? Even I myself find it incomprehensible. But you needn’t make a decision immed—’

‘I will go.’

Radagast peered at her in the darkness. ‘It is not a decision to be made hasti—’

‘I will go,’ Truva repeated. She had made the calculations long ago: how the Dol Amrothinian forces meant her presence on the southward campaign was far less crucial, how securing the Blue Wizards’ aid held the potential to definitively quash the Southrons’ unceasing antagonism. How the Drúedain’s gift eased her concerns for the survival of Aldburg, and afforded her time to embark on such an ambitious journey.

She dared not think of Aragorn, or how this would part them yet again – perhaps forever, if she were to discover an insurmountable barrier in the search for her origins. ‘I will go.’

‘Very well,’ Radagast said with a sigh. ‘But I fear you must go soon, for Gandalf’s unease when discussing the matter – though I do not know its cause – gave me great pause. For now, however, let us settle in for the night, and depart for Dol Amroth upon the morrow.’

Truva burrowed into the straw, her mind roiling with thoughts of Wizards and Dwarves and unknown lands. The Oliphaunts’ soughing soothed her unsettled mind; the hulking shapes of two or three made tiny mountains as they lay in repose, the others rustled in the darkness, but they all gave her a sense of being not alone.

Then Radagast spoke once more: ‘The night will be cold,’ he said. ‘Do not be so hesitant to draw near – they greatly enjoy our company.’

And so Truva stood and approached Bertha, whose thick hide rose and fell gently with each slow breath. When she laid a hand upon Bertha’s knee, the Oliphaunt unwound her trunk and snaked it around the Eorling warrior, drawing her close to study her with small, dark eyes. Not even Aragorn gazed at her with such intensity.

In the next moment, Truva was swept off her feet and curled within the embrace of Bertha’s trunk. She flinched slightly when the tip nuzzled her cheek, yet soon she grew relaxed, and somnolence washed over her in waves as the creature’s warmth kept the night chill at bay.

Chapter Text

‘Good morning, Marshal.’

Truva’s hand flew to her sword hilt before her eyes even opened. Radagast’s face was bent so near to hers that each crease in his wizened face was visible.

‘Time to go,’ he said.

Taking deep, calming breaths, Truva removed her hand from Fréodhel as Radagast disappeared through the barn doors. With one last pat of Bertha’s wrinkled trunk, Truva slipped past Oliphaunts shifting restlessly in their stalls and followed in the Wizard’s wake. The sun had not yet slipped above the horizon and a light morning fog graced the scrubland, yet already there were men about, preparing for a new day of labour.

The strange duo of Wizard and Marshal did not stay for breakfast. Roheryn, for one, was clearly eager to be gone; he shimmied away from the mountainous Oliphaunts as they emerged from the barn. Setting a fair clip, he bore Truva back to Dol Amroth, with Radagast not far behind, and it was scarcely midafternoon before the two bore down upon the city gates.

‘Thank you for your elucidation on topics Gandalf had been so close about,’ said Truva as she rubbed Roheryn down in the stables of Bar-in-Ciryn.

Radagast lingered in the stall entrance, seemingly having a secondary, silent conversation with Roheryn even as he spoke with Truva: ‘I am only sorry I had so little knowledge to impart.’

‘It is not the first time I shall embark on a journey knowing perhaps less than I ought,’ Truva laughed quietly.

‘Perhaps.’ Radagast patted her on the forearm sympathetically. ‘Perhaps. May fair winds bear you and your pony to fairer places, Marshal,’ he said, before turning to care for his own mount.

Taking her leave of Radagast, Truva set out in search of Aragorn.; he would surely be curious to learn of all the Wizard had told her. But the King was not to be found in the dining hall, nor Prince Imrahil’s study. Truva even inquired after the location of his private chambers, though there was no answer at her knock.

‘Why do you seek an audience with the King?’ came a voice as she raised a fist to try again.

Truva spun from Aragorn’s door, only to spy Éomer King emerging from the neighbouring one. ‘Milord!’ she exclaimed.

‘I assume it is related to that strange Wizard absconding with you yesterday – he is peculiar, even for a Wizard, is he not?’

‘I cannot disagree,’ said Truva. ‘What was it that Radagast told you?’

‘To be quite frank, I am not entirely sure. Some indecipherable nonsense about heritage and community and such. Perhaps you can offer me more clarity?’

Truva took a deep, steadying breath. Not even with her beloved Éomer King had she shared the details of her predicament – and in speaking with him, she would have to balance the information he ought to know with that which she still desired to keep secret.

‘The Wizard Greyhame seems to think it time I seek out my parentage,’ she began, ‘and in doing so, perhaps garner more support for Stoningland and the West.’

‘Your parentage?’ said Éomer, brow furrowing. ‘Do we not already consider the Hidlands amongst our allies? Captain Chaya and Halbarad consistently send news out of Rhudaur, regarding the positive developments in that region.’

‘The Hidlands are where I was found, but they are not where I am from.’

Éomer’s confusion only grew. ‘I am afraid you are making about as much sense as Radagast. Where else might your origin be, if not the Hidlands? For I very much doubt the Wizard meant the Riddermark…’

‘Rhûn.’

‘Rhûn!’ Éomer exclaimed. ‘And what in Helm’s name lies in Rhûn, save Easterlings and Orcs that allied themselves with Sauron?’

‘Perhaps the family from which I was stolen, and perhaps two Wizards who disappeared into the East many Ages ago – though I very much believe it was only the latter in which Gandalf had any interest.’

‘More Wizards.’ Éomer shook his head. ‘Still, the Corsairs’ attack has demonstrated how vulnerable Stoningland and her allies are, and if there is succour to be found in Rhûn, so be it. When do you depart? If it is my permission you seek, you have it.’

‘That is in part why I seek Aragorn King: to hear his will, and learn whether he believes I will better serve our cause in sailing to Umbar in your company, or making straight for Rhûn. Do you not know of his whereabouts?’

‘No; ’tis strange, he is typically so forthright in all his plans, and yet vanished this morning even more mysteriously than you.’

Truva frowned. ‘I will continue my search, then,’ she said, turning towards the staircase leading to the battlements.

But Aragorn was to be found nowhere within the citadel, nor amongst the teeming mass of sailors working to prepare the Alcarindur and her flotilla for their departure. None could so much as hazard a guess as to where he might be found. And so, resigning herself, Truva lent a hand to the labourers, transporting all manner of barrel and box up gangways. Only once the ships were fully stocked and the evening gloom rendered further work impossible did she return alongside the others to the city walls.

Gathering in the dining hall, Dol Amrothinian sailor and northern warrior alike supped upon their last hot meal together. They gambolled about merrily and consumed more than a few cups of wine, but Truva could not bring herself to join in their frivolity. Aragorn’s absence perturbed her, and there was at least one other for which she felt responsible. Offering her untouched chalice to Gamhelm – who gladly accepted – Truva gathered a plate of the finest delicacies and slipped from the dining hall into the corridor beyond. From there, she swiftly made her way to the infirmary, where Fofrin dug into his second dinner as though he hadn’t eaten in a fortnight.

‘Rumour has it you went and saw the Oliphaunts,’ he remarked, a buttered roll disappearing into his mouth.

Truva took a moment to recover her train of thought. ‘Oliphaunts? Why yes, I did.’

‘Cor, what I wouldn’t give to touch one!’

‘Perhaps you might yet be afforded the opportunity,’ said Truva, a genuine smile reaching her lips. ‘They’re quite incredible creatures; it was strange to see how docile they are, when only a few months ago they unleashed great destruction upon the fields of the Pelennor.’ She began examining Fofrin’s bandages as though the Dol Amrothinian nurses weren’t wholly more competent than she.

Then her hands stilled, and she peered at the young sailor. ‘Have you any notion of returning to Osgiliath or Mundburg?’

‘I go where orders demand,’ Fofrin shrugged nonchalantly. ‘The others go south, and so I will await their return.’

‘And if there have been some… minor alterations to our plans,’ Truva prompted, ‘would you not be interested in venturing home? It would free Dol Amroth’s resources for their own warriors, should Aragorn King’s overtures for negotiations not fare well.’

‘What kind of alterations?’

‘I intend to return northward on an unrelated matter.’

‘In that case, I’ve no qualms!’ Fofrin exclaimed. I’m right sick of this infirmary – though I think I shall miss the sea. Sailor though I may be, I’ve spent the majority of my time cutting along the Anduin, and river waters just don't sound the same.’

‘You’ll not be too sorry to leave Dol Amroth?’

‘You’ll forgive me saying, Marshal, but I find the prospect of travelling in your company far preferable to near anything else.’

But Truva did not hear Fofrin’s saccharine reply, for through the infirmary window she had spied Aragorn slipping into the courtyard through the citadel gates. He was cowled in an unassuming cloak, but his figure and stride were unmistakable.

‘Be ready to sail tomorrow morn,’ Truva said to Fofrin. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

Deaf to the young sailor’s protestations at being left alone once more, Truva bolted from the infirmary and raced through the corridors, fearful that Aragorn would vanish again if she did not make all haste. She exited a side door and dashed along winding garden paths, coming upon the King just as he passed behind a towering pear tree.

‘Aragorn!’ she called softly, his familiar name still strange upon her lips.

He emerged from behind the tree. Faint light pooling from the vast halls and rooms of Bar-in-Ciryn illuminated his face just enough to reveal the smile that blossomed there. ‘Truva,’ he said, drawing near.

‘What kept you all day?’

Aragorn reached to take her hands, but quickly reconsidered with a quick glance to the bright dining hall, where a great many warriors still sat at their meal. ‘I apologise if I caused you to fret,’ he said. ‘I had affairs to resolve at the ruins of Edhellond.’

‘Edhellond? What affairs?’

‘Alas, they are not mine to share – though they herald happy news, and I anticipate the time shall not be long before all is made clear,’ said he. Capitalising on Truva’s confused silence, he asked, ‘And your excursion with Radagast? What strange fancy did he tell this time?’

Setting aside his perplexing reticence, Truva relayed to him all that Radagast had shared with her, leaving no detail unmentioned. Aragorn’s face grew more contemplative all the while.

‘The Ithryn Luin,’ he mused when at last her tale came to an end. ‘So Gandalf suspects they live still.’

‘I cannot say, and I imagine you already know a great deal more than I.’

‘What do you intend to do?’ he asked, instinctively drawing closer to Truva. ‘When will you go?’

‘Such questions I had hoped you would help me answer.’

Aragorn sighed heavily. ‘It is with unease that I lead my men into the waters of Umbar; our numbers are thin, even with the bolstering of Swan Knights, and the loss of a warrior such as yourself would be grave indeed.’

‘You still count Éomer King amongst your company, and we repelled the Corsairs from Pelargir with but a fraction of the force you will sail out with tomorrow.’ Truva reassured him. ‘ As for myself, there is yet good reason to make northward, even at this very junction. Upon reaching Osgiliath, I shall have the opportunity to send a personal messenger to Elfhelm Marshal, appraising him of the situation; thus the Riddermark will be well-defended, and prepared to come to Gondor’s aid if need be. And if, as Radagast suggests, there is any succour to be found in the East, I shall find it.’

‘Perhaps it is for the best,’ Aragorn murmured, the tips of his fingers surreptitiously brushing against hers. ‘You will be far from danger should ill fate find us amongst the Corsairs. But what of your other purpose in venturing East?’

Truva stared up into his eyes, full well knowing she could not conceal the fear in her own. ‘I know not what I will find – I cannot so much as hazard a guess. In the Hidlands, those few Dwarves that came amongst us were always secretive of their clans and associations; and if they do indeed traverse from the far East all the way over the Misty Mountains, I could have been taken from any manner of situation: not only from Rhûn, but also from the families of Men who occupy Rhovanion, of Dale in the East or the Vale of Langflood in the West; from the Woodmen, or even the Beornings!’

Her apprehensions laid bare before her, Truva fell silent. Aragorn, too, did not speak for a time, the corners of his mouth pinched together – and then he began to laugh! He did so quietly, as not to attract unwanted attention, but this only caused his shoulders to shake in repressed mirth. Very much taken aback, Truva stared as he struggled to regain his composure.

‘Why do you mock me so?’ she demanded.

‘Have you recently felt the urge to transform into an immense ursid?’ he quipped. Truva frowned, but Aragorn cast caution aside and intertwined his fingers with hers, expressing sincerity with the warmth of his grasp. ‘Know this before you embark, Truva: that not a single discovery you could possibly make upon your journey would have even the slightest bearing upon my affection for you – even if you were to turn out half-bear.’

Truva’s heart leapt, even as her eyes dropped to their clasped hands. To be half-bear seemed the least of her worries. In a rush, she strove to push aside thoughts she desperately did not wish to dwell upon: thoughts of being expected to leave her beloved Mark, of being rejected by the subjects of Gondor due to her land of origin (adopted or otherwise) and her lowly position; concern for what demands might be made of her as a head of state – for a King was the commander of his army, but what hope could a foreign Queen have of assuming her own position within its ranks?

If Aragorn was still willing to have her after all was laid bare, would Truva be reduced to a mere figurehead, to spend her days passively watching and listening – never talking, or speaking, or acting?

These thoughts Truva pushed aside even as they sought to creep in, for there was no sense in worrying about that which might never bear any significance; there were far less prestigious lineages lurking in the East than that of the Beornings. What mattered most was the Man who stood before her, heart swollen with the promise of unfettered love.

‘Would that I did not have to leave you,’ she whispered.

‘Travel with Legolas and Gimli,’ Aragorn exclaimed suddenly. ‘If it is allies we seek, let us leave no course unpursued. In the name of Aragorn, King of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Anor, and her ally King Éomer of Rohan, travel not only to Rhûn, but all the lands of the north, with whom our relationship has always been tenuous at best. In the halls of his father, Legolas may serve as liaison amongst the Woodland Elves, and Gimli for the Dwarves beneath the Lonely Mountain – for otherwise you might not even be granted audience.’

‘You would mourn the loss of a single warrior, only to suggest the departure of three?’ An amused smile pulled at one corner of Truva’s lips.

‘It is a small price to pay for the assurance of your safety, and the security of my Kingdom,’ said Aragorn, rubbing his thumbs across the back of her hands.

Truva considered the ever-shifting variables for a moment. ‘To take such a route would greatly delay my travels. Would it not be better to cut across Dagorlad?’

‘Those barren lands are yet perilous, teeming with the misdeeds of Sauron’s old servants. And even in my own travels many years ago, I found Men of the western reaches of Rhûn entirely hostile, thus I ventured no further than the Emyn Ninniach. All political motives aside, I suspect you will find more success in approaching from the north.’

‘That may be, but I cannot make such a request of your companions: abandoning the southward campaign to chase after hares in the underbrush,’ Truva argued – though in truth it was little more than the prospect of travelling with the cantankerous duo that daunted her.

‘No, and nor I would not expect you to make it,’ said Aragorn, ‘for it is I who shall ask.’

Truva could think of no further protestations, and struggled to keep her face composed as certitude sank in. ‘Very well,’ she said, her words marked by a distinct tinge of resignation. It was an easy declaration to make to the Wizard Radagast, but far more difficult to the man it would separate her from: ‘I will go.’

‘And in you, all our hopes will be placed.’ Aragorn gave a quick look about at the surrounding wings of the citadel before bringing her hand to his lips. ‘Have you consulted with Éomer?’

‘Only regarding the general circumstances. I wished to know your mind before making any definitive decision.’

‘My mind is that I long for the mystery of your origin to be resolved,’ said Aragorn. With a gentle sigh, he bent close, whispered words brushing across Truva’s cheeks. ‘Not because it might alter my love for you, but so that I might share that love with the world, rather than secreting it away in shadowy gardens.’

Truva’s breath caught in her chest. Following her own sweeping glance for observers, she drew Aragorn around to the opposite side of the pear tree, where a hedge of myrtle hid them from view. There, she stood on her tip-toes and kissed him. Swiftly recovering from his initial surprise, Aragorn swept Truva into his arms, pressing his lips to hers. For a blissful moment the world was suspended; Aragorn’s touch and the light breeze that carried the salty scent of the sea was all that anchored Truva to this world.

But all too soon, Truva was to be cast adrift. Against all her desires, the following morning – and her parting from Aragorn – came.

From even the earliest hours of dawn, swarms of warriors milled about the docks of Dol Amroth, executing last-minute preparations. The King’s Riders had scarcely finished their breakfast before Truva and Gamhelm led them back down along the switchbacks between city gate and port. But as they drew near the fleet that would bear them hence, the company’s steps slowed – for they, too, were loath to speak their goodbyes. None knew where their paths would take them, or what they would encounter along the way; and days of late had taught them that any separation could prove to be a final one.

When the inevitable could be delayed no longer, Gamhelm cleared his throat conspicuously and stepped forward.

‘Helm protect you, Marshal,’ he said, clapping Truva several times on the shoulder. Beútan merely drew her into an embrace, gave her several solid thumps on the back, then turned abruptly, hiding his face.

As her companions coaxed their mounts up the gangway into the Alcarindur’s hold, Truva turned instead towards the Cirthaid, which bobbed just beside the larger flagship. A minimal envoy of Dol Amrothinian sailors – provided to escort Truva and the others as far as Osgiliath, at the suggestion of Aragorn King – stood on the docks just beside the Cirthaid, their preparations complete. They eyed with misgiving the bickering figures of Legolas and Gimli beside them.

‘To the Lonely Mountain and back have I gone since the War, gathering about me those who would come to Aglarond and settle it.’ The Dwarf’s gruff complaints could be heard clear across the pier. ‘I see no point in going back now – once a decade is far more than frequent enough to greet one’s extended family!’

‘If we hope to foster an alliance of any great number, the discord between Elves and Dwarves in the northern reaches of Rhovanion cannot go unaddressed,’ said Legolas. ‘And I very much doubt any save we could possibly effect a resolution on that front.’

‘Oh, aye – but wouldn’t I just like to dig my axe into some Corsair’s skull!’ said Gimli, thumbing the blade of that very weapon. ‘Those rogues sure gave us the runabout at Pelargir – twice! It’s about time we repaid such kindness.’

‘Aragorn intends for his journey to be a mere diplomatic mission, my friend,’ Legolas reasoned. ‘Do not be so quick to assume you would have any opportunity for revenge, even if we were to accompany him.’

The Dwarf merely grunted in response, though he was quick to greet Truva when she drew near. ‘Marshal! And your opinion? Had you your druthers, whither would you prefer to travel?’

‘I would go where duty takes me,’ replied Truva.

‘Pragmatic as ever,’ huffed the Dwarf. ‘Come, let us get your horse aboard and set sail. I harbour little enthusiasm for being upon the water once again – and am even less eager to subject myself to the lecturing of my relations – yet the sooner it begins, the sooner it shall end.’

As they looked on, healers from the infirmary bore Fofrin and several other injured Gondorian warriors down from Bar-in-Ciryn. Truva followed them into the hold of the Cirthaid, which was significantly less spacious than the Alcarindur; she was forced to settle Roheryn in between numerous stockpiles of grain and livestock bound for northern markets before reemerging onto the main deck.

From this vantage point, she spied Éomer and Aragorn weaving through the port’s bustling crowds. In a few hasty bounds, she returned to the dock to greet them.

‘Safe sailing,’ said Éomer King, stepping forward. ‘Send word to Elfhelm that he is to muster the éoherë in Edoras, and not to post in Aldburg; let us be ready, but not rashly overexert our resources – with any luck, this conflict will be resolved without further incident.’

‘Yes, milord,’ said Truva.

‘Whither you may travel in the north, you are my emissary,’ he continued. ‘When you speak, you do so with my voice, and in the interest of the Riddermark. In truth, there is none whom I would trust more with this task – not even Elfhelm Marshal; for bold and brave as he is upon the battlefield, and astute in council, his words are swift and unguarded. But you are circumspect, and speak with a wisdom that exceeds the boundaries of our lands, having been born beyond them. May you serve us well.’

Éomer then looked upon Truva in a most brotherly fashion, placing a steady hand upon her shoulder. ‘Go now, and whether we be greeted along our way by the fickle zephyr of fate or the bitter tempest of misfortune, let us meet the headwind squarely and boldly. Whatever you might discover, you shall always be – to myself and all Eorlingas – a daughter of the Mark.’

Truva’s throat tightened. ‘Thank you, milord,’ she said after several failed attempts. ‘I doubt we shall meet again terribly soon, but our reunion will be all the more happy for our long absence.’

The two Eorling leaders embraced then, yet even as they drew apart, Truva caught a glimpse of Aragorn over Éomer’s shoulder. He bowed stiffly before making for the Alcarindur, followed by the Captains Maeron and Bardlorn, and all those who would sail southward. But Truva was unmoved by Aragorn’s aloof behaviour, for indeed they had agreed the previous evening to preserve a façade of mere civility, and so she simply stood upon the docks, bidding the substantial company farewell.

No sooner had they gained the deck than the bell of Tirith Aear was sounded. The Alcarindur cast off, followed by a swarm of billowing sails.

Truva scrambled onto the Cirthaid just in time as it, too, slowly drifted from the dock. She spied Galador amongst the crowds gathered on the shore and returned his enthusiastic waves, regretful that she had not had the time to seek him out and explored the city in his company. But such adventures would have to come another day, for those that remained behind now became smaller and smaller until they were mere dots, then no longer perceptible.

Suddenly restless, Truva strode towards the Cirthaid’s prow. Even as the ship pulled away from the coast, she cast a glance back upon Dol Amroth and observed seabirds winging between the city’s towers, lit gloriously by the morning sunlight; but so too did those towers grow distant, and Truva turned instead to look ahead to the Alcarindur.

Leaning heavily upon the Cirthaid’s railing, Truva watched sailors dashing about the deck of the forward ship. Uncertainty weighed heavily on her mind; despite Radagast’s reassurances, she could not help but fear her ventures in the north would bring no answers, and that no good would come of Aragorn and Éomer’s exploits in the south.

‘No use worrying about what’s to come if there’s naught you can do about it, Marshal,’ said a voice behind her. Truva turned to find Gimli peering at her intently. Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she resumed her observances of the Alcarindur.

‘Perhaps if I worry enough, some action that lies within my power will occur to me,’ she answered.

‘Unlikely.’ The gentle tones of Legolas joined those of his companion. ‘The Kings of the North embark upon their own journey; their fate lies in their own hands.’

Truva grimaced. ‘I worry for my King.’ She did not specify which king, for indeed there was no need – she held equal concern for each. ‘And for ourselves.’

‘Knowledge of the Ithryn Luin has passed even from the Elves,’ said Legolas. ‘To theorise over phantoms is an exercise in futility.’

‘And the northern kingdoms lie now in peace,’ added Gimli. ‘It will be no great effort to ensure their alliance with the renewed Kingdom of Gondor, which ever stands as a bulwark between them and the undiminished threat of the south.’

Truva shook her head, but did not respond. It seemed Aragorn had made no mention to them of her own personal motivation for setting forth, for which she was deeply grateful. What comforts could they speak to her of? Both Legolas and Gimli came from many generations of lords and kings, their lineage writ upon the ages.

‘Come, let us turn our minds to more fruitful ventures,’ offered Legolas.

With a nod, Truva relented; Legolas’ words were not amiss. She descended after her companions into the berth – though there was little to occupy them, having just set sail in a wholly seaworthy vessel. Truva assisted the crew of sailors in their rowing duties, and brought Fofrin and the other wounded soldiers their noontime meal; otherwise, a great portion of the day she spent wandering aimlessly about, or in the company of Roheryn.

Come evening, as those in the mess below pulled out fiddles and flutes and cards, she retreated to the upper decks. Waves glimmered with the fiery light of sunset, capped by clouds scuttling high in the sky. Terns dipped and wheeled, plummeting only to reappear with writhing mackerel or anchovies in beak.

Truva returned to the bow, where a salty wind whipped every strand of her plaited hair. Though late evening had settled upon the scene, and the Alcarindur gained a great distance, still she could discern a single faint figure pacing upon the flagship’s aftcastle. Her eyesight was not so good as to be able to determine their identity, yet a single pinprick of light – a lantern, perhaps – suddenly flared and swayed above the ship’s railing.

‘It is Aragorn,’ said Legolas, approaching undetected for the second time that day. He likewise bore a lantern, and waved it over his head in greeting. As its companion upon the other deck waved in response, he handed the lantern to Truva, then turned and was gone.

Truva stared after him, thoughts whirling in her mind. She had heard tales of old, when Men used patterns in light to communicate across great distances, and wished fervently that she possessed such knowledge. But she did not, and so merely gazed across the span of waves towards the second lantern, content in the knowledge that it was Aragorn who bore it. His figure slowly became indistinguishable from the surrounding darkness, yet she would have stood there throughout the night, had not two additional lanterns approached. The three lights huddled in conference a short while, then suddenly were gone.

Such was the life of a king; duties ever unceasing. With a sigh, Truva returned belowdecks.

The fleet gained the isle of Tolfalas, that austere sentinel, the following afternoon. Here, they were sundered; the Alcarindur and her armada continued along the coast towards Umbar, whereas the Cirthaid alone turned to advance up the Langflood. However, it seemed Truva alone felt dispirited at such partings for the mood amongst her companions was unchanged – or perhaps grew even more boisterous, enthusiastic as they were to return home.

Their journey northward was considerably less eventful than their southward ventures, sparking hopeful murmurs that the Corsairs had well and truly abandoned any attempt at assailing the lands of Gondor. Repairs at Pelargir had progressed with astonishing speed – though in their rush, the Cirthaid merely sounded its greeting and made no attempt to dock there – and the hills of South Ithilien remained undisturbed.

When the Cirthaid came upon Harlond, however, it was clear those that guarded the port did not share their optimism. The breakwaters were fortified nearly beyond recognition, and it was not until port sentries ascertained the Cirthaid did not sail under false colours that the vessel was allowed to pass.

Thus, Truva and the others docked in snow-capped Osgiliath six days following their departure from Dol Amroth. Gimli was especially vocal in his joy at placing his feet upon solid ground once more, and though she had grown mildly more accustomed to the peculiar sensation of maritime travel, Truva did not entirely disagree.

A drove of longshoremen descended upon the Cirthaid, rapidly transferring its stores onto the quay and subsequently into storehouses. Truva immediately sought out a messenger by which she might convey Éomer King’s orders to Elfhelm Marshal, then oversaw the transfer of Fofrin to the city’s infirmary – though he quickly shooed her away after securing her promise to visit him before proceeding upriver. These tasks completed, she returned for Roheryn, who seemed neither bothered to leave the ship, nor anticipant to return to land.

‘You’d best make sure that beast is situated as comfortable as can be, Marshal,’ said Gimli, transporting a grain bag as large as himself down the gangway behind her. ‘We’ve a ways to travel yet, and it shan’t be by pony that we go.’

‘If not by horse, then how shall we go?’ Truva asked.

‘Boat!’ the Dwarf exclaimed.

‘It was my understanding you harboured a rather intense distaste for sailing,’ she said, confused by his evident glee.

‘Anything is preferable to those infernal creatures,’ was his grumbled reply, with a glance to Roheryn.

‘Would it not be faster to ride?’ asked Truva. ‘Though Gondor’s horses be not Mearas, surely they are swifter than a common vessel sailing upriver. I would have thought – given the choice between two unideal alternatives – we would elect to take the most expeditious route.’

‘Ah, but it is not any contraption born of Gondorian hand by which we shall travel,’ said Legolas, capering down after his companion, though the load he bore was far heavier. ‘Two boats there were that tumbled down over the Rauros-falls: that which bore the body of our beloved Boromir—’

‘Durin keep him,’ interjected Gimli.

‘—of whom I suspect you know little, and that which was dislodged from the eastern bank of Nen Hithoel, following Frodo—’

‘Valinor accept him,’ Gimli interrupted again.

‘—and Samwise’s dash towards the Emyn Muil. Come, my friend,’ said Legolas, laying a hand upon the Dwarf’s shoulder. ‘Do not mourn overly much, for nothing that has yet come to pass is unchangeable; our fair hero bides yet in his pleasant Shire home.’

‘Would that I had your stout heart,’ Gimli muttered, giving his eyes a brusque rub.

‘And it is this second boat we are to take?’ asked Truva.

‘Verily!’ said Legolas. ‘For it is a canoe of Elven make, come from the lands of Lórien, and shall bear us hence more fleetly than any horse, though we travel against the current. So go now, and put Roheryn to stable – for he has earned his rest, and shall loyally await your return.’

‘I have had word you were accommodated at an inn upon your last passing through Osgiliath,’ said Gimli. ‘Go there, once your beast has been tended to, and we shall meet you there come suppertime, horsemaster.’

And so Truva made her way through the cobblestone streets of Osgiliath, following the directions of friendly passersby, until she arrived before the humble yet adequate stables of state. A press of grooms greeted her upon entering, yet she refused to entrust Roheryn to their care – not out of any mistrust of the Gondorians’ equestrian skills, but for the simple fact that she wished to spend every possible moment before her departure in Roheryn’s company.

She had just taken a pick in hand and was applying herself to Roheryn’s hooves when a booming voice spoke behind her:

‘Thought I’d find you here!’

Truva smiled; she knew that voice at once. ‘Steady on, Blackbramble,’ she said. ‘I’ve a good deal of work to be done yet.’

‘All’s well, so long as a pint awaits at the end!’ he replied. ‘And I’m doubly thankful to have someone to share it with. I’m right glad you didn’t die in Pelargir, Marshal.’

‘As am I,’ said Truva with a brief but heartfelt glance towards Blackbramble, whose massive frame leaned casually against a central pillar. But when he caught better sight of her, he stepped forward, peering at her from head to toe.

‘What in Helm’s name are you wearing?’ he exclaimed.

Truva looked down at the ostentatious Pelargirian garb and smiled rather sheepishly. ‘I daresay it isn’t befitting a journey of any length, is it?’

‘You’ll want changing before you continue on,’ Blackbramble agreed. He entered the stall and picked up a spare comb, running it through Roheryn’s curly coat. ‘You know, even come the end of the War, still I little understood these beasts,’ he said. ‘But in working beside them to restore Osgiliath, I have grown to have a warm affection for them.’

‘They have a way of doing that.’

Truva straightened and turned to regard her companion for a moment, taking in his bulky figure, his shaved head and warm brown eyes, round and innocent. ‘Might I ask a favour of you?’

‘Always and anything, my Captain.’

Truva smiled at this earnest term of address. ‘Would you look after Roheryn in my absence, as well as a young Gondorian sailor by the name of Fofrin? He is no more than a child; you shall find him in the infirmary. Though I have never found the Gondorians’ care lacking, I would be much reassured in the knowledge there is one more guardian watching over them.’

‘How peculiar; I have been asked a similar favour for Shadowfax.’

‘Shadowfax?’ questioned Truva, striving and failing to keep her exclamation neutral. ‘You mean to say the king of all Mearas is here in these stables?’

Rather than answer, Blackbramble merely shuffled through the reed flooring towards a stall at the far end of the stables. When he drew near, the white nose of the King’s mount protruded from a slat in the railing, only to disappear once more – for Shadowfax was too preoccupied with his evening meal to properly greet his visitors.

‘He was brought here from Emyn Arnen, in anticipation of King Aragorn’s return from Pelargir,’ Blackbramble explained. ‘I will do as you ask, and see to the horses in their masters’ absence, and to the young sailor Fofrin.’

‘Thank you, my friend,’ said Truva. ‘My unease is greatly assuaged. Now let us get those pints!’

‘And you some new clothes!’

Chapter Text

As Aragorn paced the Alcarindur’s stern, there was only just sufficient light for him to perceive the prow of the Cirthaid trailing some distance behind. He longed for such vision as Legolas had, so that he might discern whoever walked about its decks – yet he could not deny there was only one warrior in particular he desired to see. How he loathed that it was in his official capacity as King alone that he had been afforded the opportunity to bid final farewell to the company sailing northward!

Yet even as he looked out across the distance, the shadowy outline of a figure appeared: one whose subdued assurance made their stride unmistakable. Aragorn quickly released an oil lamp from its hook and ignited the wick, for he knew Truva’s vision was even less perceptive than his own. Perhaps she would see the single speck of light and know that it was him.

Then there – upon the Cirthaid’s bow a light appeared! By it, Aragorn could make out Legolas who, with a brief wave, passed the lantern to Truva and disappeared. Aragorn smiled to himself, resolving to thank the Elf for his keen discretion when next they met. Yet even as he leaned upon the Alcarindur’s bulwarks and gazed out across the span of the two ships, Aragorn’s mood grew darker, in tandem with the gathering night.

His heart was contented to know one last wordless greeting passed between himself and Truva ere the future swallowed them whole. He held no fear for himself – nor indeed any doubt in Truva’s ability to ensure her own safety; and yet, and yet… some uncertainty, some apprehension nagged in the corner of his mind.

‘Go swiftly,’ he murmured, ‘and may no misadventure cloud your journey. Would that we were only ever parted by tides of good fortune.’

In that very moment, Captain Maeron approached from behind. ‘Milord,’ he said gently. ‘A scouting ship has just come in with news of the Corsairs’ defences.’

With one last lingering glance behind, Aragorn turned and extinguished his lantern. ‘Very well.’

He followed Maeron into the navigation room, where already Éomer paced about the table, conversing in low tones with Captain Bardlorn. Each paused every now and then to rub his chin contemplatively and pore over the map. Two sailors from a scouting vessel huddled together in a corner, though they straightened the instant Aragorn entered.

‘Milord,’ said the foremost sailor, stepping forward and bowing deeply. ‘We have come to report the complete absence of any Corsair vessels upon the waters between here and the Bay of Umbar, yet we have witnessed extensive reinforcements transported to fortifications all along the coastlines – most particularly at the headlands, where once stood Tar-Calion, the monument to Ar-Pharazôn.’

Aragorn released a long sigh. ‘Long ago was that white pillar erected to commemorate Sauron’s obeisance to the Númenórean king; yet if all is as you say, I do not suspect it shall be resurrected any time soon,’ he said. ‘They would offer us a blade when we come bearing an olive branch.’

‘Even so, they demonstrate no open hostilities,’ added the second scout. ‘Save men, their terrestrial resources are scarce; we have observed few war machines, and witnessed no martial activity beyond ordinary patrols.’

‘And their fleet?’ asked Aragorn. ‘Umbar is not known for its infantry.’

‘It seems any boats we might have expected out on open waters have all moored within the Havens: more than a dozen flagships at least, and untold smaller vessels – most positioned at the wharfs of the City’s port, though others have amassed along the bay’s northern cliffs to support the peninsula.’

‘So it is true they did not attack Pelargir with the full strength of their navy,’ Bardlorn murmured, almost in admiration. ‘How did they come by such a force, and in so short a time?’

‘And these are strange ships, milord,’ the first sailor cut in again. ‘Of a peculiar shape, they are, and far larger than the dromunds we commandeered after the War. Had I not witnessed the sight with my own eyes, I would not have believed them to be Corsair vessels.’

Aragorn’s face was stony, though his thoughts were known to all in the cabin – for these very same thoughts plagued the others’ minds, as well. ‘Thank you for your efforts,’ he said to the scouts. ‘You may go to your rest. It is best you get it while you might.’

The sailors bowed in unison and exited without a word; though with their treacherous duty executed and the promise of ale in their near future, they had few plans of rest. In their wake, the four leaders lingered in the navigation cabin, gently tracing with distracted fingers the lines of the map, though they had long ago committed its every detail to memory.

Aragorn inhaled deeply, wishing a solution to the precarious situation would occur to him, if only he held his breath long enough. ‘Perhaps it was foolish to have ever aspired for peace,’ he said at last, absentmindedly tapping the map where the title of Umbar was scrawled stark upon the pale parchment. Such a small place to cause such terrible chaos.

‘These aspirations – for the avoidance of lives lost, for a swift resolution to conflict – are never foolish, my friend,’ said Éomer.

‘In addition to our own vessels, a flotilla of Swanships guards the entrance of the Anduin,’ said Captain Bardlorn. ‘Prince Imrahil defends Dol Amroth, and Lord Faramir with his forces stands between Gondor and any who would seek to take Harad Road and come by land. Our straits are not entirely desperate, milord.’

‘Nor should you think lightly of Truva Marshal, who will ensure the Mark’s Riders are prepared for whatever may come – whether it be defence of our own lands, or lending succour in the defence of yours,’ said Éomer. ‘It is as strong a position as we might have under present circumstances.’

Though he heard such reassurances, Aragorn did not answer immediately; he sat silent a moment longer. ‘What do you suppose it is that drives these Corsairs with such desperation, to seek vengeance so swiftly upon their defeat in the War?’ he mused.

‘Who can say?’ said Maeron. ‘Perhaps they will be so kind as to enlighten us when we conquer their armies once more.’

‘As Ar-Pharazôn the Golden did so long ago,’ said Bardlorn.

Sudden resoluteness overtook Aragorn. The furrows of concern eased from his face and his shoulders drew squarely back. ‘I am still committed to following our initial course of action,’ said he. ‘Though I think it prudent to station more ships than initially intended just before the fortress at Tar-Calion; we must keep the Umbarian forces there occupied, and prevent them from swarming the bay, should the worst come of our talks with the Captain.’

‘And the remaining Swanships and dromunds?’ asked Maeron.

‘Let them be divided equally and positioned before each of the Corsairs’ strongholds, as originally planned.’

‘Would you array our navy so brazenly, despite the Corsairs’ aggressive stance?’ asked Bardlorn.

‘Our numbers are not so great as to invite interpretation as a threat, and – supported though it may be – still a single ship will sail into the Bay,’ said Aragorn. ‘A white banner is not yet meaningless in the southern realm, or so let us hope.’

And so it was with bated breath and a cloth of purest white lashed to the foremast that the Alcarindur alone sailed around the headland and entered into the Bay of Umbar. Azure waters stretched ahead, patchy macchia scrub clinging to steep, rocky escarpments of the north and south banks. Hamlets dotted these slopes, their circular walls spiralling down from the highest bluffs to the very waterfront itself – where stood a veritable armada, black pennants streaming in the breeze.

Upon the bay’s eastern end, however, the towering sandstone cliffs of the headlands tapered down to lowland hills, where an offshoot of the River Harnen – the Heren, though this was demarcated on no map possessed by the northern realms – emptied into the inlet waters. Splayed along both banks of the river were the entrails of a city: low storage houses running parallel to expansive wharfs, and the mansions of their ever-vigilant merchants behind; modest shops and residences of craftsmen and tradesmen; hovels of day labourers clustered on the city outskirts, beyond the looming semi-circle of its fortifications. Protruding from the chaos were the domed spires of bell- and watchtowers, lords’ turrets and captains’ keeps.

In the very midst of everything, at the City’s very forefront, the fortress of Ka’phos dominated. Its granite foundations rose directly from the Haven waters (though it had not always been thus) and was serviced by no more than a single causeway connecting the fortress’ sole entrance to the quay. Battlements and embrasures sat silent and menacing, not a flicker of movement or whisper of sound evident.

The Alcarindur faced no attack, it would seem.

Any northerner not at the oar – commander and sailor alike – stood upon the ship deck and stared in awe at the sight that greeted them. As Gamhelm loosed a low whistle of astonishment, Aragorn scanned the fleet crowding the bay’s waters with a calculating eye. Sloops and galleys, schooners and carracks bobbed upon the gentle swells: a formidable rank of mast and sail.

‘A chill hangs sharp on the air – it is not so warm as last I came to these lands,’ he murmured to Éomer, throwing eyes up to a sun which glared fiercely down but failed to lend any significant warmth.

‘Our scouts’ information wholly underestimated the Corsair forces,’ Éomer replied, ‘or were perhaps intentionally misled. There is nearly a score of great ships here; see how more come down from the river even now.’

‘An uneasy situation made all the more dangerous,’ said Maeron.

‘Yet still you would not deviate from your determined course, milord?’ asked Bardlorn.

‘There is a reckoning that must be had here, whether by word or by blade,’ Aragorn replied. ‘As our victory in Pelargir was secured by no great margin – and I do not think it wise to suppose we might be so lucky a second time – let us hope that it is the former, and an accord shall be reached through peaceable means.’

‘I will accompany you,’ stated Éomer King.

Aragorn tensed, unease evident in each muscle. ‘Ought we risk more than necessary?’ he asked quietly, no more than an aside to a close friend. ‘It is far better to lose one king than two, I think. Will you not remain behind with the fleet and your riders?’

‘I am no sailor,’ said Éomer, loath to lay in wait, away from the action. ‘And am uneager to watch you endanger yourself alone. If it is violence we face, let us draw swords together; if negotiations, pens.’

Aragorn pursed his lips before conceding. ‘It shall not be the first time we face untold dangers together.’

‘And Gamhelm shall serve well in my stead,’ said Éomer, turning suddenly to his Riders.

‘Very well, milord,’ said Gamhelm with a bow, though he hid a frown of disappointment – for he, too, longed desperately to go ashore.

‘I will be grateful for your assistance,’ said Bardlorn to the horselord captain. ‘We now count a great many sailors of Dol Amroth amongst our number, but still it is no easy feat to defend a ship, and the support of a cavalry will be a great boon indeed.’

‘Do not disembark without permission when we are gone,’ Aragorn advised. ‘The Umbarians will see it as an act of aggression. Be cautious also of any invitation to do so. The Rohirrim’s mounts will not fare well if they are kept belowdecks for any protracted period of time, but you must be circumspect.’

‘And should our fates so unluckily devolve into violence, milord?’ asked Bardlorn.

‘Lay siege first to the fortress at Tar-Calion. Do not allow those upon the headland to reinforce their brethren in the main City. We will rejoin you there, beyond the treacherous mouth of the Bay. But do not fear,’ Aragorn hastened to add, noting the suppressed hint of misgiving on the Captain’s face. ‘There is yet hope that each of us will emerge unscathed from these precarious circumstances.’

‘It is one thing to send my King into battle behind the defences of Pelargir,’ said Bardlorn. ‘Another entirely to watch him walk into the open arms of the enemy. It would bring me no joy to fire my bow or draw my sword, knowing you defend yourself elsewhere.’

‘Then let us concoct plans with no intention of ever finding them necessary,’ said Aragorn with a gentle smile.

He bade Alcarindur be moored – distant enough from the fortress of Ka’phos as not to seem threatening, yet sufficiently near to allow a hasty retreat if necessary. A skiff was lowered, and when Aragorn and Éomer descended, they were joined also by Captain Maeron and a guard of three additional Gondorian soldiers. As they rowed the tiny boat across the waters of the cove, Maeron raised yet another standard of white, but there were no horns, no fanfare, no delegation – nothing to indicate how they might be welcomed by these Umbarians.

Each northerner sat grimly within the skiff, clutching oar handles or shield enarmes or sword pommels, watching the City approach. Indications of an ordinary, bustling port carried across the waves: shouts and clatterings and flickers of motion in the distant reaches of the city. Yet the waterfront was wholly abandoned, as seemingly lifeless as the Ka’phos fort itself. When the skiff drew near the foremost pier, there was only discomfiting stillness.

Then suddenly a voice cried out from the battlements of Ka’phos: ‘Hands!’

Startled, the Gondorian guards glanced amongst each other, but were swift to follow when neither Aragorn nor Éomer showed any hesitation in raising their arms into the air. Even as they watched, a company of men materialised from the space between two storehouses and strode down the pier, their wide pants billowing behind them, waist sashes flapping in the air.

‘Be advised you are at the arrows’ point of our most prolific archers,’ shouted one as he pulled in the skiff with a long hook and roped it to the dock. ‘Not only you, but your ships before Tar-Calion and all along the coast, as far as Harnen.’

‘You see by our white standard that our intentions are peaceful,’ said Aragorn, his voice even and reassuring. ‘We bear you no ill will; we wish merely to negotiate.’

‘Yes, a great many of you would be dead already, were it not for your absurd bedsheet,’ said the man, motioning with a jerk of his thumb for the northmen to disembark. ‘It happens to be your good fortune that the Captain likewise wishes to have words with you.’

‘Weapons,’ ordered a second man. There was another glance amongst the Gondorian guards, followed by a prolonged rustle of buckles and straps being undone. Éomer made as if to offer his blade to the Corsair nearest him, but the man gave him a disgusted look.

‘You ask me to deign touch so foul a weapon?’ said the Corsair, incredulous. ‘Place it on the dock. An attendant will collect your weapons and transport them to the palace after you have arrived.’

‘I will not be separated from my blade, or have it treated so!’ the Eorling King cried, fury quickly rising.

Aragorn laid a calming hand upon the arm of his friend, a peculiar smile cracking his face in spite of the situation – for it was not long ago he himself had so adamantly refused to relinquish his own weapon into the care of Háma at the foot of Meduseld. The memory of Edoras swiftly brought the thought of Truva rushing to the forefront of his mind, and a painful twinge seized his chest; they had been parted no more than a few days, and though he stood upon the edge of circumstances most precarious, still his concern for her far outweighed that for his own self.

But it would not do to dwell on that which could not immediately be rectified. Aragorn gave his head a shake and, with all weapons surrendered, he and the others followed their Umbarian escorts along the dock. Upon reaching the stone quay, another heavily-armed company fell in behind, and they turned and were marched in this fashion towards the Heren. Yet the guard did not turn up the causeway of Ka’phos, and instead continued until they came to the very riverbank itself.

From here, they were directed upriver along the towpath, and at great last Aragorn and the others were given a glimpse of the life behind the City’s storehouse screen: granaries and guildhalls, mills, the cooper’s workshop… And yet, while the institutions were familiar, the architecture was unlike anything in the north, for in place of paved byways was hardened earth, with sand and grit chuffing beneath their feet; unforgiving stone gave way to mosaic and baked mud and both flat and domed roofs.

Ahead, bridges crisscrossed the river’s span – some more sturdy than others – ferrying townspeople and their wares or livestock from bank to bank. Though Aragorn had descended upon the Havens in a bygone year, a great deal had changed since, and his pace unwittingly slowed as he attempted to take in the sights.

‘Keep moving,’ a Corsair growled from behind, though the rough shove he levelled was towards Maeron, who similarly struggled to mask his astoundment.

The lead Corsair only deviated from the towpath once they came to a narrow alley, tucked between a tannery and a cobbler. The party turned northward along this narrow route, walking single file and squeezing between storage crates the stench of which caused their eyes to water. Here they did not once encounter any other persons, even as they drew nearer to the sounds of bustle and commotion.

‘Why do I sense we are being shown the back way?’ Éomer murmured to Aragorn.

Aragorn cast his glance about, reconciling his past knowledge of the City with their current path. ‘Because we are,’ he replied, casting a significant glance to Éomer.

‘Quiet!’ the Corsair head commanded. ‘We do not traverse through the bazaar for your own safety; you Forodrim are not well-liked here in the Havens.’

It was thus in silence that the company was swiftly ushered round a corner. Even so, Aragorn caught the briefest of glimpses through a narrow gap between the rear of a textile shop and its greengrocer neighbour: beneath a vast patchwork awning that sheltered both permanent stalls and improvised tents from the sun’s flaring rays, throngs of Umbarians swarmed an immense square. Merchants parted the multitudes with carts ladened with flatbread or almonds or pottery, while shopkeepers caught would-be prospectors by the cloth of their angular vests to demonstrate the quality of their jewellery.

Yet in an instant, the view was gone and the walls of the narrow passageway closed in once more. The Captain’s Coronon reared overhead, the copper sheeting of its domes gleaming in the sun, embellished with tiled mosaics of deep blues and greens more evocative of the sea than the sea itself. Only the palace’s lofty upper reaches were visible, however, and soon those too disappeared from sight as the northerners’ escort drew them sharply into a hidden alcove, guarded by half a dozen Umbarian warriors.

Tucked within the alcove was a tiny wooden door, scarcely large enough for a Hobbit. The briefest of nods passed between escort and guard, then a key was produced and the door unlocked to reveal a flight of stone steps descending into darkness. A torch passed from one hand to another, then was ignited, and once again the party set forth.

After the scorching high noon sunlight, the cool passageway raised gooseflesh on Aragorn’s arms. Footsteps soughed on smooth flagstones as the company progressed along a series of disorienting turns before ascending a second stairway. On the landing stood a heavy pine door. With a shove of the lead Corsair’s shoulder, it opened onto a bustling kitchen.

Deafening chaos ceased the instant the Umbarian cooks caught sight of Aragorn and the others.

‘As you were,’ the foremost guard commanded gruffly. The commotion resumed at once, though curious glances were cast surreptitiously over shoulders as the party wove between tables and darting cooks to squeeze into a narrow passageway on the opposite side of the kitchen.

When they emerged onto an immense hallway beyond, Even Aragorn was taken aback by the opulence that greeted them; for in his prior travels, he had seen no necessity in entering the palace itself. Rohirric King and Gondorian guard alike craned their necks back in awe, taking in high, arched ceilings with a patchwork of precise, colourful geometric patterns. These tessellations were mirrored in floral arabesques lining the walls, and integrated into the glazed tiles which cooled the ground beneath their feet.

‘This way,’ the guard urged them, allowing little time for observation. He leaned into a set of double doors, plated in copper and embellished with the depiction of a snake and eagle locked in deadly combat, to reveal an equally breathtaking hall beyond. Great marble apses swept upwards and outwards to create a wide, open chamber – vaster even than any hall Gondor could boast of. In the very centre stood a tiered dais, which bore an imposing bronze throne laid with silk cushions; about its edges, warriors knelt upon the floor, facing in all directions so that none might approach undetected.

From the throne rose a man whose towering height rivalled that of Aragorn, and whose dress was no less ornate than the palace itself: glimmering silver thread embroidered upon cloth of deep indigo. Beading rustled as the Captain descended the dais tier by tier, until the heels of his boots clacked against the stone floor and he stood but a short distance from the northerners.

‘So you have come,’ he said, voice reverberating strangely upon the walls. His tone was sharp but rich, imbued with indecipherable meaning. The echoes had not fully died away before Aragorn bowed. He did not fully incline before the Captain, but nor was it a slight act. The others quickly followed suit, only to straighten hurriedly when a dark laugh followed.

‘You would bow before me, Thorongil – or shall I refer to you as Aragorn son of Arathorn, High King of the Dúnedain and of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor?’ said the Captain. ‘And you, Éomer of the House of Eorl, first of the third line of the Kings of Rohan! Do you truly consider me worthy of so obsequious a gesture?’

‘Every sovereign is deserving of obeisance in his own halls,’ said Aragorn.

The man who called himself Castamir peered at the company before him then, his sea-grey eyes blinking in an eerie reflection of Aragorn’s own; for all the millenia the Black Númenóreans had dwelt in the western reaches of Harad, still some infinitesimal trace of their ancient ancestors lingered upon their features.

‘It was a crushing defeat my fleet suffered in Pelargir,’ said the Captain at great last. ‘And yet it is you who sails beneath the white standard. What is your purpose here? Do you wish to mock me? Have you come to kill me, as you once slew my father? Yet you came then under a false name, and in the deep of night – out of fear, I presume – to slit his throat; have you so little regard for me that you would fell me in broad daylight?’

‘I did no more than inform Steward Ecthelion II of your father’s assaults upon the southern reaches of Gondor, and to warn him of Umbar’s intent to ally itself with Sauron,’ said Aragorn. ‘In hearing my counsel, it was the Steward who determined to negate the forces amassing in the Havens – and we see now that my conjectures were correct. Bitter were the conflicts between our lands during the War.’

‘Or perhaps it was those very conjectures that drove us into Sauron’s arms,’ the Captain countered. ‘And now, in the desolate days following the War, you presume Umbar does not possess sufficient strength to defend against the waxing might of Gondor.’

‘I will not assert the power balances of Men are unshifting and unchanging.’ Aragorn spoke at a slant, hedging each and every syllable. ‘It is true that, should you wish to usurp me, you would likely find your task far more daunting than your forebears might have. Yet just as it would behove you to abstain from drawing your sword, so too would stringent consequences exist for myself, and for Gondor, were I to take action against you.’

Castamir considered these words a moment, his light eyes flickering between each of the visitors. ‘So if it is not to kill me, then why have you come?’

‘We would have peace – if you be willing,’ Éomer spoke at last.

A brief pause elapsed before the Captain’s dry chuckle filled the hall once more. ‘Peace?’ he spat. ‘It is not so simple, horselord. Not merely—’

A gong sounded, cutting his words off. In the following silence, an attendant emerged from a side door and bowed low, declaring: ‘Dinner is served, my lord.’

‘Excellent!’ exclaimed the Captain with a clap of his hands, his demeanour altering in an instant. ‘Let us set aside our quarrel for a time, and dine together.’

‘Dinner?’ questioned Maeron, who had until then been content to quietly seethe in the presence of his enemy. ‘But it is scarcely past noon!’

‘I know little of the barbaric habits you Forodrim keep,’ the Captain quipped, ‘ but in the south, we are accustomed to taking our meals as they ought to be taken.’

He then ushered his guests back along the hall through which they had come, giving Maeron an opportunity to turn to another Gondorian warrior and ask, ‘How ought meals to be taken, then?’ The man shook his head in bewilderment.

The company emerged suddenly from the palace’s shady recesses onto a vast garden, enclosed by immense sandstone walls. While elsewhere in the Havens bore inescapable signs of drought, there was no such indication in the lush greensward and its decorative rose bushes, towering cypress trees, and bubbling fountains. At the far end of the garden, a low tent had been erected, its maroon canvas casting dark shade in opposition to the torrid sun. Already a number of Corsairs lounged beneath it – one of whom was immediately recognisable as the primary guard who had escorted Aragorn and the others from the wharfs to the Coronon. They all leapt to their feet upon spying the Captain.

‘Sit, sit!’ he urged, waving his hands.

At once, the assembled advisors retook their places, settling upon great pillows and throws strewn across the ground. Low tables were scattered about the tent. The Captain bade Aragorn and Éomer join him at the foremost one, motioning for Maeron and the others to take their place just beside them. Each was proffered a bowl of rosewater with which to wash their hands, even as an array of small dishes appeared before them: dates, figs and grapes, walnuts and pistachios, soft cheeses and sliced tomatoes – each fresher and more appetising than the last.

Even so, Aragorn did not touch these offerings, and instead bent close to the Captain. ‘My lord—’ he began, but Castamir held up a hand to silence him.

‘There is to be no business conducted during meals; such are our manners,’ said he. ‘And I suggest you be circumspect in your consumption – there are a great many more courses to come; it would not do to eat your fill upon fruits and nuts, only to watch in envy as more luxurious delicacies pass beneath your nose.’

Aragorn sat back, rebuffed but unwilling to press when circumstances were so evidently not in his favour. In a subtle sign of good grace, the Captain selected morsels from the very same vessels as his guests, yet still Aragorn did not partake. His companions, however, were not nearly so hesitant, and quickly set upon the appetisers as a hum of conversation swelled amongst the Corsair advisors, who eyed the guests warily but made no overtures.

Soon, a young man bearing a low stool came forward. Placing the seat unsteadily upon the grassy turf, he sat before the congregation with a self-conscious clearing of his throat; yet though his hands shook and his breath rattled, there was a gleam in his eye as he gazed upon the gathering.

‘Ah, yes!’ said the Captain with evident glee. ‘Our youngest orator-in-training. Let us hear what he has accomplished since last he came before us! Speak, boy!’

The young man took a deep breath, and though his body still trembled, his voice rang clear in the turgid afternoon air. A poem unspooled, painting for its listeners the image of deep night, and gallant warriors garbed in black and red, defending against a ‘swarm’ of unmarked sails – until the very slaying of their Captain himself. As the poem concluded and the Corsairs devolved into rowdy applause, Aragorn shifted uncomfortably; this performance had been crafted as a remonstration for past transgressions yet unforgiven.

‘Wasn’t that delightful?’ said Castamir, feigning oblivious enthusiasm.

‘The boy does indeed boast great skill,’ said Aragorn with a strained smile as another, more seasoned artist replaced the young orator. This new recitation was one of more jovial spirit, however, and enumerated the praises of seas sailed and lands traversed. It was accompanied by a change in fare, as well, for the fruits and nuts were replaced with thinly sliced smoked meats, olive assortments, salads of celery and dandelion leaves, and artichokes steamed with butter and mint.

Despite their every intention of remaining wary, Aragorn and the others soon found themselves wholly absorbed in the splendorous meal and entertainment. Poem was followed by song, which in turn was followed by dance, then more songs and more poems. Afternoon transitioned unmarked into evening, the blushing sky shifted to periwinkle; lanterns were lit to glow diffusely in the gloam, and a contented mood washed over the garden.

‘Can you imagine the delight your Holbytlan would take in such a feast?’ Éomer remarked to Aragorn at the end of a particularly sentimental song, as yet another course was placed before them: one of roasted quail and cod, accompanied by freshly-baked flatbread.

‘I suspect even young master Peregrin’s stomach might at last be sated by Umbarian hospitality,’ Aragorn replied.

‘Doubtful,’ Éomer scoffed.

Yet in that very moment, all music and conversation ceased and the Corsairs’ heads turned towards the palace. From one of its many side doors emerged a figure most regal: that of a young woman. She was dressed in flowing silk robes, the colour of seafoam and embroidered handsomely, but even this enchanting garment seemed inelegant in comparison to her beauty. Elves would be envious of her dark hair, and – like the Captain – her pale eyes pierced with no more than a glance.

‘My daughter, Undómírë!’ cried Castamir.

The congregation rose as one. With a jolt, the woman’s graceful entrance recalled to Aragorn the appearance of Arwen at the feast in Imladris, when last he visited during the War. At that time, he had been so certain the regal Elf was his inescapable destiny; yet he knew now that it was not to be – that even then Truva had unwittingly become embedded deep within his heart. He found himself longing for the shieldmaiden’s reassuring presence, her steadfast countenance, her practical deductions during the tumultuous proceedings in Umbar.

Even as he indulged in these thoughts, The Captain beckoned to Undómírë, who appeared to glide as one ethereal to her father’s side. ‘I should like to introduce Aragorn, King of Gondor, and Éomer of Rohan, King of Rohan’s third line,’ he said.

‘Two kings of unparalleled majesty,’ said Undómírë with a gentle smile. ‘It is our great fortune that you grace our shores so.’

‘On the contrary, it is we who are thankful to be so warmly welcomed,’ said Éomer.

‘Then let us delight in the remainder of our evening – for there is certainly much more to be revelled in,’ she said.

Upon hearing this declaration, the entire gathering settled once more upon the ground and welcomed the following act. This in turn was followed by a recitation of Undómírë’s own – which was surely more musical than mere spoken words – and many other displays of Umbar’s finest artists.

When at last a dessert course of poached pears and almond biscuits was served, many of the Umbarian statesmen had eaten their fill, and disappeared in ones and twos towards the palace. After a time, none save the Captain and the guard from the wharf remained lounging upon pillows with their northern guests, who wrapped furs loosely about themselves to ward off a sharp evening chill that had stolen upon them.

‘So, my lord Aragorn,’ spoke the Captain, suddenly resuming the conversation they had begun in the interior hall as though nothing had transpired in the meantime, ‘you would have peace.’

Aragorn leaned back against a cushion, glad to finally begin in earnest. ‘It is clear to me now the accords we struck in Minas Tirith seem unfavourable to you – so much so that you would openly defy them and attack the ports of Gondor. What am I to make of such bold transgressions?’

‘If you acknowledge our discontent, you must also be willing to make concessions,’ interjected the guard.

‘Concessions!’ scoffed Éomer. ‘You are in no position to bargain, Southron!’ He made as if to speak more, but the strain in Aragorn’s jaw caused him to fall silent.

Castamir waved his hands dismissively. ‘You must forgive my Ploíarkos,’ he said. ‘I believe you call this rank “lieutenant” in your northern armies? Tharbadír is overeager at times, but while his manner lacks nuance, he does express my sentiments.’

‘I would be willing to listen to what concessions you would ask of me, then make my determination as to whether they are agreeable,’ said Aragorn. ‘Yet as my companion makes clear, there is little that works in your favour. We have seen your fleet; it is undeniably vast, but it is no match for the might of the unified West – depleted though our ranks be in the wake of the War.’

The Captain pursed his lips, his mouth no more than a tight line as he gazed steadily upon the Kings’ stony features. At last he gave a slight sniff and said, ‘You think Umbar weak – which is true – yet you understand little of our plight, Aragorn son of Arathorn. It is not willingly I throw myself upon the treacherous rocks of Gondor’s coasts; desperation, not greed, is what drives me.’

‘You would dare hope for more than that which was afforded by the terms set?’ said Éomer. ‘Umbar retained its borders unaltered, you pay no levies or stipends, nor was any great disarmament demanded – the last of which we see now was a tremendous oversight on our part. For a state that brought the Black Lord down upon all the people of Middle-earth, you ought to count yourself rather fortunate.’

‘You speak from ignorance, horselord!’ seethed the Captain. ‘Umbar had little dealings with Sauron, who instead wrought his workings in the minds of the Eastern lords – the descendents of Herumor and Fuinur, in whom evil seems to amplify with each passing generation.

‘Since long before you ever came to our shores under the guise of Thorongil, Harad exploited the slight lands of Umbar beyond reckoning. Not content to strip all that could be gleaned from our copper mines, they then demand payment in other forms: labourers and agricultural levies, arms, and the soldiers to bear them.

‘And when Sauron promised power and resources to the lords of Harad, their armies pressed us into service – whether we willed it or no. Umbarians are a proud people, and are our own separate ruling entity, a city-state distinct from the lands of Harad; yet we had not the power to resist the overwhelming might of our neighbours, let alone Sauron.

‘If you desire peace, it is not with us whom you must negotiate,’ the Captain concluded. ‘You must seek out those eastern lands.’

Silence followed this impassioned monologue; both Aragorn and Éomer had fallen into deep contemplation and gazed upon the garden about them, wholly preoccupied. Maeron and the other Gondorian guards sat with muscles tense, fingers reaching for sword hilts that were not there.

Éomer brushed nonexistent crumbs from his hands to break the stillness. ‘To speak in truth, I had until now considered Umbar and Harad one and the same,’ he confessed.

‘So do all who fail to pause and learn the ways of those they do not count amongst their allies,’ quipped the Ploíarkos.

‘And so you continued to assail the North, for the long-embittered enmity tainting our relations prevented you from turning to us for aid,’ mused Aragorn, half to himself, before inhaling sharply and fixing his eyes upon the Captain. ‘And Harad persists in demanding these levies, even following the cessation of hostilities?’

‘If anything, their ill treatment has grown even more exacting; for they lost a great deal in the War, and now rely upon Umbar to supplement their weakened forces,’ said Castamir.

Aragorn resisted the urge to shift in his seat. It seemed increasingly apparent that the best path forward lay along a most unpleasant route. ‘Were we to journey eastward and seek peace with the Haradrim, what assurance would you give me of my fleet’s safety here in the Havens?’

‘I lack strength, not wits,’ said Castamir, feigning offence but clearly pleased his entreaties had proven effective. ‘I sailed against Pelargir knowing the might of the East lay at my back, but I have no desire to trap myself between two enemies, should Gondor and Harad ally themselves against me – which you surely would, given an unprovoked attack upon your ships. No, my Lord Aragorn, I desire peace as much as you do, or perhaps a great deal more; and if Gondor’s influence were able to reign in the Sunlands’ long reach, I truly believe we could live harmoniously – or, at least without aggression – at last.’

Aragorn maintained his impassive expression. This was small reassurance from one so crafty as the Captain, and the precise nature of the dynamic between Umbar and Harad was more ambiguous than ever; he could not rely on Castamir’s word alone to navigate his course of action. He and the others lapsed back into silence, grappling with their individual thoughts, until the torches sputtered one by one into darkness.

After a time, the Captain arose and beckoned to his guests. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘You are surely weary from your journey. I will show you to your accommodations.’

Leading them back within the palace, he traversed a series of elaborate staircases and long corridors, each successively more ornate than the last, before arriving at a series of bedchambers.

‘I bid you goodnight,’ said he. ‘As fate did not kindly favour my father the last time Forodrim stalked the night in Umbar, I have posted guards at your doors. Do not venture into the west wing, for there lie my chambers.’

Then, with a swish of his beaded gown, he turned and left the travellers to retire. Aragorn’s eyebrows rose slightly; all information he previously gathered had indicated the Captain of the Haven slept in the east wing, as dictated by tradition.

‘I will take first watch,’ Maeron murmured, moving to stand opposite the Captain’s guards, who flanked each doorway.

Éomer was the first to enter his chambers, shoulders bent by exhaustion, and the remaining Gondorians were quick to follow. Once in his own spacious apartments, Aragorn washed in the basin and soon lay abed, staring up at lace curtains wafting in the cool breeze off the Bay. Yet he could not so easily set aside his ruminations. Finding no rest, he rose and slipped from the chamber doors, then padded silently down the carpeted corridor, shadowed by two guards.

Guided by curiosity, he wandered the maze-like Coronon with his inescapable companions, and eventually came upon a high-arched door adorned with intricate patterns of mirror fragments, cut with remarkable precision. Beyond was an expansive gallery, every inch of its pillars and vaulted ceiling decorated in a similar manner to the doors. Lit by the soft glow of lanterns, these gleaming tessellations refracted the light and cast a glittering flare across the tiled floor, yet many beams gathered to illuminate a series of paintings and statues lining the wall.

Aragorn approached the first portrait and immediately recognized it as Castamir – not the current Captain of the Corsairs who claimed that name, but the grandson of Calimehtar, the usurper of Eldacar who effected great slaughter upon his own people. There were a great many other works of art, as well, not least of which were Angamaitë and Sangahyando, great-grandsons of Castamir. Manuscripts kept within the library of Minas Tirith asserted their line had died out, yet it was not freely that information flowed between Umbar and Gondor; Aragorn wondered whether the current Captain’s claim was perhaps more than merely in name.

As he gazed upon one scene which depicted the toppling of the White Pillar of Ar-Pharazôn, he detected the light sounds of another figure approaching. The guards, however, had vanished.

‘In search of any architectural idiosyncrasy constructed since the last northern occupation?’ The voice of the Captain’s daughter was low in the night stillness, her amused expression only just visible as she strode through the patchwork of light to take a place beside Aragorn.

‘Forgive me my tresspasses,’ he murmured.

‘Your presence here is no trespass,’ the Princess replied. ‘You may walk freely as you would in your own castle.’

Aragorn cast his gaze about the gallery. ‘I heard there were extraordinary wonders contained within the palace of Coronon: great halls of mirror and crystal, with windows and walls more colourful than the most vibrant of paintings. Until now, I had believed such rumours to be born of imaginative fancy, and yet I find myself happily mistaken.’

‘If you also believe you shall find any weakness not already known to Gondor, you will again be mistaken,’ said Undómírë. ‘The Captains have always considered this palace hallowed, and will not allow a single stone to be altered; any fault in structural integrity surely exists already in your own records.’

‘I come in admiration, not investigation or scrutiny, or hope of assault,’ said Aragorn, a gentle smile upon his face. ‘I see now the Coronon boasts no fortifications, and is a place of residence, not military conflict. A terrible misdeed it would be to alter such beauty, save to enhance it.’

‘Just so,’ said Undómírë decisively, guiding Aragorn to an adjacent hall, where paintings depicting the Havens and surrounding lands were displayed from floor to lofty, golden rafters. ‘And what of your meal this evening? Was it to your liking?’

‘I have travelled the many corners of this Earth, and yet never been afforded the pleasure of tasting many of the delicacies presented to me this evening. The Havens boast not only architectural marvels, but culinary ones as well.’

Undómírë’s eyes twinkled archly. ‘My father knew of your coming, and so made a great show of presenting our finest dishes,’ she said. ‘To speak frankly, the meals in our daily lives are rarely so splendid – even those of the Captain. Likewise, it was with especial care that he selected the dress in which he greeted you.’

Aragorn glanced down at his own travel-worn garments then back to his companion. ‘And the performances; the orations, the music and dance? Were they similarly a display of unusual extravagance?’

‘Most certainly not!’ Undómírë’s musical laughter echoed up into the ceiling’s lofty arches. ‘To Umbarians, the arts are an indispensable aspect of even the most ordinary evening, and business is customarily conducted all the while – though I know my father told you otherwise. I believe he sought to make you uncomfortable by delaying your purpose quite abruptly.’

Aragorn drifted further down the gallery, turning his attention to each ornately framed masterpiece in turn. ‘Do you not risk the Captain’s ire in revealing such secrets to me?’

‘Perhaps,’ said the Princess, a blithe smile belying the solemnity of her words as she trailed slightly behind Aragorn. ‘But my father is a proud man, a vain man. With one hand he would serve a grand feast, and with the other blame Harad for all our misfortunes – and in doing so, I fear he ruins our hope of securing Gondor’s aid by presenting a façade of wealth, while failing to admit the depth to which the Havens’ struggles delve.’

‘Your troubles extend beyond those which Harad press upon you?’

‘While it is true some fault lies with the Sunlands for our present circumstances, my father would seek to lay a heavier blame upon them than is truly deserved; for it cannot be denied that our lands provide little by way of natural resources, and our primary recourse is to seek it elsewhere.’

‘In places such as Gondor,’ concluded Aragorn.

‘Such as Gondor,’ said Undómírë, ducking her head so her gleaming hair fell about her face. ‘Yet would it not be beneficial to both our peoples to set aside grievances of the past, and forge a new alliance by which we could both prosper?’

The pair stopped then before a vast painting, its rough strokes of muted browns and tans depicting a scene in motion: an eagle with its wings in mid-draught, confronting a rearing black serpent. Aragorn reached out, his fingers hovering over the mural.

‘And yet it was Umbar that betrayed our recent accords.’

‘As Gondor did – as you did – when my grandfather was struck down for mere fear of an action not yet taken.’ When Undómírë turned to face Aragorn then, he did not even consider remarking upon her selective interpretation of that surprise attack. Her eyes pierced him, pinning his chest to the painting itself. ‘The eagle always strikes from above.’

‘And yet it was the eagle, wings broken and unwary, that felt fangs sink unexpectedly into its back,’ he replied.

Chapter Text

Early morning fog spread a fleecy blanket upon Langflood as Truva stole through the silent streets of Osgiliath to bid Roheryn one final farewell. Not even the ever-industrious bakers were about when she directed her steps to the docks. There, bobbing in the river currents upon the eastern piers of the city, was a tiny canoe, dwarfed by the tremendous vessels surrounding it. So light and inconsequential it appeared, despite its heavy burden of supplies for the trio’s journey.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ groused Gimli, tromping up behind Truva without so much as a ‘good morning’. The boat’s silvery wood dipped and swayed in the dark waters as he stumbled into its sleek hull, nearly overturning it.

‘Have caution,’ said Legolas, who appeared in his companion’s wake. He leapt deftly onboard before extending a hand to Truva. ‘Though they are of the highest craftsmanship, such vessels are accustomed to bearing only those with the grace of Elves.’

‘That is a kindly way of implying we are clumsy,’ said Truva.

‘I will not be faulted for the heavy-footed manner of my people,’ Gimli protested. ‘Take an Elf underground and see how well his far-seeing eyes fare in those close, dark tunnels!’

‘Fairly well, I would presume,’ Legolas retorted, handing a paddle to Gimli as the trio tucked their packs into what little free space remained and settled onto the seats.

‘And yet you have not seen fit to venture into the Glittering Caves.’

‘Scarce sixmonth has passed since you so much as entertained notions of taking up residence in Aglarond,’ said Legolas, speaking over his friend’s grumbled complaints. ‘And there is time yet for such adventures – let us focus now upon that which lies directly before us. I would get some rest if I were you, Marshal; the boat is light, but even so, it shall be a laborious task to propel ourselves northward against the current.’

Truva was tempted to contest this distribution of roles, but already Gimli was splashing his oar ineffectually in the water. She settled instead into the rear of the canoe and reclined against a large, fur-covered pack.

Even as the travellers cast off, Truva turned to gaze upon the receding sights of the city. She did not yet have any deep fondness for Osgiliath, having spent only the briefest of sojourns amidst its charming, flower-adorned streets. Yet some ineffable mood overtook her, some mystifying premonition rose within her heart; here was her final anchor to lands familiar, her final glimpse of all that she knew, disappearing into the morning mist.

When the last stone spire slipped into nothingness, Truva refocused on the path ahead. Constructing a nest out of the fur, she adjusted to a more comfortable position and crossed her arms upon her chest. No more than a few minutes elapsed before the gentle rocking of the boat – and her two companions’ affectionate bickering – lulled her to sleep.

‘Waybread?’

Truva’s right eye cracked open to reveal Legolas squatting directly before her, holding out a gauze-wrapped wafer in offering.

‘No, thank you,’ she mumbled, though she was quick to sit up, wondering how she had dozed off for so long after a night of restful sleep – the morning was half gone!

In the bow, Gimli forged onwards alone, swinging his paddle from one side to the other in response to the vessel’s light touch.

‘Why don’t you rest, my friend?’ Legolas suggested to him.

‘Oh, aye – though such activity is light work for those who delve into rock and ore,’ he said, passing the oar to Truva and surreptitiously shaking out his arms. ‘Yet I’ve a feeling the Marshal would like to earn her keep.’

‘You are astute in your observations,’ said Truva, readily taking the smooth wooden handle into her palm. She wobbled forward to take over the Dwarf’s position, but no sooner had she dipped the paddle into the water than the canoe went careening across the river, nearly upending itself entirely.

‘Steady, steady,’ Legolas cautioned. ‘You must pull it, like so – neither too shallow nor too deep in the water. And mind the angle!’

‘It is more challenging than I expected,’ Truva remarked. ‘Not in any way similar to the large dromunds.’

‘I suspect you shall grow familiar with paddling a canoe far more swiftly than rowing those monsters of marine travel,’ said Gimli, already throwing a length of fur over his eyes, as the weather was chill and another dusting of snow threatened to fall. Soon, his less-than-gentle snores mingled with the sound of the bubbling river current.

Silence overtook the tiny dinghy. Neither of its waking occupants were inclined to chatter; even so, Truva wondered whether she ought not strike up a conversation as an overture of good will. She cast about for a topic that would not wholly bore her companion, yet she still had not landed on one when Legolas raised his voice in quiet song. Out across the waters of Langflood did his melodic tones thrum, as though unburdened by worldly fetters, borne upon wind and waves to an existence beyond the perceivable:

Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen,
yéni unótimë ve rámar aldaron!
Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier
mi oromardi lisse-miruvóreva
Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar
nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni
ómaryo airetári-lírinen.

Truva knew not what meaning the Elf’s words held, and yet she felt her spirit transported within the music’s ensnaring spell. Inexplicable sorrow overcame her. It was not the cutting pain of grief she had endured so much of late, but a heavier despondency, a melancholy more harrowing.

The song had long faded away before Truva realised it was ended. Quiet descended over the pair with a strangely reassuring rush, and all that could be heard for quite some time was the steady dip of oar into water. Truva no longer felt the need to fill the void; the spirit of Legolas’ melody lingered.

Even so, the Elf soon saw fit to grant her a second reprieve. ‘Watch for eddies,’ he said, indicating a distant swirl of water that circled back against the current. ‘Pause as long as you need; it will give you a moment’s respite before forging on.’

When they lapsed once more into silence, Truva came to acknowledge Legolas’ taciturn spells were not nearly as uncomfortable as she had once believed, though the Elf surpassed even Aragorn in his reticence. An easy peace settled between them as northern Ithilien and its hills slipped by, the sun rising up behind the cloud cover to cast a diffuse light over the scene. Upon the opposite bank, the open fields of Anórien unfurled westward. Truva could almost imagine she saw a messenger riding along Hérweg, bearing news for Elfhelm Marshal.

There was no noontide break, no luncheon. The travellers pressed ever onwards, driven by some inexplicable desire to gain as much distance as possible. When Legolas at last saw fit to rest, Gimli replaced him, and proceeded to spend a great deal of time lamenting to Truva how – while he loved his family dearly – he was in no rush to return.

‘You shall see, lass,’ he warned, digging his paddle into the water. ‘Overbearing, the lot of ’em! It was not until I removed to my own lands that I discovered how impossibly stubborn the Dwarves of my family are. They care for naught beyond that which lies directly beneath their feet – not the walking trees of Fangorn Forest, nor the mysterious geological features of Mordor now unveiled to us – not even the Glittering Caves of Rohan! Dwarves, lacking interest in nature’s beauty on account of its being “too remote”? Absurd! Have ye not been into the depths of Glǽmscrafu itself? No? Bah!’

Gimli continued on in this vein for quite some time, scarcely allowing Truva a word in edgewise as he transitioned into bemoaning the denied opportunity to explore Umbar – or give its navy a second thrashing. But his ramblings were of good nature, and helped pass the otherwise bland hours.

Come late evening, the isle of Cair Andros and its twin bridges loomed ahead. As with Osgiliath, the fortress of Elminas bore extensive signs of battle, though its less tactical location meant the southerly city’s repairs had taken precedence. Great rends were still hewn into the garrison’s battlements – some clear down to the grassy earth of the isle itself – and the keep showed evidence of a fiery assault. Thus proving insufficient accommodations for the company stationed there, a swath of tents had been erected on the greensward beyond the southerly postern.

Osgiliath had not been Truva’s last tie to the familiar, after all; for no sooner had she laid eyes upon the isle than she was visited by a vague recollection of its stately stone keep, glimpsed during her departure from Ithilien and the Field of Cormallen. Even as the travellers’ canoe drew abreast of Cair Andros’ makeshift docks, shadows of the battle before Morannon nipped at the corners of her mind, only to be chased away by the sounding of a trumpet.

From a particularly ostentatious tent emerged the Captain of the Guard, who descended across the sloping greensward to greet the visitors. His voice boomed across the distance: ‘Greetings!’ cried he. ‘Never have I seen so strange a company set foot upon Cair Andros, not even during the War.’

‘We travel under orders of your King,’ said Legolas. Too long had the Elf’s minute expressions been foreign to Truva, but she suspected now that his tone bore some peevishness, and that his lips were pursed.

‘And of the King of Rohan,’ she added.

‘A horsemaster!’ exclaimed the Captain. ‘I’d recognise that accent anywhere. It was the succour of your brave people that restored this very isle in its most desperate hour of need, and we shall forever owe you a debt of gratitude most deep.’

Truva’s poor impression of the Captain was immediately called into question. Though she knew any, having a passing familiarity with Eorling, would think her pronunciation of the language ungainly, still her heart flared with a gentle flame of pride to hear the Eorlingas referred to as ‘her people’. But the Captain paid her silence no mind, and forged on: ‘You’ll excuse me, for I intended no ill will in my comment – it is no terrible thing to be strange, I don’t think.’

‘Your expression of remorse is duly noted,’ grunted Gimli.

‘You may call me Amander,’ said the Captain; not even the Dwarf’s glowering countenance could fluster him. ‘But come, come – you must forgive our lack of hospitality, for we had no forewarning of your arrival, and provisions have been in short supply of late. It shall be no meal fit for the emissaries of Kings, but I shall see that you are fed and rested, and set upon your journey fully refreshed.’

Amander bade the travellers ascend the greensward towards several rows of tents – immense canvas shelters emblazoned with the tree of Gondor – and escorted them into the very first they came upon. He had not spoken falsely, for the meal they found there was indeed humble. Yet it was all the more endearing for being shared in spite of hard circumstances (those with less often being more likely to possess generous hands) and in his company, Truva and the others passed the night comfortably and peaceably, with many a shared tales.

Only the sentries were awake when the trio stole towards the docks the following morning. Fog smothered the scene as they untied the canoe and set out once more upon the Langflood. Legolas took an uncharacteristic rest, leaving Truva and Gimli to cut through the unceasing currents beneath a gradually lightening sky. The Dwarf was garrulous as ever, and his words washed over Truva as she sought to shake off the webs of sleep. She ardently wished he would allow the quiet melody of a new day to speak for itself, yet as his ramblings grew more and more animated, she became intrigued in spite of herself.

‘Do you not know the tale of my father, Glóin son of Gróin?’ Gimli enthused. Truva shook her head no. ‘By rights I ought to have ventured forth on such an expedition myself, yet my father was blinded by my perceived youth. Sixty-two I was – a prime age for adventure! To this day I regret not being allowed to partake in the liberation of Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, our home – the very place we make for even now.’

Truva listened as he told a story of many years ago: a strange fantasy of Dwarves and trolls and dragons, and a Holbytla not so very different from those she had encountered during the War. She was not entirely certain how much she ought to believe – for Gimli had taken to telling fantastical mistruths in recent days, such as insisting it was he who had bested both herself and Legolas at the Battle of Hornburg. But more than a few words in his narration struck her as true, and so Truva found herself falling wholly enraptured into the Dwarf’s tale.

No sooner had Gimli begun to describe terrible, great spiders – double or treble the size of Men, which strained Truva’s willingness to believe to its furthest extent – than a soft whistle streamed through the air, followed by a thunk.

An arrow embedded itself into the canoe hull. It was fletched with black feathers.

Legolas was on his feet at once, bow drawn. Before Truva had so much discerned the band of Orcs upon the far banks, the Elf had loosed a salvo of arrows in return, felling at least one.

Not nearly so sure-footed in the unsteady canoe as he, Truva knelt in the stern, drawing her own bow, though her shots fell increasingly short as Gimli paddled frantically towards the western banks of Langflood. The Orcs’ arrows, however, continued to find their target, until the distance became too great even for Legolas.

‘They will cross the river and follow us this night if we do nothing,’ was all the Elf said before diving gracefully into the water. He reappeared halfway across the distance, only to be spied immediately by the enemy and come under their renewed assault.

In an attempt to grant the Elf some semblance of cover, Truva drew her bowstring back. But in that very moment, she felt a familiar sensation blossom within her breast, and a warmth spread from shoulder to arm until her fingers tingled.

‘Aiya—’ she began, the words just barely a whisper. Yet she felt no compulsion to complete the phrase. She released as if in a trance, her body moving as if through a vat of tree sap. A heavy breath escaped her lips.

Upon the far bank, a swath of Orcs fell – though whether it was due to her arrow or Legolas’ own onslaught, Truva could discern; the distance was too great and her eyesight too poor. The faint sound of conflict drifted across the rush of Langflood, and even as Gimli nestled the canoe amidst a thicket of reeds, Legolas reappeared. Dripping with river water, he lifted himself over the gunwales, nearly upsetting the vessel despite his Elven grace.

‘Ruddy Orcs,’ Gimli muttered.

‘They rove these lands far too freely,’ said Truva. ‘A similar band attacked Prince Imrahil as he travelled to Edoras for Éomer King’s coronation. Another assailed Prince Faramir’s settlement in Ithilien, just before the birth of Prince Elboron.’

‘It is the natural consequence of Sauron’s overthrowing,’ said Legolas, wringing out his long hair. ‘There is none who can unify those left adrift in his wake. And so the forces of evil rely upon taking from others rather than forging their own path forward. It is good we have no need to venture into the region of Dagorlad.’

‘I’d like to forge them a path straight to the blade of my axe,’ Gimli grumbled, picking up his oar.

The travellers struck out upriver once again, hugging the western bank. As dusk fell, they made camp just before the southern reaches of the Entwash delta, where innumerable river mouths spilled over the plains of the Wold and into Langflood. Blown from the east, the sulfuric stench of Nindalf – that treacherous fen – stung their noses, and even in the last glow of sunset, an eerie fog spread across the river from bank to bank, as far as the eye could perceive.

Yet the mood was not all unpropitious. Graceful egrets winged and dipped above the splayed Entwash waters, revealing the choicest areas to fish; thus it was a luscious meal of roast shad that Truva and the others dined upon that night. Then, their meal concluded, they sat about the carefully screened campfire, relishing in the particular contentment born of being well-fed. After a time, Gimli leaned forward to pull a branch from the pile of firewood, but rather than add it to the dwindling flames, he began to whittle away at it with his knife.

‘What is it you make?’ asked Truva, curiosity compelling her to speak.

‘Have ye never seen a Dwarf carve before?’ asked Gimli, astonished. When Truva shook her head, he turned once more to the pile and passed her a short, stout branch. ‘Strange it is, for the horse-lords are renowned for their woodwork.’

‘They are, though I have never had any particular penchant for the arts myself,’ Truva confessed. ‘My skill with a whittling knife is even less impressive than my skill with song.’

Gimli grunted in recognition. ‘You had best learn, then, lass! I will show you. Now, what is it you wish to make?’

Truva pondered a minute. ‘A horse, I suppose.’

‘Right,’ said Gimli. ‘One carven Bron it is.’

When Truva looked up suddenly, he gave her a swift wink, then rapped at her branch with his knife. Step by carefully-explained step, he demonstrated how to first etch the desired shape, then to chip away at the wood. When Truva accidentally split her block, he tossed the two halves into the fire and offered her a new one – though even then she was met with little success. During her night watch and throughout the following day, Truva spent her hours attempting (and failing spectacularly) to recreate her beloved companion.

She had just tossed yet another misshapen figure overboard when, around midafternoon, a steady whisper of sound became ever so faintly audible. At first, Truva took it to be winds streaking across the East Emnet delta; yet it grew ever louder as the tapering waters of Entwash were replaced by the crags of Emyn Muil, which rose faintly until they formed a nearly impassable fence of razor-sharp teeth gnashing at the Langflood.

In a single moment, just when the roar was most deafening, Hweodriás emerged from around a bend: the Falls of Rauros. The tremendous riverwaters, bifurcated by Tindrock at the Falls’ very crest, plunged down to crash upon the rocks below, casting up a screen of mist at Hweodriás-foot. Truva craned her neck back in wonder, for not even in the haven of Rivendell had she borne witness to such awesome might; the waterways of that Elven land were dwarfed by the immense display of fury and power before her.

Such a prodigious sight brought with it new troubles, however.

‘We shall have to disembark and trek the ascent from Rauros-foot to Nen Hithoel,’ said Legolas. Though he spoke no louder than ordinary, his voice was clearly audible over the Falls’ roar. ‘On our last passage, Aragorn insisted there was yet an ancient portage-way by which the Men of Gondor journeyed from the Wilderland to Osgiliath long ago – least, it would seem long to Men.’

But already the sun had begun to set in the dips and valleys of Emyn Muil. Scarlet light crept across the foggy fen of the Entwash, only to be sent scattering skyward once more upon the mist of Hweodriás.

‘Perhaps we ought to make camp at the base of the Falls,’ Truva shouted, scarcely able to make herself heard. ‘I do not think it wise to risk such a treacherous climb at night.’

‘In truth, I suspect it shall not be easy to locate the passage, even in the light of day,’ Legolas admitted.

‘Aye, though nor do I fancy circling the Emyn Muil and finding again that passage through the East Wall of Rohan,’ Gimli added. He, too, was forced to raise his voice, though he had no need to strain nearly so hard as Truva. ‘Having been thataway once before, and found it difficult enough to descend, I should like to avoid ascending it at all costs.’

‘Where once was a trail, there might now be little more than rock and weeds,’ said Legolas. ‘The portage-way could very well prove inaccessible; we may have no alternative than to retrace our tracks from that fateful venture, my friend.’

With wary glances towards the bluffs on either side of the Falls – hoping by some miraculous stroke of fortune to spy their path even as they hauled the canoe upon the western shore – the three made camp, tucked beneath a rocky outcrop. The rush of water descending from heights untold placed a chill haze upon the winter air, cutting to the bone. Thunderous sound rendered conversation impractical, as well; thus the travellers settled in without a word further, to rest as best they could, ears ever assailed by the unceasing roar.

Truva was wakened in the early dawn by a gentle shake of her shoulder. No sooner had she rubbed the sleep from her eyes than she observed the figure of Legolas dancing about excitedly.

‘I believe I have found the passage!’ he exclaimed, beckoning to her and Gimli (who had likewise been roused abruptly from slumber, to his great displeasure).

Together, the trio gazed upon the sheer cliffs of Hweodriás. There was no indication of passage. Undeterred, Legolas followed the western riverbank, making for the bluffs which framed the great cascade of water. Then, quite suddenly, he disappeared between a cleft in the rock scarcely large enough for a single Man to fit through. Truva and Gimli darted after him. Behind the cleft was no more than a deep scar, offering the possibility of ascension but not inviting it. Yet up, up the small company climbed, slipping on shale wet with mist, until they emerged onto a tiny outcrop.

‘There!’ exclaimed Legolas, pointing even further upwards. ‘Do you see?’

Truva followed his finger, and indeed spied a narrow stair descending from the very crest of the hilltop, which suggested a once-passable route. Years of neglect and exposure to the elements had caused sections of it to crumble away.

‘It looks a mite treacherous,’ said Gimli, his tone wary.

‘I know the East Wall only in name and reputation,’ shouted Truva over the Falls’ roar. ‘The way in which you spoke of it makes me think I would not enjoy the delay it would cause. Let us first attempt this path, and if it proves impossible, reconsider only then.’

‘A reasonable compromise,’ said Legolas. As the three gazed upon their proposed path, however, a second thought struck them.

‘But how are we to get the boat up, as well?’ asked Gimli. ‘The stair is scarce wide enough for your light feet, Legolas, and steep enough for even a goat of the mountains to look askance at it.’

‘We shall have to devise a pulley system,’ said the Elf decisively, turning to descend back towards their camp and set to work.

‘I do not like this one bit,’ grumbled the Dwarf as he followed his friend.

There was little to be done in striking camp (for the trio travelled light), though Truva ensured the ashes of their campfire were scattered and disguised. The Orcish party of the previous afternoon had not returned to harass them, suggesting Legolas had thoroughly dispelled that threat, yet there was no need to risk the attention of any others who might stumble upon their tracks.

By the time her task was completed, Legolas had located a long, thin line of Elven rope and hauled the canoe to the cleft in the rock, laying their packs and cargo beside it. There, he and Gimli stood rubbing their chins thoughtfully.

‘It won’t fit, lad,’ said Gimli, shaking his head.

‘There is no vantage point that will allow us to utilise the rope from here,’ Legolas argued. ‘We must carry the canoe to the outcrop at the very least.’

‘But the gap is simply too narrow!’

‘It widens at the top of the cleft,’ Truva remarked. ‘If we can raise the canoe high enough, it will pass.’

‘Not even lifting it over our heads would suffice,’ countered Gimli, standing in the crevice with his arms raised to their fullest extent to demonstrate his point.

‘Not one of our heads…’ Truva mused.

‘And just what is that supposed to mean?’ Gimli demanded.

‘Come, Gimli,’ said Legolas, immediately taking to Truva’s meaning. He crouched low and motioned for the Dwarf to draw near.

‘Do not jest so!’ cried Gimli, realisation dawning. ‘Not in a hundred generations of the long-lived Dwarves of Durin would I consent to being lifted upon the shoulders of an Elf – friend or no!’

‘Stout as you are, the Marshal is no slight maiden herself, and she has not your balance – if you will excuse my base words,’ said Legolas.

‘You speak nothing save the truth,’ said Truva with a perfunctory shrug.

‘It is the only way,’ Legolas insisted. ‘Unless perhaps you would prefer to travel by way of the East Wall?’

Gimli considered a moment, arms crossed upon the barrel of his chest, until at last he gave a short grunt. ‘Very well, let’s have at it!’ he huffed. ‘No use standing around and wasting daylight!’

Using Truva’s hand to steady himself, Gimli climbed atop Legolas’ shoulders. Once the pair stood just within the crevice, Truva lifted the boat above her head and passed it to the Dwarf, though even he struggled to balance despite Legolas’ unfaltering support. The boat wavered, tipping first one way and then the other, drawing cries from all involved. Truva leapt up in an instant, bracing one leg on each side of the rift and grasping the canoe’s stern to prevent both boat and travellers from tumbling down.

Once they regained their equilibrium, Legolas began to inch ahead. Truva followed behind to maintain the canoe’s stability, sometimes balancing it upon her shoulders when using her hands to swing along the upper heights of the cleft. At one such point, Gimli lost his grip and the boat fell forward, only to become lodged in the rift mere inches above Legolas’ head. Otherwise, they were met with no obstacles.

Though their progress was slow and laborious, they emerged upon the outcrop shortly before noon, only to make an additional trip to carry their supplies up, as well. Thoroughly exhausted, Truva and Gimli took a brief rest, but already Legolas was devising the manner in which they would lift the boat the remaining distance.

‘I think we must abandon all hope of the stair,’ said he. ‘Instead, I shall ascend the cliff face first, taking the rope with me and securing one end about a promontory once I am at the top. Gimli, thread the second end beneath the seats of the canoe, then climb up after me; we shall draw it up together with the packs inside. Truva, if you would be so kind as to guide the canoe from below.’

Before either could reply, he turned round and leapt up the escarpment, more lithe than the tabby cats that stalked the haylofts of Edoras. Shortly, a sharp whistle floated down from above. Gimli set out after the Elf, though he was far less nimble – indeed, even in his first step towards the cliff face, he misjudged his footing. The edge of the outcrop crumbled beneath him. It was only Truva, reaching out with lightning speed to grasp his beard, that prevented the Dwarf from tumbling to the rocky shores below.

‘Not the beard!’ he cried as Truva pulled him back to safety.

‘Apologies,’ she said, unhanding him at once.

‘Nay, mine was but an instinctual response,’ said he, smoothing his beard along his chest. ‘In truth, I owe you, lass.’

Truva shook her head. ‘No, I believe it was I who was repaying a debt,’ she said.

Gimli peered at her thoughtfully a moment. ‘Then let us keep no such scores from here on out,’ he said. With a half-smile, Truva handed him the second end of the rope in silent agreement.

Tying the rope about his waist, Gimli turned to the cliff face with a determined grunt. His ascent proved tense as he inched up the rock, sturdy boots slipping more than twice or thrice. But then he disappeared over the top of the escarpment in a flash, and following a brief pause, the canoe began to be drawn upwards.

Truva followed, sometimes scrambling from ledge to ledge, sometimes using the very tips of her fingers to search for purchase on a seemingly sheer face. She nudged the boat this way and that as she went, when it became caught on a ledge or scraped against sharp protrusions. In less than an hour – albeit an exhausting one – all three companions stood upon the clifftop, looking down into the Hweodriás-foot far below.

‘I should not have liked to descend thataway,’ Gimli remarked, peering back down the rock.

With nods of agreement, the travellers turned then from whence they had come, and looked to whither they were bound: ridges and pinnacles, which drew a maze-like path before them. High upon the western bank, at the very edge of where Langflood tumbled over the hang of Hweodriás, soared a rocky peak.

‘Amon Hen,’ Legolas pronounced.

Gimli glowered up at the tor, a fierce flame flickering in his eye. ‘I do not like the look of it from this angle any more than I did from the other side,’ he said.

‘I doubt we shall be so unlucky as to encounter any foe this time, my friend,’ said Legolas, laying a reassuring hand upon Gimli’s shoulder.

‘Your path with the Fellowship led you this way,’ Truva hazarded.

‘Aye,’ answered Gimli. ‘Have you not heard each detail of our exploits, Marshal? I was certain Aragorn would have narrated the entire story for ye, start to finish.’

Legolas shot his friend a piercing look. ‘Aragorn, or any amongst our company – least, those that lived to tell it. Even so, we were not long in each other’s company, and the Fellowship split upon many paths soon after converging; few know the full tale.’

Clearly eager to divert from the topic at hand, Legolas lifted the canoe above his head in one fell motion, leaving Gimli and Truva to shoulder its contents. Once Gimli had lashed the last fur to his pack, he stepped forward, leading Legolas along the most even-footed path, with Truva following in the rear to guide from behind.

The trek was arduous, for the rock was so sharp it gave little purchase to place their feet, and their path took them ever upwards, ascending towards the looming peak. They travelled in silence – and not exclusively due to the bulky craft that divided them. A melancholy mood had overtaken Truva’s companions, which only intensified as they neared the snow-dusted summit of Amon Hen, where the first glimpse of a forest could only just be discerned over the hillcrest.

But this beauty seemed lost on Legolas as the company took a brief respite. The Elf’s head scanned their surroundings in the most perfunctory manner, eyes glassy and unseeing, shoulders boldly square and yet heavy at the same time. Gimli, too, was especially sullen, and his beard twitched downwards every now and then, between sips from his waterskin.

The pair’s agitation permeated Truva’s own mood when they set out again, Gimli taking it upon himself to bear the canoe. The softening hum of Hweodriás was all that joined the sound of the trio’s laboured breathing as they continued their ascent.

It was some time before Truva summoned the courage to ask, ‘What happened in this place, that causes you to be so ill at ease?’

Neither companion gave any indication of wishing to speak. Truva began to think they would not answer at all. Only after a great pause did Legolas’ voice call out over the boat’s curved hull: ‘It was at Amon Hen the Fellowship was sundered.’

What followed was a long, protracted silence. Truva knew better than to break it. Eventually, Legolas spared her the need:

‘From Lórien, our company sailed south upon the Anduin,’ he continued. ‘On the seventh day following our departure came the fellbeast – though we knew not what it was at the time.’

‘The fellbeast?’ Truva questioned. ‘So you encountered it, too. That creature would shift westward to harass my own company as we brought recruits out of the north to aid in the defence of Mundburg.’

‘Perhaps, or perhaps another of its kind,’ mused Legolas. ‘Yet that would not be the end of our woes. Hard on the heels of the fellbeast’s attack came another: Uruk-hai – the very same you and the Rohirrim slaughtered on the plains of Rohan not three days later – descended upon us and bore away Peregrin and Meriadoc. One of our number fell whilst defending them.’

Realisation sprang into Truva’s mind. ‘Boromir, the man you spoke of in Osgiliath,’ she murmured gently.

‘Yes,’ Legolas confirmed, the grief and sorrow of an eternity all contained within that single word. ‘Boromir son of Denethor II, Captain of the White Tower and steadfast jewel of Gondor.’

‘Durin keep him,’ said Gimli, his voice echoing richly beneath the boat.

‘May his horn sound forevermore in the peaks and valleys of his homeland,’ Truva added in the manner of the Eorlingas.

‘Though it be shattered,’ Gimli muttered.

Who had gone untouched by the War? Each man carried his own torment nestled within the corners of his aching heart, or heavily upon his stooping shoulders; the warriors of the Fellowship were no exception. Truva’s own anguish redoubled when she tallied the days of Legolas’ story in her mind, for its timing aligned with the battle at the Fords of Isen – Boromir must have been slain shortly after Théodred.

The sudden remembrance of her Prince’s beloved visage suffocated Truva, yet even as she grew consumed by melancholic thoughts, Legolas sent a lament up in the air. Its melody was canorous yet chilling, and when compounded with the late winter air that offered no hint of spring, left icy shards of despondency within her breast.

It was no more than a short verse, but when the song died away, none of the company could bring themselves to break the quiet which hung fragile about them. The sound of Hweodriás was all that could be heard once more.

But Truva’s curiosity remained unsated, and she was desperate to stave off the inner turmoil threatening to close in around her.

‘And before then?’ she asked eventually. ‘You spoke of Lórien; of what nature is that place? And long ago, at the feast of Meduseld when you first arrived in Edoras, I recall one of your party mentioning a failed attempt at crossing the Redhorn pass. At what point in your travels did that occur?’

‘I will not speak of Lórien, for soon you shall bear witness to its splendours yourself,’ said Legolas. ‘And regarding what we encountered at the pass, perhaps our friend might like to elucidate, as the topic is so near to his heart. Come, Gimli – I shall carry the boat a while.’

‘Oh aye,’ said the Dwarf. ‘It pains me even now to think back upon the tragedy of those cursed halls, yet I think it would do me good to describe it with all deserved glory.’

He ducked out from beneath the canoe and passed it to Legolas, then launched into the history of Durin the Deathless and his halls beneath the Misty Mountains. Distracted by Gimli’s enthusiastic narration, the company made good time, and soon gained the tor of Amon Hen even as the sunlight faded from the western banks of Emyn Muil.

The vision at the hills’ crest rendered Truva breathless, for the spectacle of Hweodriás when viewed from below was dwarfed by the majesty of above. Southward cascaded the ever-flowing Langflood, split by the sheer-sided and impassable Tindrock; yet behind the Falls pooled the tremendous azure lake of Nen Hithoel, flanked by the Emyn Muil and stretching more than five leagues to where the river rent the towering cliffs at the far end.

Upon the flat summit of Amon Hen itself lay stone ruins – little more than the circular foundations of a watchtower now lost to the abyss of time. It was there the company made their camp. Soon, both Gimli and Truva dug into a well-earned but simple meal of waybread, wary as they were of lighting a fire on so conspicuous a promontory. Reluctant to take supper (as was his manner), Legolas scaled the ruins to their highest point.

Several minutes passed before he called down to them: ‘I have found the North Stair!’

Abandoning their meagre meal, Truva and Gimli scrambled up after him. They squinted southward in the encroaching gloom – for not even a Dwarf’s vision was so keen as an Elf’s in the darkness – until they could make out what Legolas indicated: nothing save a few broken stones which wended a stuttering path down the cliff face to the river below. Their treads were sundered by tree roots, and subsequently overwhelmed by weeds and brambles.

‘Perhaps it was best the Fellowship split as it did,’ said Gimli. ‘A path there once was, but is no more.’

Thus the company turned the following morning from a path that might have been, and instead looked to the path laid before them. Truva shouldered the canoe as they descended through a wood of rowan trees encroaching upon Parth Galen, where great swaths of verdant sweetgrass and soft brome sloped gently down to the glimmering waters of Nen Hithoel. No sooner had the trio gained the shore than the canoe was put afloat once more, and they set out about the circumference of the lake, where the current was weakest.

Their pace now swiftest since their departure from Osgiliath, it was not Truva alone whose spirits were greatly lifted.

By midmorning, however, their progress grew slower as they neared the northern end of Nen Hithoel, where the Emyn Muil rose to towering heights upon both sides. Here, Langflood flowed with swift and terrifying force between the narrow gap.

Legolas passed an additional oar to Truva, who rested in the rear. ‘We will need all of our might to overcome this passage,’ he said simply.

All three travellers dug their paddles into the coursing waters then, fighting against a current that strove to throw them off course and draw them back towards Hweodriás. Each passing minute grew torturous; Truva’s arms strained as they never had during battle, or even whilst rowing the massive dromunds of Gondor’s navy. Perspiration beaded on her forehead and soaked her tunic, mingling with the mist off Langflood. Her jaw clenched, determination pulsing at the muscles there and consuming her every thought.

Suddenly, Gimli gave a great laugh, startling Truva from her concentration.

‘It is not so different from a song my father once shared!’ cried the Dwarf. ‘One he learned from none other than the Elves upon his journey long ago:

‘Down the swift dark stream you go
Back to lands you once did know!
Leave the halls and caverns deep,
Leave the northern mountains steep,
Where the forest wide and dim
Stoops in shadow grey and grim!’

As Gimli sang, Legolas lent his voice in addition, and the company’s toil was lessened for the music that echoed off the rocks and harmonised with the river’s rush. At great last, and after great effort, the Langflood widened once more and the companions’ breathing eased. Legolas guided the boat towards the western shore for a brief rest, yet even as the canoe’s prow nosed into a riverbank thick with rushes, the Elf bade Truva turn round.

There, carved upon the near side of the cliffs, stood two immense giants, tall as the peaks of the Emyn Muil themselves, with axes clutched to their chest and left arm extended, as if in warning. A weak sigh escaped Truva’s lips; not even upon her first sighting of Hornburg had she been so enthralled by the craftsmanship of Men.

‘The Argonath,’ said Legolas. ‘Isildur and Anárion, in eternal protection of the lands of Gondor.’

Gimli’s previous jollity evaporated. There was a peculiar edge in his voice when he set aside his waterskin and said, ‘Let us make haste for Lothlórien.’

Their respite thus concluded, the company set out once more upon a much calmer stretch of Langflood, yet Truva could not draw her eyes away from the splendid figures in stone, solid and immutable.

Chapter Text

Once past the Argonath, Truva and her companions continued to press against the strong Langflood currents, camping that night just before the tumultuous rapids of Sarn Gebir. Unlike the stair which at one time had traversed the cliffs of Hweodriás but did no longer, the portage-way bypassing that unnavigable stretch of river was easily located the following morning, and the way grew less arduous as the river widened and slowed.

Looking eastward, the rocky scarps of Emyn Muil transitioned into the Brown Lands’ bleak, arid slopes. Only in Mordor and its grim plateaus had Truva seen such desolation as that of the Noman-lands. In her distress, she turned her vision to the west, where stretched the grassy plains of the Wold – the northernmost reaches of her homeland realm.

The little craft pressed northward. The days grew long and repetitive, the scenery increasingly desolate and barren. As they came upon the Wold’s northernmost reaches, Langflood first cut sharply towards the Brown Lands, then just as quickly back. There it converged with the Limlight out of Entwood, marking the border between the Riddermark and the Field of Celebrant. To listen closely, one could almost hear the echo of horses’ hooves as they galloped into battle; to look closely, almost witness the ghosts of warriors from bygone eras stalking its open, grassy swaths.

A full fortnight had passed since the company camped at Amon Hen before the first haze of woodland appeared on the horizon, obscured by a light screen of snow. The forest loomed ever more prominent as the travellers drew near, revealing the outermost trees to be little more than scorched boles protruding from the riverbank, black stark against white. There was a mood about the scene that lurked as if something was watching, more ancient and foreboding even than the Entwood.

Though night fell, the trio forged on, rowing until they came upon the Silverlode confluence. It was up this byway they slipped, surrounded on all sides by the towering, charred remains of trees. A profound stillness reigned; there was no call of birds on the air, no flicker of wildlife between the trunks – only the stream lapping at the wooden hull of their craft.

However unsettling the quiet was to Truva, it did not seem to affect Legolas’ composure. In the hours long past midnight, when the hush had somehow grown even deeper, he raised his arm and whispered, ‘Let us moor here. We will find no hythes in the woods of Lórien – not after the War.’

They guided the craft towards the riverbank and disembarked, yet even as Truva cast about for a secluded space to make camp, Legolas set off through the blackened trees, Gimli close behind.

‘Are we not going to stop for the night?’ Truva called after them, in as loud a voice as she dared.

‘We haven’t the time,’ said Legolas. Soon, his figure was lost in the forest’s gloom.

Setting aside the Elf’s cryptic answer, Truva darted after her companions, yet each time she thought she had them in her sights, they were lost again amongst the trees.

The further she delved into the wood, the thicker the foliage grew. Black pillars transitioned to bare-branched and pined foliage, snagging at her clothes and hair, diverting her path from where Gimli could be heard crashing through the underbrush ahead. Even when the cloud cover dissipated and gleaming moonlight trickled down through the canopy to ease her passage, Truva felt turned about and entirely lost.

Then the trees before her opened suddenly onto a tiny glen, where a carpet of golden flowers was strewn amidst tangled roots, peeking from shallow snowdrifts. As Truva slowed to gaze upon these blossoms – which seemed to glow in and of themselves – she heard a gentle whisper in the air; or perhaps it was not speech at all but music, with a melody ever so faint—

Truva gained the vague notion she had come to a standstill. Recalling her purpose as if emerging from a stupor, she leapt forward to chase after the others, but in doing so caught her toe upon a protruding root and was sent sprawling. Snow and soil filled her mouth, and a gash rent the heel of her palm; wiping the grit from her eyes only worsened her clouded vision.

Blinking against this new distraction, Truva looked up to find her path blocked by a high, impenetrable hedge. It was illuminated by a soft fog, and extended as far as the eye could see in either direction. Legolas and Gimli were nowhere to be found.

Before Truva could push herself from up off the forest floor, a hand was extended to her in offering. It was a fair and gentle hand, and when Truva raised her eyes to its origin, she bore witness to the most beautiful creature she knew to walk all the realms of Middle-earth – though in truth she could not perceive it fully, for the figure effused a light as golden as the flowers it tread upon, a light so blinding as to shame both moon and sun.

Truva threw up a hand to shield her eyes, yet when she tried to speak, no sound emerged from her mouth. The figure likewise said nothing, and yet Truva heard it speak:

‘Welcome to Egladil, in the land of Lothlórien.’

The voice undulated gently in Truva’s mind; she did not hear it so much as understand it. Gradually the light about the figure dimmed, and Truva beheld an Elf most ethereal standing in the mist, garbed in robes of purest white, a placid smile upon her lips.

Yet it was the Elf’s eyes that wholly consumed Truva’s attention. As she tumbled headfirst into those abyssal pools, she felt more than saw visions of those she had lost: Théodred and Bron, Théoden King and Éothafa – in moments of joy as well as their figures dead upon funeral biers. She saw also those who were not yet gone, experienced the emotions she associated with Aragorn, Éomer King, Éowyn, Chaya.

Then before her spread the boundless sea, waves glimmering so far into the distance as to hint at the promise of reunion. Painful longing surged within Truva’s breast.

When at last she became cognisant of the forest around her once more, Truva had fallen to one knee. She knelt, gasping for breath, fingers digging into the loamy earth. It took several long moments to compose herself before rising.

Even standing at her full height, the radiant figure looked down upon her. Truva felt as though she were being scrutinised by some sense other than sight.

‘You are not quite what I expected,’ said the Elf. This time, Truva heard with her ears rather than with her mind.

‘What happened to my companions?’ she demanded.

‘Do not fear,’ the Elf reassured her in the lyrical voice she had mistaken for music only moments earlier. ‘They are safe. It is not their first venture within the borders of the Golden Wood.’ Then, without a backwards glance, the Elf turned and glided towards the hedge. ‘Come, you are weary.’

Something in Truva’s mind compelled her to follow. She watched in wary bemusement as the Elf drew near the hedge, only to stride through, unimpeded. In attempting to pass herself, the hedge’s scraggly branches did not claw or rip at her, and instead dissipated into the darkness as though they, too, were nothing save swirling mist.

Beyond lay even thicker woodland; the canopy came together overhead to obscure the night stars and all sense of time. When Truva looked ahead, she could not make out what path the Elf guided her along, yet when she glanced behind to where they had come from, the forest appeared equally impassable. Somehow, by some trickery, they proceeded through the densest of thickets as though walking along a main thoroughfare of Mundburg, so clear was the way.

Ever upwards did they climb – or so it felt, though perhaps they traversed rolling hills, or were descending; Truva could not be sure, for her feet shifted of their own accord, her mind lost in a daze. The Elf moved so swiftly, so effortlessly, that she frequently had to jog to keep abreast.

On and on they walked, their pace never slackening, the deepest hours of night transitioning imperceptibly into the suspenseful beat before dawn. Then, just when Truva was certain they would continue walking for all of eternity, the woodland opened up before them in the span of a moment. From the treeline where they paused, a fey mist crept down across the clearing towards a second, inner hedge-wall. There, in the centre of the greensward, stood a hill crowned with trees, the uppermost heights of which brushed the very stars themselves.

‘Caras Galadhon,’ said the Elf, sweeping her arm from earth to inky sky. ‘The jewel of Lothlórien – and my home.’

Realisation dawned upon Truva as she recalled the tales Legolas and Gimli had recounted to her of the Fellowship’s journey. ‘You are the lady Galadriel,’ she whispered in wonderment. What could only be interpreted as amusement passed across the Elf’s face.

‘You would mistake me for another?’ she queried, face half turned.

‘No, no, milady!’ Truva hastened to amend. ‘It is true I did not recognise you at once; yet those who have met you speak of nothing save your praise, and it was by their words alone I knew you, having never seen your face.’

A wry smile twisted Galadriel’s serene beauty. ‘There are those who would be just as like to curse as to praise me.’

‘I cannot believe it,’ Truva insisted, shaking her head. ‘In truth, I do not think even Gandalf inspires such wholehearted awe in me.’

‘That is because you have seen but a fraction of his power, hobbled at the whim of those even loftier,’ said she, her smile abating.

But before Truva could contemplate the notion of any figure proving more sublime than the Elf before her, Galadriel struck out across the lush sward, mist swirling about the hem of her white robes. Down across the fosse and through the hedge-wall she led Truva, until they emerged into the City of the Trees. Innumerable silver lanterns fended off the intrusion of darkness, gleaming in the boughs of trees whose boles were silver satin and leaves a muted golden. Pathways and stairs crisscrossed the brae, entwining like delicate lacework amidst roots and greenery. Hidden high, high in the foliage were elegant carven columns and bridges and halls.

It reminded Truva ever so faintly of the Drúedain’s hideout in Firien Wood, yet where the Woses had built nests and rudimentary rope connections, the Elves had constructed dwellings seemingly more sculpture than utility: a city which bore the traces of at least an age’s worth of careful attention. Truva gazed upon the city in awe, nearly stumbling twice as Galadriel led her along a trickling stream that flowed from the hillcrest.

They came then upon its source: a fountain depicting the beauty of the Elven forest, erected in the midst of a small lawn. The tallest and most magnificent of trees rose up directly before them, but from this Galadriel turned and led Truva instead towards a slighter tree.

‘You will find your companions here,’ she said, gesturing to a white ladder that disappeared into the dark foliage above, swaying gently. ‘Go now to your rest; it is near dawn.’

Before Truva could thank her, the Elf glided off, vanishing as if she became part of the ethereal city itself.

‘Thank you,’ Truva whispered anyway, stepping onto the ladder’s bottom rung.

The sound of Gimli’s snores drifted down the higher she ascended. When she gained a wooden platform high above the ground, the Dwarf’s stout figure was wrapped tightly in a blanket and tucked as close to the tree trunk as possible. Legolas was there, too, perched upon the very edge of the wide flet, gazing out into the impenetrable night.

‘You have met the Lady of Light,’ he murmured as Truva scrambled onto the platform, careful not to wake Gimli. Once she had stowed her pack, she took a seat beside Legolas.

‘Galadriel is most indescribably compelling,’ she replied.

‘There are no words in any of the Elvish dialects – let alone Westron, or the many other tongues of Men – to fully encompass the essence of her Ladyship,’ said Legolas, passing Truva a corner of lembas, the waybread of Lothlórien – which, upon recognising, she stared at in astoundment before gratefully accepting. It was far preferable to the Gondorian waybread the company had subsisted on the past fortnight, and indeed even the waybread of Imladris. ‘She wishes to speak with you again in the morn, when you have rested. Then we must begone from these Woods.’

‘So swiftly?’ asked Truva, startled. ‘Whatever for? I greatly desire to stay a spell, and learn what I might from these beings of Lothlórien. Rumours abound that the Lady wishes to soon cross over into the West, and be parted from us forever, taking her wisdom with her.’

‘The moons do not wax and wane in Lórien as they do beyond its borders. Time – or, at least, the perception of it – is more languid here, less burdened by the expectation to fill it.’

‘And of what consequence is that to us? We have no pressing need to expedite our journey.’

Legolas did not answer at once, and instead trained his eyes upon the stars that glimmered above. ‘I fear unseen dangers lurk along Aragorn’s path,’ he said after a time. ‘Weak as the North may be following the War, the Corsairs would not be so bold as to attack openly – not without purpose.’

‘You believe Stoningland is likely to face a second assault,’ Truva concluded.

‘Perhaps,’ Legolas shrugged. ‘Or perhaps I am mistaken, and the Corsairs’ sailing upon Pelargir was indeed a mere miscalculation, and they have been well and truly repelled from our lands. But it is far better to worry overly much than worry a fraction too little; I simply wish to make with all haste for my homeland – though I know not whether my appeals for aid and allegiance shall serve any purpose, or ultimately fall on deaf ears.’

Truva looked down upon the lanterns swaying in the gentle breeze below the flet. ‘I likewise cannot guess all ends that will come of this venture,’ she said. ‘But as I have faith in Gandalf, I will do his bidding. And if there is some perturbation that drives you, I will yield to your wisdom – born as it is of a great many years more experience than mine own – and we shall depart Lothlórien at the earliest opportunity.’

‘Then rest now, and rise early,’ said Legolas, ‘though I do not think we shall leave so soon as tomorrow, for there are things yet to be spoken.’

Legolas’ supposition was to prove correct. No sooner had Truva propped herself up against the tree trunk and drifted off to sleep than she was awoken by gentle melodies drifting up from below. Neither Gimli nor Legolas lingered on the flet, though upon descending the ladder, she quickly discovered them upon the greensward below, sitting cross-legged before a low table laden with a simple breakfast.

‘Never have I known any save Elves so slow to the dining table,’ remarked Gimli through a mouthful of grapes as Truva took a seat beside him.

‘You slept long before she, my friend,’ Legolas retorted. He did not eat, and merely sat plucking languorously at a silver lyre, accompanying the Elf-song that seemed to effuse from the very trees themselves.

Gimli merely grunted in response, passing Truva a basket of bread that was just out of her reach. As they dined, a trio of Elves approached from the direction of the city gates, tall and cloaked in the shadowy-grey of the Galadhrim.

‘Do you perhaps recall me, fair travellers?’ asked the foremost Elf as they drew near.

‘Haldir!’ cried Legolas, leaping at once to his feet. ‘Well met, brother!’ He embraced the marchwarden, and greeted the others in their own tongue.

When Gimli stood, Truva likewise rose out of respect. She could not recall Legolas ever having spoken his own language before her, save in song, and it fascinated her to hear the melodic rise and fall of the Elves’ voices.

Haldir turned then to Gimli, and reverted to Westron in saying: ‘Where once I would not have permitted your brethren to pass into the lands of Lórien, you have now come amongst us twice in as many years – and as an honoured guest. There are none who need now answer for you, Elf-friend; you answer for yourself.’

‘Would that I could have come sooner, to bask in the beauty of both wood and maiden – a beauty unparalleled even by the most magnificent halls of my people, and by the unexplored potential of the Caves I now find under my own governance.’

‘Your flattery has become significantly more verbose since last we met, Dwarf,’ said Haldir with a smile.

Then Legolas beckoned Truva forward. ‘With us comes an emissary from the horselords’ realm: Truva, Second Marshal of the Rohirrim.’

Haldir peered down upon Truva in astonishment, and spoke briefly to his companions in an Elven tongue before studying her once more. ‘Not since Éothéod rode south to the succour of Cirion – when we sent forth a mist to conceal and rejuvenate the Rohirric troops – have we encountered one of your kind,’ said he. ‘No Rider of Rohan accompanied the Fellowship, nor have relations between our lands ever been established.’

‘May my passing aid in rectifying such an oversight, and narrow the political – if not physical – distance between our peoples in the future,’ said Truva, bowing low.

‘Alas,’ said Haldir, ‘that such overtures should come at this time; for I fear the rumours of our soon passing into the West are not unfounded – and those few who elect to stay shall be little more than ghosts.’

‘It is not the Mark’s custom to fear ghosts, but revere them, rather,’ said Truva, though she very much doubted the Elves’ conception of ghosts reflected that of the Eorlingas in any way. ‘We shall welcome them wholeheartedly into our company.’

Haldir laughed at her peculiar response. The sound was light and airy, though not mocking. ‘That may be,’ he said, ‘and we thank you for your goodwill; but let us speak not of the undetermined future – for we are here now, and not yet gone from this earth.’

‘What of Lady Galadriel?’ asked Legolas. ‘It was my understanding she wishes to converse with us.’

‘It is with great regret that Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel find themselves preoccupied at the moment, though they expressed their desire to hold counsel as soon as they might. I imagine you shall see them come evening, all things permitting.’

‘More time for breakfast,’ said Gimli, rubbing his hands. ‘Won’t you join us?’

And so Haldir and his two companions (who, by way of very few Westron words, introduced themselves as his brothers Rúmil and Orophin) sat with the travellers at their table. The morning passed in a most earnest manner as the company discussed topics both joyous and the grievous – for not even the beauty of Laurelindórenan was unmarred by the War, having thrice fended off the assault of Sauron’s northern forces.

Morning merged into afternoon, and the company’s conversation turned to that of language. A great deal of effort was spent on the Elves’ part in an attempt to instruct Truva on the more fundamental phrases of Sindarin, though Gimli was content to simply look on in amusement. As Truva struggled to form her mouth around the language’s exacting pronunciation, many Elves descended from their trees to take up positions nearby, though they did not approach outright, or look openly upon the visitors. They affected disinterest, continuing to sing or converse in equally melodic voices.

Yet Truva could feel their eyes upon her. How long had it been since last these insular Elves had seen a shieldmaiden not of their own kin? Both Aragorn and Legolas had told tales of incredible feats performed by the Elleth, which far outstripped even Éowyn’s slaying of the Witch King; Galadriel’s story in particular stood in stark contrast to the ephemeral, retiring figure Truva met the previous evening. But the Fellowship had not boasted a female of any race, and few others had passed through the woods of Lothlórien.

Even so, the Elves’ attention was unsettling. As the afternoon waned and Truva grew increasingly frustrated with her linguistic shortcomings, she was grateful for the sounding of three horns, which caused the impromptu lesson to cease at once. Upon hearing them, Haldir stood and immediately resumed his stately demeanour.

‘The Lord and Lady of Laurelindórenan will see you now,’ he said, beckoning for the travellers to accompany him to the south side of the lawn, where stood the tremendous tree Truva had witnessed the previous evening.

They were bade to climb its broad ladder, and emerged onto a flet far more spacious than that where they had passed the previous night. The wooden platform was worn smooth by the tread of feet across countless years, and delicate lattice – whether the work of Elves or nature Truva could not be sure – arched overhead. Lanterns cast glimmering rays of gold and silver as daylight faded across the forest.

In spite of the summons, none save the three and their guide stood upon the flet. On a table before them was spread the culinary luxuries of a late winter forest: roasted perch, hazelnut bread with hawthorn berry jam, spiced crab apples, wine. The travellers hovered about the table, wondering whether they ought to sit or continue standing until their hosts arrived – though they did not have to ponder long.

‘Welcome, friends. Please, be at ease!’ said Celeborn, materialising with Lady Galadriel upon the far end of the flet, as if from thin air. He motioned for Truva and the others to take a seat as many other Elven lords and ladies joined them. ‘You are honoured guests within our borders; you needn’t stand on ceremony. It is an immense pleasure to see familiar faces! Legolas son of Thranduil – not long has it been since last you walked in the shade of our mallorn trees; did you suppose yourself to be back so soon?’

‘I cannot say that I am unsurprised,’ said Legolas. ‘Yet in the meantime, I have walked amongst the renewed woods of Eryn Lasgalen, and passed through the vast expanse of Tauremorna, and still I do not think any place in all of Middle-earth shall surpass Lothlórien in beauty or solace. It brings me tremendous joy to return beneath its golden boughs – bare though they be now.’

‘And you, Gimli son of Glóin?’ asked the Lady Galadriel. Even so simple a question seemed itself like music to hear her voice it.

‘Is it with exalted heart that I return to the Valley of Singing Gold,’ replied the Dwarf. ‘Yet where my companion finds himself enchanted by the wood itself, I find myself most content to come into the presence of the Lady who abides there – gracious and resplendent as she is. Not even the lure of my own Glittering Caves surpasses that of Lothlórien.’

‘I delight in hearing you say so,’ said Lady Galadriel with a smile of beaming starlight. She then turned to Truva, who shied away and could not meet the Elf’s gaze. ‘And welcome, Truva of the Riddermark, Marshal and guardian of a proud people. It is my regret that only now am I finally able to greet you with the deference you deserve. Do you find Lothlórien to your liking?’

‘I see now that my companions’ descriptions pale in comparison to that which I find myself supremely fortunate to witness in my lifetime: namely, both the unparalleled splendour of Lórien’s woods, as well as the generosity and benevolence of its inhabitants.’

No aspect of Galadriel’s physical appearance changed, and yet it felt as though her smile widened, as though she grew more radiant, and imparted an undercurrent of bliss unto all who looked upon her. ‘Please eat, and tell us of your lands – I should greatly like to hear of this Aglarond Gimli speaks of.’

‘It is the most spectacular sight I have ever beheld, milady,’ the Dwarf began at once, with a glance at Truva. He had begun to develop a keen sense for when she would be loath to speak before an audience.

More dishes appeared, and the company passed these platters and bowls around, serving one another and themselves. As the meal progressed, the Elves nearest Truva (those few with modest proficiency in Westron) bent their heads towards her to ask lighthearted questions. Though she answered quite simply and briefly, they seemed content with this – for indeed, anything she might tell them had already been conveyed to them long ago by Gandalf.

A harp was struck up. Truva knew not whether it was due to the music itself, or the circumstances that had surrounded her visit, but those songs she had heard more than a year ago in Elrond’s halls seemed doleful and solemn in comparison to the light airs that graced the talan of Celeborn and Galadriel. And yet the effect was the same: she lost all sense of time, and began to grow drowsy.

When next she managed to rouse herself, evening had firmly descended. Many of the Elves had slipped away; Haldir and his brothers alone conversed with Legolas. Gimli was dozing off with a cup of rosehip tea balanced delicately upon his knee, arms folded squarely across his barrel chest. Lady Galadriel rose with exquisite grace and bent to remove the cup, placing it instead upon the table – and in doing so, turned to fix Truva with a gaze that spoke more fluently than any words ever could.

Truva felt much as she had the previous night: unable to move beneath the weighty splendour of the vision before her, the Elf’s request for counsel a mere impression in her mind. When the sensation subsided, Galadriel had already stepped out onto a bridge extending from the opposite side of the flet. In the slow blink of a somnolent eye, she crossed to a nearby tree and began to ascend its ladder.

Truva hastened to follow as best she could in her dazed state, though when the railless bridge swayed in the breeze, she fell to her knees and began to crawl. Glancing down but briefly, the ground was so far below as to be imperceptible, and so Truva quickly looked back up again, stomach roiling.

When she gained the second flet, she climbed up, up after Lady Galadriel, the trail of whose skirts drifted in front of her face and came between her hands and the rungs. At last they emerged onto a third platform, far loftier and more exposed than any other. A chill wind bit at Truva’s cheeks and ears as she gazed out across the treetops, illuminated by the moonlight.

‘Look – to the east,’ said the Lady, her whisper one with the wind.

Though it was deep in the night, the stars flared suddenly, and the scenery became as visible as it was in day – albeit in greys and black. A distortion hung upon the air, yet rather than obscure Truva’s vision, it seemed as if to magnify the furthest reaches of the land. The Firienmist’s ivory spine pierced the black sky behind her. In the distance, the waste of the Brown Lands was just barely distinguishable through a thick, rolling fog. Truva felt certain that in turning south, she would most certainly be able to discern the stone walls of Mundburg.

‘Even those who have not the eyes of Elves may see further than accustomed, here in the heights of Caras Galadhon,’ said Galadriel. ‘Do you perhaps spy the ruins of Dol Guldur amidst Eryn Lasgalen’s southernmost reaches, where my Galadhrim threw down the forces of Sauron and cleansed the surrounding lands of his corrosive influence?’

Truva peered into the darkness and scanned the woolly treetops across the Langflood. ‘There?’ she hazarded, pointing to a disruption in the wood.

‘Now sweep northward, where lies the Emyn Duir – called so for the darkness of the firs that grow upon their ridges, not for any evil purpose. It is beyond there you are bound, for Legolas tells me you make even now for Calengroth – the Halls of the Elvenking. When you leave these woods, you must follow Anduinë north until you come to the Old Ford, at which point you must turn east upon Men-i-Naugrim. Do you see the path you must take?’

‘I do,’ said Truva, though in truth she did not. It seemed the Lady of Lórien greatly overestimated her capabilities.

‘Or perhaps it is not the path ahead, but that which lies behind that occupies your mind,’ murmured the Elf. ‘Look harder, and you might be able to glimpse your homeland.’

Truva turned, the increasingly warped air causing her head to spin dizzily. But when she trained her eyes to the southeast, the sight was unmistakable: across the Entwood and its outflowing delta rose the topmost stony spires of Aldburg and the rafters of Meduseld in Edoras.

Her heart swelled to recall those who lingered within the borders of the Riddermark – in body and memory alike. For though Éomer King was abroad, and his mother-brother lay beneath his simbelmynë-covered barrow before the gates, and Théodred guarded the Fords forevermore, an Eorling’s connection to the land was eternal. How humble their homes and ways seemed in comparison to these unfading Elves! And yet Truva would have it no other way; it mattered not what she discovered or who she encountered upon her journey – her horselord identity was unshakable.

Galadriel gave a sound of quiet contemplation behind her. ‘It is strange to me that you do not look eastward when home is mentioned,’ she remarked. ‘For I have heard that you come from a land hidden amongst the Hithaeglir – unknown even to the Elves that dwell in that region.’

‘There was little for Elves to concern themselves with in the Hidlands,’ said Truva, an edge of sardonicism in her voice. ‘And though the Valley has been redeemed, and many dear friends now reside there in peace, I do not think I shall ever call it home. The Riddermark is where I belong.’ She turned from the scenery spread before her and looked up at Galadriel, who offered a reassuring smile.

‘It is a wondrous thing, to find a new home more pleasurable than the last,’ said the Elf.

Truva ducked her head and gazed down upon the lanterns of Caras Galadhon swaying far below, in time with the sorrowful melody of a flute. A further moment of silence passed between them before Lady Galadriel prompted, ‘I have come to understand you spoke at length with Radagast.’

Truva heaved a sigh. ‘I have spoken with him, yes – and at length,’ she said. ‘Yet I do not know the meaning or purpose of his words, or if he himself knows. Gandalf is forever close in giving counsel, even with those he is most familiar.’

‘Not even one such as I can pretend to know the mind of the White Wizard,’ mused Galadriel, ‘or how long it shall take you to seek the Ithryn Luin, for they passed from our vision long ago.’

‘And before then?’

‘Even from their earliest days in Middle-earth were their movements veiled from us. At first, we assumed their campaign to stabilise the lands of Rhûn was successful, as for many years no threats emerged from the East; and perhaps we were right – for a time.

‘Yet they ultimately failed, at least in some small part; for the alliance of Sauron and the Easterlings proved devastating in the War. And though the Dark Lord is now gone, and Aragorn has made overtures with the peoples of Rhûn, you yourself have borne witness to the short-lived nature of such accords with the Corsairs. It seems Mithrandir fears trouble still brews in the East, threatening to topple the delicate peace we have constructed, and that discovering the whereabouts of the Ithryn Luin – if they indeed still roam this Earth – shall ease the soothing of relations there.’

A thought that had been burgeoning in Truva’s mind rose at last to the surface. ‘Pardon my impudence, milady,’ she began, hesitant, ‘but why do you not set out on this endeavour yourself? Gandalf continues to seek Saruman, and Radagast is, as I understand it, rather more concerned with his own business than that of mortal men.

‘I myself am no more than a humble, lowly Marshal of the Mark, and you are the Lady of Light, born of eternity and gifted with clairvoyance beyond the comprehension of Men; surely your knowledge and capabilities surpass mine own – with regard to both the Eastern lands, as well as the Wizards themselves.’

The Lady Galadriel did not answer at once. She inhaled deeply, and when she exhaled, it was as though a melody wafted out to join that of the flute far below.

‘It is not my task,’ she said at great last. ‘I am weary; I long to sail to the Undying Lands, and rejoin my people. As for the reasoning behind Gandalf’s stubborn insistence that it be you who undertake this quest – for, if I am not mistaken, that is the true source of your curiosity – I have heard no more than the wispy tendrils of uncertainty, speculative and untenable.’

‘Will you not tell me?’ Truva implored. ‘I have no concern for the veracity of such rumours; I simply wish for any semblance of enlightenment.’

‘If Mithrandir did not share his thoughts, then I think it unwise of me to speak of what little I know,’ said Lady Galadriel, and when she smiled the darkness seemed as if to turn to day. ‘But let us not aggrieve ourselves over unsolvable riddles. Rest now, for you must depart early on the morrow.’

Chapter Text

The world was still tones of grey when the travellers, guided by Haldir, picked their way through the charred trunks bordering Langflood the following morning. As with the Silverlode, no hythe jutted out into the Great River, yet their canoe drifted unmoored in the current, appearing as insubstantial as the snowflakes that fluttered down upon the wind from darkened skies above. Even as they placed their packs and supplies – renewed by the Galadhrim’s generous stores – within the boat’s hull, the Lord and Lady of Lórien drifted out from the west, striding along the Silverlode’s frozen banks and across the tongue of land between the two rivers. They were accompanied by many high Elves, and yet there was no music save that of the early morning air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘In which direction?’ Gimli cried in reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Come,’ said Grimbeorn. ‘I welcome you to my home.’

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

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

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

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

‘Certainly,’ replied Grimbeorn.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Go on, love, change into something dry and warm.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You lived in the Vales of Langflood, did you not?’ spoke Truva, surprising even herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

Aragorn felt as though he had scarcely closed his eyes before the door of his chambers burst open. In rushed a single servant, who crossed to the windows and drew aside the wooden lattice to admit more light, though the haze of dawn still hung on the air.

‘Good morning, Forodrim master!’ exclaimed the servant. ‘I hope it pleases you to dine at this hour; the Captain is already about, and requests your presence at breakfast. I have taken the liberty of preparing new garments for you.’

He gestured to a settee at the foot of Aragorn’s bed, upon which had been laid billowing trousers and a tunic, as well as a cropped vest – nearly identical to that worn by the Ploíarkos and his guards. Aragorn eyed this clothing ambivalently; his own was still fresh and inoffensive. But it would not do to risk the ire of his host. Donning the garments, he followed the servant back through Coronon’s halls to the garden where they had feasted the previous evening. Castamir already sat deep in conversation with Tharbadír and his other advisors, though he broke off their discussion to greet Aragorn at once.

‘Good morning!’ said the Captain. He piled a plate high with bread and cheese, olives, tomatoes, eggs, a few slices of pork – far simpler fare than before – and held it out in offering. ‘I hope you slept well.’

‘Very peaceably, thank you,’ Aragorn replied, accepting the plate, though he laid it aside without eating. ‘Have you given any consideration as to when we might depart for Harad?’

‘It seems patience is not as highly valued in the north as it is in Umbar,’ Castamir remarked. He brought a cup of dark fluid – kahve it was called in that region – to his lips and took a sip before setting it down with painstaking care. ‘But there would be no benefit to any such haste, I am afraid. Ephor Herufoth is touring the outer lands of Herumorost at present; it shall be some weeks before he returns to his palace.’

Aragorn made as if to reply, but was interrupted by the appearance of Éomer and the Gondorians, who sat down and immediately set upon the food. All were similarly attired as Aragorn; indeed, even Castamir himself had exchanged his extravagant raiment for unassuming dress. It seemed Undómírë had been unerring in her assertion that the feast was no more than a temporary mirage of affluence.

The Princess must also have spoken true in saying the arts were a constant in Umbarian culture; for even as the company began their meal, a musician strummed upon his lute, gracing the Captain’s breakfast table with gentle melodies. But Éomer was equally as hasty as Aragorn – perhaps even more so – and was not content to let his questions go unanswered.

‘So when do we make for Harad?’ he asked of the Captain, plucking the stem from a tomato.

‘As I was explaining to Lord Aragorn,’ Castamir replied, ‘the Ephor will not be in a position to receive guests for some time. Perhaps you might explore the Havens in the meantime – though I will not be able to escort you, as my duties preoccupy me. I will, of course, make available my Ploíarkos, and am certain my daughter would also be delighted to explain the finer details of Corsair life to you.’

‘The opportunity to explore your lands and customs is warmly welcome,’ said Aragorn. ‘I would very much like to speak at length with your Ploíarkos, and in my brief interactions with her, the Princess has already proven to be a most excellent guide.’

Each of Aragorn’s companions turned to him with searching looks, yet their expressions were entirely different in nature: Éomer’s one of curiosity, and the Captain’s of contemplation. Yet Aragorn’s gaze remained on their host.

‘Yes, Undómírë is most adept,’ said the Captain at last. ‘Even when her mother parted this world – having given me only one daughter and no sons – I did not fear, though Undómírë was but a young child at the time. I could not have desired a more capable heir.’

Aragorn pursed his lips but said nothing, and the company returned to their meal. But even as they dined (their discussion primarily consisting of such mundane matters as the Umbarians explaining what dishes graced their plates, or the meaning of whatever song or poem the bards bestowed upon them), a drab pigeon flitted over the walls of Coronon. It descended directly towards the breakfast table and Castamir’s arm, which he held suddenly aloft. When the bird perched deftly on the back of his hand, the Captain extracted a small scrap of thin paper from its leg. Once finished reading the paper’s contents, he glanced up, only to discover the northerners’ curiosity fixed most intently upon him.

‘Homing pigeons,’ he said with a knowing smile. ‘Steadfast and true, the pride and joy of Umbar – even more than our fabled music. Never once has any bird from my lofts failed to deliver its message, if unattacked.’

He folded the paper and slid it into his robes, turning once more to his boiled eggs and engaging the Ploíarkos in discussion. He paid his guests little further attention, leaving them to their breakfast, until the next arrival emerged from the Coronon and glided across the garden towards the pavilion: Undómírë, awake at last.

‘Ah, my beautiful tulip!’ cried the Captain. ‘Rarest of blossoms in our land; how sweetly you blush in the morning chill.’

‘Good morning, father,’ said Undómírë with a smile. ‘Your praise is excessive today; is it perhaps for the benefit of our guests?’

‘What need have I to speak of what they can see plainly with their own eyes? My laudations are for your sake alone.’

‘You must forgive my father, and pay him no mind,’ said Undómírë to Aragorn and Éomer, taking a seat between them. ‘He grows anxious, for I am not yet married – though there are many who would consider me old. And there are too few suitors for his liking.’ Her tone was light, yet her expression spoke clearly of her distaste in such matters.

‘You cannot begrudge an old man doting upon his only daughter,’ Castamir protested.

Undómírë eyed her father suspiciously. ‘I sense there is some request you wish to make of me.’

‘You are too sharp for your own good, my dear,’ said the Captain, patting her hands. ‘Would it be any great labour to guide our guests about the Havens?’

On hearing this, Undómírë’s mood brightened quite suddenly. ‘Is that what you would ask of me?’ she exclaimed. ‘Why, that is no task at all! It would be my pleasure.’

And so, when breakfast was concluded, the Forodrim (as they were referred to by the Corsairs) followed the Princess back along the palace corridors, Tharbadír always keeping guard several paces behind. This time, they were graciously allowed to pass through the palace’s front entrance, rather than being secreted away towards a back way.

The doors of the entrance themselves were surprisingly small, though they were ornamented with towering archways of intricate arabesques. In the compound beyond, a garden unfurled to the Coronon’s very walls in all directions. It was of such resplendence that the dining area seemed a mere herbalist’s plot in comparison; fountains stretched the length of the central walk, which was in turn bordered by flowerbeds and rows of cyprus. To each side lay citrus orchards: oranges upon the west, and grapefruit to the east.

Undómírë strode past these fountains and their ornate glazed tiles without a single glance, however. Indeed, she did not slow until she reached the wrought iron gate set within the palace’s defensive walls, its copper accents glinting in the early morning sun. The guards rushed about as she tapped her foot impatiently.

Passing through the hastily-opened gate, the company immediately came upon the market they had glimpsed the previous day. The atmosphere was one of muted suspense, for while the morning rush to prepare was now completed, the bustle of customers had not yet fully descended. Tapestries overhead cast colour and patterns onto the stalls below; blue and scarlet geometric patterns, like those of the palace, stained the northerners’ cream tunics. Each merchant clamoured to assure these strange visitors that their own products were superior to those of their neighbours.

‘The most delicate tea of the south!’ cried one.

‘It seems you are about due for a new belt, my lord!’ said another to Éomer. ‘These are not mere leather straps – to consider them such would be an insult to their craftsmanship!’

‘An enchanting trinket for the lady at home? Necklaces— no! A ring, perhaps?’

They clustered close, pressing the northerners with bold coercion. But Undómírë was swift to intervene, stepping between the merchants and their potential patrons. As the market began to fill with the first wave of customers, she guided Aragorn and the others instead to an arcade, the blue roof of which surrounded the market square on three sides. Through a disorienting maze of walkways and crowded stalls the company wandered, absorbed in the sights and smells: spices piled high, gleaming copper cookware, rugs in all colours and patterns imaginable, brass lamps, fresh produce not seen in the lands of Gondor or Rohan – each corner revealed some new fascination.

Maeron had drawn near a stall where one wizened merchant sat, holding out a handful of dried figs in offering, when Undómírë stayed the Captain’s hand. Shaking her head, she turned from the stall and took a sharp left turn, exiting the arcade and making for the Heren river.

Here, the towpath was lined with guildhall signs proudly declaring the craft practised beyond each doorway. The Princess passed by several halls before pausing in front of one. The deafening clang emanating from within revealed it to be an ironworks, even if the hammer and anvil hadn’t been sufficient to clarify the unfamiliar script writ on its sign. No sooner had the princess stopped, however, than the guild’s burly proprietor emerged to block the entrance.

‘Their kind is forbidden in my workshop!’ he shouted, pointing an accusing finger towards Aragorn and the others. ‘I will not allow outsiders to observe the sacrosanct workings of my trade!’

The guildmaster’s black beard, speckled with grey, was nearly so prodigious as to rival even that of a well-endowed Dwarf. It brought to Aragorn’s mind the thought of Gimli, and by extension his travel companions – and with a quick smile, he allowed his contemplations to wander pleasantly upon the memory of Truva’s braids and tresses wafting in the breeze, the earthy scent of her when he held her tight, the gentle caress of her lips upon his—

‘Come, come, Angtano,’ said Undómírë, breaking Aragorn’s reverie. ‘Would you deprive your tradesmen the opportunity to flaunt the superiority of their skills?’

The guildmaster frowned heavily, but did not budge; and so Tharbadír drew him briefly aside to hold a whispered conversation. Though Angtano’s mouth remained deeply downturned, it was evident the Princess’ and Ploíarkos’ words carried far more weight than he was willing to test, and thus he eventually stood aside and the Forodrim were granted entrance.

In spite of Angtano’s concern, there were few secrets for Aragorn and the others to discover within. They took in the guildhall’s forge hearth and its bellows, its workbenches and stacked charcoal, buckets of nails and hinges and spade heads with little surprise.

‘A smithy in one land seems very much like a smithy in another,’ Captain Maeron remarked.

‘And yet each clearly boasts its own specialty,’ said Aragorn; for where the ironworks of Gondor were known for their blades influenced by Elven craft, and those of Rohan for the finest horseshoes and other equine trappings, here – tucked amongst more ordinary commodities – were breathtaking artistic pursuits: jewellery of delicate weave, small children’s toys, flutes and statues, as well as the patterned lamps and copper wares they had witnessed in the arcade earlier.

But at Angtano’s insistence, the tour was soon concluded, and the company reemerged into blinding midday sunlight. They proceeded further along the towpath, only to face similarly chilly receptions at each guild they paid visit to – though when reminded of the opportunity to demonstrate the quality of Umbarian products (and given a rather threatening glare from Tharbadír), the masters were swift to guide the northerners from barrel to saddle, bow to brooch.

From the row of trade halls, Undómírë drifted westward towards the wharfs. Behind immense storehouses lay the merchant guilds, as well as the once-opulent houses of the merchants themselves, all bustling with activity. A constant stream of vessels came and went, unperturbed by the Alcarindur’s lurking presence in the Bay, and prompting an unceasing flurry of wares being unloaded and loaded. Stevedores raced about, inspecting boat, sailor, and wares alike.

‘Good afternoon, Ploíarkos,’ said the portly harbourmaster, immediately ceasing his task at hand and bowing when the company drew near. ‘And milady! It is unusual to see you about, so hard upon your last visit.’

‘I am here on no official business, save to escort my father’s guests about the city,’ said Undómírë, indicating the northerners. ‘I am sure you are aware of their arrival.’

‘Aye, we had a right disruption yesterday noon,’ said the harbourmaster. ‘But welcome, welcome nonetheless! Have you any questions, I will strive to answer them.’

‘How many ships regularly make berth here?’ asked Aragorn at once, without a trace of hesitancy.

The harbourmaster shifted uncomfortably and glanced at the Ploíarkos, unsure as to whether he ought to answer, but Tharbadír gestured for him to continue.

‘Perhaps two dozen large galleys,’ he said, ‘and at least threescore zebecs and cogs a day – not taking into consideration personal crafts for fishing and whatnot.’

Aragorn eyed the naval vessels bobbing along the northern coast of the harbour. The master had answered truthfully, making no attempt to either mask or explain Umbar’s unusually strong defences. ‘I see,’ he said, moving towards the nearest dromund. ‘And your wares? What is most commonly traded upon these seas?’

Another nod from Tharbadír and the harbourmaster replied, ‘Wool, milord. Glazed ceramics. Olive oil, wine, what little cereals can be grown – wheat, barley, the like.’

Aragorn continued drifting across the wharf, drawing ever nearer to the fortress Ka’phos, its marble walls sleek and unbroken by any window save the narrow embrasures. ‘And weapons?’

‘Some – not much.’ The harbourmaster did not need to so much as glance at Tharbadír; his answer was clipped and intentionally vague. When Aragorn made as if to approach the fortress outright, Undómírë laid a hand upon his arm to restrain him. Not all secrets of the Havens were freely accessible.

‘I have been told you were intrigued by my father’s messenger birds,’ she offered instead. ‘Perhaps you might wish to learn more of their keeping?’

But it mattered not what answer the travellers gave, for already the Princess strode northward along the wharfs, leaving them to hurry after her. The Ploíarkos stalked sullenly behind, as ever.

Where the city’s battlements jutted into the Bay, they looped back towards the bulk of the city, making for the Coronon once more. Just beyond the palace’s northeastern corner, they came upon the loft of the Captain’s homing pigeons, separated from all surrounding buildings by a sizable span. It was a wooden structure comprised of a main building and two wings, which formed a massive aviary enclosed with netting. The visitors entered via a corridor dividing the aviary.

‘The rear building contains nestboxes, as well as the infirmary,’ said Undómírë as Aragorn and the others peered past the netting, watching the sheen of purple and green glisten on the birds’ otherwise drab feathers as they flitted from perch to perch. ‘The western wing contains roosts for cocks and young birds, and opposite that for hens and elderly members of the flock.’

‘How do you train them?’ asked Maeron, for he of all Gondorians was especially fond of bird and beast.

‘To some degree, it is in their nature,’ the Princess explained. ‘We bear them off to increasingly further distances – always a new location – and release them to return to the loft. Those that show the greatest aptitude are trained to fly between here and Harad… or further. Some were even used when we marched northward during the War.’

‘Entirely unbeknownst to Gondor and her allies, to whom such birds would appear in no way out of the ordinary,’ mused Aragorn, inspecting the floor-to-ceiling hen roosts through a dowel wall.

‘Feed them well enough, and they will travel the ends of the earth for you,’ said Undómírë, though it was unclear as to whether she had simply not heard the King, or pointedly chosen to ignore his remark.

‘To speak of feeding,’ Éomer interjected. ‘Perhaps it might be discourteous for a guest to speak of it to their host, yet I find myself entirely famished.’

‘It is no discourtesy on your part, though it most certainly is on mine,’ said Undómírë. ‘The afternoon has well passed us by; it was thoughtless of me to keep you so long.’

And so the company slipped back through the aviary gates and returned to the Coronon for their evening meal.

This pattern became familiar in the days that followed. Each morning, Castamir insisted it was not yet a propitious time to depart for Harad, and that he had a great deal of business to conduct about the Havens in the meantime. He would then request Tharbadír and Undómírë escort the northerners about on any number of ventures, which the Princess – for her part – gladly acquiesced to. The Ploíarkos accepted his duty.

When the company had traversed every corner of the central city and explored baker and armoury alike (though the latter was a brief and incomplete visit at the Ploíarkos’ insistence), they ventured beyond the high-walled Haven. Just past the battlements were sprawling outskirts, though the sight of them brought Aragorn up sharp:

These disorderly streets were marked by destitution and hardship, if not outright squalor – beyond that which might be caused by war. The houses were no more than hovels, the space between them a tumble of clothing lines and broken craft tools and discarded waste. The children were either babes at their mother’s breast, or labouring at tasks best left to adults; none ran about in joy or song. Where most hosts would strive to demonstrate the pride of their homeland, Undómírë showed the visitors abject poverty.

‘You witnessed my father’s façade of prosperity,’ she had said. ‘But here, we haven’t even the strength for such a showing; our deprivation is stripped bare for all to see.’

But on other days, the company’s outings were not so disheartening. They hiked the Bay’s northern slopes, where agile goats bounded from rock to rock, or surveyed the training grounds of the youngest carrier pigeons. On one particularly fine afternoon, they lingered within the walls of the city, where as guests of honour they watched performances of Umbar’s most renowned musicians, poets, and actors at the Captain’s grand amphitheatre.

Though Castamir claimed in word that he was eager to press negotiations with Harad, this was not reflected in his actions. More than a fortnight passed, and still the company lingered in the Havens of Umbar, much to Aragorn’s increasing dismay.

Éomer, however, was quite content to remain near the Alcarindur and its promise of reinforcements – though he was appeased to learn the company’s next excursion would be by horseback. The sun was particularly blinding that morning, yet its warmth did not reach the earth as the travellers mounted up and followed Undómírë across the Heren, then through the southern streets of the city. The Ploíarkos elected not to accompany them – and indeed had done so for several days running, for he found their ventures time-consuming and an interference with his duties. The Forodrim, he deemed, presented no danger to the Princess.

Thus otherwise unaccompanied, the small party exited through Umbar’s secondary southern gates. They continued on beyond the outskirts for no more than a short while before they came upon an expanse of shallow pits, pockmarked with plummeting shafts and great circular washing tables, cisterns dug deep into the parched earth. There was not a hint of movement; the area lay entirely still.

‘The mines of Felarust,’ said Undómírë, dismounting to retrieve a discarded axe. ‘Stripped of every last ounce of copper and whatever other resources were to be found. The entirety of the mines’ profits – as well as their defunct workers – were claimed by Harad as repayment for “defence” during the War.’

Aragorn bent low to examine the washing tables’ ribbed marble channels, to run his fingers through the dust, to inspect the cupellation hearths. The longer he did not speak, the more words tumbled from Undómírë’s lips.

‘These mines were in operation for centuries,’ she said, ushering the company towards the abandoned shafts. Her voice echoed as they ducked under the low rocky ceiling. In the sudden chill, Éomer gave a great sneeze, the sound of which reverberated far off down endless passageways. Woven baskets littered the gallery, still partially filled with rock.

‘It was only a matter of time before the reserves here were entirely depleted,’ Undómírë continued, ‘yet we did not expect such ends to come so soon. Labour and fish are now the primary levies Harad exacts from us – and while the sea is ever abundant, we haven’t sufficient workers to keep pace with their demands.’

‘Your tribulations have not been insignificant,’ Aragorn mused.

‘The mines are a forlorn testament to our misfortune,’ the Princess agreed.

She led the company back out into the sunlight, which had grown unpleasantly warm in the meantime. They retired for a light lunch in the shade of a haggard oak tree, and several Gondorian guards took the opportunity to doze gently as the chirp of black and white wheatears flitted on the air. Éomer, on the contrary, seemed incapable of repose, and instead paced restlessly amidst the rustling dry grasses, mimicking the birds’ strange call.

When at last the heat of high noon abated, the company set off southward in the direction of low rolling hills, enticed by Undómírë’s promise of vineyards there. Yet even as they neared the foremost knolls, Éomer rode up beside Aragorn.

‘This is no more than a diplomatic campaign; a charade,’ said the King of the Eorlingas, his voice low as not to attract Undómírë’s attention. ‘The Umbarians clearly seek to curry favour with the north, to the disadvantage of Harad – but I am not so convinced their straits are as desperate as they make them to be.’

‘There is something amiss,’ Aragorn agreed. ‘Water remained in the cisterns – more than might be explained by rainfall; I do not think those mines have been out of commission for as long as the Corsairs would have us believe. But while I cannot yet discern their intent, neither can I fault them; for even if they exaggerate their plight, their situation is nevertheless precarious.’

‘A perilous game is afoot, and we are playing blindfolded,’ Éomer cautioned. His brows were furrowed, and a frown was etched deeply upon his face. ‘To travel east would put us in grave danger; we would be cut off from our ships and warriors.’

Aragorn sighed heavily. ‘I do not disagree, my friend. Yet we have before us the means of bringing about a final resolution to these unceasing southern hostilities without further conflict, and journeying to the lands of Harad seems the only way to better illuminate both realms’ intentions – whatever those may be. That is an end I am willing to put myself at risk for.’

‘If such be your will, I will follow,’ replied Éomer, but he did not appear reassured.

The two Kings fell silent then, taking in the sparse vegetation and arid landscape. As the company came to the crest of a low hill, they looked down upon undulating lands stretched out before them in a patchwork of delicate vineyards. The short, stout vigneron who oversaw the nearest plantation was there to greet them when they rode up, her woven headscarf and silver curls flapping in the wind off the Bay. A scruffy cattle dog sat alert at her heels.

‘If you’ve come to taste my wine, you’ll surely be disappointed,’ she stated, waving a shovel in their direction. Neither her tone nor gestures were in any manner inviting.

‘No, jajáka,’ said Undómírë. ‘We’re here to inspect how the vineyards fare.’

The grooves of the old woman’s worn face deepened when she frowned. ‘You’ve eyes, haven’t you?’ she said bitterly. ‘Any can see we’ve had a rough time of it.’

She did not wait for the company to fully dismount before stalking off towards the nearest trellises, where withered vines and brittle leaves still clung to their supports. She slammed the blade of her shovel down into the hardened earth, bent over, and pulled out a segment of root.

‘Aphids!’ she cried, thrusting her hand towards Undómírë and the visitors. When they leaned in close, they could indeed discern tiny bugs crawling along the white flesh of the root. ‘They have plagued my vineyard these last two years, and simply refuse to die!’

‘Have you tried the yellow mites?’ asked Undómírë. ‘They have eaten aphids in the past, and in turn provided sustenance for birds. And what of the mine smoke?’

‘We’ve tried all the usual solutions, as you would expect,’ said the vigneron, clearly irritated at being questioned so. ‘None have had any effect.’

Aragorn stepped forward then, a thoughtful look upon his face. ‘There are vineyards in the north, far beyond the lands of Gondor, where vines grow largely undisturbed by aphids; perhaps we might graft these strains together in hopes of producing one resistant to them?’

The vigneron eyed him warily. ‘Who is this outsider, who speaks so strangely both in sound and meaning?’

‘It is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur and High King of Gondor,’ said Undómírë. ‘You owe him the same respect you would bestow upon my father, Captain Castamir.’

This remonstration did not improve the old woman’s attitude in any way, and indeed quite the opposite; her sun-darkened cheeks glowed red. ‘You would bring such a heathen to my lands – to these revered lands of my ancestors!’ she sputtered. ‘My son served as dokímos on a ship moored at Pelargir during the War; he nearly fell at this upstart’s hands!’

‘Yes, but your son did not fall, and in fact abandoned ship at the first sight of conflict, did he not?’ said Undómírë, quickly intervening. ‘And so we come together now to make amends. Why do you not illustrate to our guests the art of viticulture? Your brand upon any barrel always fetches the highest price at market, so prolific is your product.’

This flattery appeased the vigneron somewhat, and she stomped off through the trellis rows with the Gondorian guards in tow, Éomer trailing in the rear. The wizened jajáka offered a withered grape to Maeron, and the Captain placed it delicately into his mouth, only to promptly spit it out when she muttered something indistinguishable about moth eggs.

Aragorn lingered behind. He crouched to scoop a handful of soil and allow the rocky dust to trickle through his fingers. It was even more parched than expected. When he rose to rejoin the others, however, he found Undómírë at his side. Stifling his surprise, he walked with the Princess in silence a moment before turning suddenly to face her.

‘I wish to thank you for devoting yourself to our edification,’ he said, mindful of every word that left his lips. ‘These past few weeks have been truly insightful, and I see now the Havens’ state of affairs is far more desperate than ever I was led to believe. I owe you a most sincere apology, and a reiteration of my promise to grant succour in Umbar’s negotiations with Harad.’

‘I thank you for your sentiments,’ said Undómírë, turning her light eyes Aragorn. There was a smile upon her face – and pain also. ‘A lesser man would not so readily admit to having been mistaken. Long has Umbar suffered at the hands of those lands both to the east and north, and it is my hope that, through your aid, we shall at last be spared unnecessary hardship.’

‘It may perhaps be too ambitious to hope for true allyship between our nations, yet I would not see your people suffer any more than mine.’

A smile did grace Undómírë’s lips then. ‘You do each of your many titles great honour.’

‘And I could likewise not imagine a figure of superior intelligence or grace as sovereign of Umbar,’ said Aragorn, resuming their walk. ‘As I understand, you have no brothers; it would be a terrible oversight on your father’s part, were he to pass unto any other the mantle of Captain.’

‘Who can say what intentions lurk in the depths of my father’s mind?’ Undómírë said with a gentle laugh. ‘I will do what is asked of me, and have no further ambitions.’

She traipsed towards a trellis where the vigneron was demonstrating proper methods of tying vine to cane. Aragorn followed, feeling as though he were no closer to understanding the enigmatic Princess. Though he strove to devote his attention to the old woman’s long-winded explanations, his mind continued to wander back to the Felarust mines.

Afternoon stretched into the early evening hours, and it was not until sundown that the company returned to the Coronon. As ever, Castamir dined alongside his guests, and beckoned for the evening’s entertainment to begin with music. Prompted by his conversation with Éomer earlier in the day, Aragorn did not so much as allow the first song to pass without approaching the Captain.

‘Many days has my company spent in your splendid realm,’ he began as Castamir busied himself with a carrier pigeon, clearly reluctant to speak on the matter which he knew to be coming. ‘And much we have learned about Umbar and its people. Your hospitality has been unstinting; for that, I cannot overstate my gratitude.’

‘I feared you would not take us at our word in saying we desired amity,’ said the Captain. ‘The ties between Umbar and Gondor have long been fraught with antagonism. It pleases me to hear you have not allowed this to cloud your judgement.’

‘I see now that your actions were merely those of desperation,’ said Aragorn, though with every word his doubt grew. ‘It is unfortunate that many lives have been lost in the discovery of this truth, yet my only wish is to move forward peaceably with the Haradwaith.’

‘Will we not soon depart for those lands,’ interjected Éomer, ‘and so spread this harmonious spirit?’

The Captain’s eyes shifted from one northern King to the other, his expression indecipherable. ‘If you so wish it,’ he said after a time. ‘The Ephor’s tour is sure to end soon, though I cannot guarantee what will become of you should we arrive at the gates of Herumorost ere he returns; any understanding that exists now between us does not extend to those lands. Nevertheless, I will conclude with all haste my business here and prepare a caravan to guide us eastward, if that will sate your impatience.’

Thus they were agreed to make for Harad at last – though it was a further three days before the northerners stood at the main entrance of the city, warily eyeing a convoy that arrayed itself beneath the shadows of a massive guard tower. It was not horses that greeted them, but strange, sway-backed creatures with golden fur, more than twice the size of an ordinary mount. The animals’ long, knobble-kneed legs did not give any illusions of strength, and they stood listlessly about as Tharbadír and a flurry of guards loaded packs upon their backs.

‘What in Helm’s name are those beasts?’ Éomer exclaimed. ‘I’ve half a mind to return to our ship and bring Firefoot ashore – I cannot put my faith in such stupid-looking creatures.’

‘A horse will not fare nearly so well as a kamel in these lands, my lord,’ said Castamir, emerging from the guard tower with a large coffer in hand. ‘Not even your fabled Mearas can go so long without water, or walk so easily upon the shifting desert sands. If you wish to keep pace with us, it is best you take a liking to these stupid-looking creatures, as you say.’

Éomer merely grunted in response. The Captain paid him no mind, placing the coffer upon the ground and throwing it open. ‘I think the time for me to restore your weapons to you has long since come and passed,’ he said. ‘Safe as the sands are, they are not entirely free of hazard, and you have more than proven your trustworthiness.’

Aragorn was beside the chest in an instant, already extricating his blade as the others clustered about. Andúril once more strapped at his side, he approached one of the kamels and cautiously extended a hand palm upward, fingers curled. The creature reached its long neck forward and promptly gave a sharp nip, scarcely missing Aragorn’s fingers – but not before a great glob of mucus slopped from its mouth onto Aragorn’s forearm.

The entire gathering burst into guffaws, the loudest of which came from the Corsairs; but also a gentler, more musical laughter wove into the chorus as Undómírë appeared.

‘They are obstinate creatures, my lord,’ said the Princess, offering Aragorn a cloth with which to wipe his sleeve. She then took the kamel by its lead and tied it in line with a score of others. ‘They go where they will and stop where they like, and there is no convincing them otherwise. But they are loyal and hardy, and will bear us to Herumorost without any significant trouble.’

‘Do you come with us, milady?’ Aragorn asked, still observing the kamels warily. With a brief glance towards her father, Undómírë drew closer.

‘As perhaps you may have discerned, my father’s many skills do not include negotiation,’ she whispered. ‘I will accompany him, to aid as best I might.’

With that, she approached a kamel lying upon the sandy road and ascended a short ladder, slipping within the opulent litter strapped to its back. She swiftly drew a curtain about her, though she left a small slit to observe the outside world.

The other Corsairs likewise began to prepare for departure, leading each of the northmen to their own mount. While several of the kamels were outfitted with a ladder attached to the saddle, many were not; and even when the beasts lay upon the ground, their riders required assistance in climbing between the two humps. Maeron soon discovered the kamels also rose with their rear legs first, sending the hapless Captain heel over head onto the ground.

Once the Forodrim were all settled – a production which provided great amusement to the Umbarians – Tharbadír went about tying each of the kamels from tail to nose, two to each member of the company. The Ploíarkos then took the lead of the foremost beast and set out at last on foot: first through the towering battlements, then into the expansive outskirts of the Havens beyond.

They followed the banks of the Heren all morning, travelling opposite the river’s current as it flowed towards the Bay. The city outskirts extended so far eastward that still the company had not cleared them by late afternoon, but eventually even the most distant of dwellings lay behind them. Here, the Heren curved northward whilst the company continued east along the established road, until they came upon a vast plain of golden sands stretching out into an endless expanse. The sun glared down as if issuing a challenge.

This challenge Castamir accepted without hesitation, striking out across the desert undaunted. But the company had gone no further than a league before the road disappeared entirely beneath the sands’ shifting features, slowing their progress considerably. The kamels’ cloven toes sunk into the unsteady surface; small hillocks mounted into immobile waves, arcing higher than the travellers’ heads, forcing them to weave circuitous routes through the dune slacks. Winds swept unceasingly across the open lands.

All traces of Umbar were gone from sight when the skies grew fully dark and the caravan halted. They took shelter at the base of a low dune, and both Éomer and Maeron leapt to aid Tharbadír as he constructed a simple lean-to against the wind. Another Corsair guard set a fire to ward off the rapidly descending chill of night, while yet others meandered amidst the kamels, ducking low towards the animals’ feet, prompting Aragorn to approach the Captain out of curiosity.

‘Do you not hitch your kamels to a picket or post?’ he asked.

Castamir turned to him with an amused smile. ‘Have you never heard the braying of a displeased kamel?’ he asked. ‘Kamels are not horses; they do not like to be restrained. They grow bored and mischievous, and will keep you awake throughout the night with their absurd noises if you do not at least grant them the illusion of freedom. Hobbling merely shortens their stride, and prevents them from wandering too far in the night.’

‘Will you not show me?’ said Aragorn, for in the north there had never been a dearth of trees to which horses might be tied, if restraining was necessary at all.

‘He who does not properly hobble his kamel hobbles himself,’ said Castamir, beckoning Aragorn forward.

The Captain demonstrated how to fasten a short length of rope with a knot at one end and a loop at the other about the kamels’ forelegs. Aragorn swiftly grew comfortable with this process, and even ventured to offer another hand of greeting to his mount when their task was completed. This time, the kamel met him with a gentle nibble, searching for anything edible. Castamir passed several handfuls of hay to Aragorn, who in turn offered it to the kamel; only then was the creature content to let him stroke the coarse fur of its neck.

‘They’re right ornery beasts,’ said the Captain, giving the kamel several emphatic pats. ‘But Deve is the most even-tempered of our herd, and you’ve certainly a knack for pacifying her.’

‘Deve?’

‘Aye, the females are the least irritable,’ he explained as they began to wander back towards camp. ‘And it’s best you avoid the bulls altogether.’

When they rejoined the others, the lean-to had successfully been erected and Tharbadír was passing around small servings of goat stew. Undómírë had emerged from the litter and sat between the Corsairs and Forodrim as the latter bemoaned the soreness that plagued their bodies.

‘I suspect it shall be far worse come morning,’ Aragorn commented, taking a place beside the Princess.

‘Do not speak truths we have no desire to hear!’ Maeron bemoaned to the laughter of all, setting the mood by which the jolly evening was passed. In true Umbarian fashion, one of the Corsairs extricated a flute from his pack and played several lively tunes, followed by the northerners’ contributions. Even Undómírë graced the gathering with a song, yet when the last strains drifted away and the others resumed their conversations, the Princess rose and turned towards the litter.

‘You would sleep in so cramped a space?’ Aragorn asked. ‘Is it not uncomfortable?’

‘Where else would I sleep?’ she countered.

‘In the open, beneath the stars.’

‘In the company of men below my station? How barbaric!’ she laughed, slipping into the litter.

Despite the kamels’ hobbles, the beasts were found some distance from camp come morning, and it took considerable effort to regroup and press on. The winds rose up ever harsher, sending the northmen’s loose Haradrim robes billowing. But the kamel’s lackadaisical pace plodded on unperturbed, seemingly for all of eternity. That day proved indistinguishable from the one previous, and from all the days that followed, and thus nearly a week transpired with little to interrupt the tedium.

One afternoon, in the midst of the journey’s monotonous haze, the company breached a sand dune peak, only to look down upon what seemed nothing more than a temptatious illusion: the vision of a green-watered pool. It was surrounded by vegetation, lush in comparison to the otherwise sparse surroundings; strange, skinny trees with wispy fronds clustered at their very top shot up from the sands, growing so thick upon one side of the pool that they provided a barrier against the winds and shifting sands. Arrayed about the edge, beneath the trees’ paltry shadow, were splayed tents, low and wide.

In the heat of midday, there was nary a sign of any occupant, but as the company wound its way down the steep embankment, a young man ducked from beneath the nearest tent. He called out in a language unfamiliar to the Forodrim, and in a flash he was joined by half a dozen others. These dark-skinned Southrons rushed to greet the travellers, chattering excitedly betwixt themselves, and aided the company in dismounting and hobbling their kamels.

‘A visit from the Captain is always a joyous one!’ declared the first man, breaking suddenly into the Common Tongue. ‘Welcome, welcome, fair travellers; come shake off the sands from your robes and rest a while at our humble Óasi!’

He ushered the company into the shade of his tent, which was similar in style to that in the garden at Coronon. While overhead was a simple pattern of dark stripes, rugs carpeting the ground were a dizzying flourish of red and black – though said rugs were nearly obscured by many pillows strewn about. Pitchers of water stood alluringly upon low tables.

‘Please, recline wherever best pleases you!’ said the man. ‘We are few in number these recent days, yet we are never lacking in hospitality. I will return shortly with food and drink – for even if you have eaten, I would ask that you indulge in yet another course.’

‘Thank you, Plíthos,’ said the Captain, accepting a waterskin from another of the men. ‘We have not yet eaten, and one meal shall more than suffice; though it is for such geniality that I always greet the sight of the Óasi with a sense of wondrous reprieve.’

‘We delight in entertaining each and every wayward guest,’ said Plíthos, scurrying off to fetch an array of foodstuffs.

‘Two meals!’ Éomer remarked as he settled against a pillow. ‘The Holbytlan would be well-pleased with such a haven; though had they been travelling with us, we would never have heard the end of their grumbling in having to wait so long for their midday meal.’

‘I daresay Pippin would have called a halt to our progress and demanded we sup upon the very dunes themselves,’ Aragorn chuckled.

‘Holbytlan?’ asked Undomire, entering far behind the others. ‘Will you not enlighten us as to what a Holbytla is?’

‘Perhaps you know them as Hobbits, or Halflings, or even Perian in the language of those who came before,’ answered Aragorn, ‘called so as they are no taller than a child. They are curious, elusive folk that dwell far in the north, and lead enviably simple lives – or did at one time.’

‘I have heard tell of such creatures!’ Plíthos exclaimed. He had returned with arms ladened, bearing all manner of stewed meats and vegetables, flatbread, and chilled mint tea, which he laid before the visitors with a flourish. ‘A warrior from Herumorost – who came under our tents not a fortnight ago – even claimed to have seen a Halfling at the Slaughter of Morannon!’

This term caused the northerners to glance between themselves. Éomer coughed uncomfortably. ‘’Tis true,’ he said. ‘Four there were amongst our ranks, including little Peregrin, who stood before the Black Gates.’

‘Ah me, I regret calling the warrior’s tale ludicrous now!’ said Plíthos, shaking his head, oblivious to the tense mood that ensnared his guests. ‘Many wayfarers have I met in my time at the Óasi, and many stories have I heard – some more believable than others. Yet I thought his to be the most absurd of all, only for it to prove true!’

‘Sometimes it is the strangest tales that find their foundation in actuality,’ mused the Captain before motioning for the company to begin their meal.

Their host was the first to present them with a song, his sonorous voice lilting upon the air, speaking of ages long ago and in a language the Forodrim did not understand; yet with the emotion Plíthos conveyed, they could not help but feel the story most intimately. No sooner had he concluded the first verse, however, than the other Óasi residents joined in, plucking at zithers and blowing upon flutes and tapping drums. Such music was entirely new to the northerners – it was simultaneously mournful yet cheerful, with a patient, delicate strength behind it.

After several calls for encores from Maeron and the other Gondorian guards, Plíthos at last retired and gratefully accepted a cup of tea from Éomer. As the other musicians played on, the Óasi host turned to Castamir and, still short of breath for his efforts, asked, ‘Say, have you perhaps heard any news out of Herumorost? Not three weeks ago was there a terrible influx of travellers passing from out west, yet afterward there were none until your party. Why might this be?’

The glare both Castamir and Tharbadír gave Plíthos did not evade Aragorn’s notice – yet no sooner had he discerned it than it was gone, replaced by placid smiles.

‘Who can say?’ said the Captain. ‘The markets are ever shifting, the ebb and swell of our nomads ever unpredictable.’

It was clear the conversation was ended with these half-assurances, yet something about Castamir’s sharpness, the sudden alertness of his posture which unsettled Aragorn. He cast a glance towards Éomer, who had likewise fixed the inscrutable Corsair beneath his gaze. But their concerns were drowned out by the levity filling the tent as late afternoon transitioned to early evening; thus they pursued it no further.

When the outside temperature plummeted, Plíthos drew the tent’s open flaps down over the entrance. One final cup of the Havens’ infamous black kahve was shared, then the Umbarians were escorted to their own tent, and the northern guests offered cots within the main tent.

Moved by the evening’s music and the Óasi residents’ inviting nature, Aragorn’s thoughts turned to the Eorlingas and their indefatigable hospitality. He recalled the numerous feasts he had spent in their company, and thus his thoughts also turned naturally to Truva. The unfortuitous circumstances of their meeting now seemed so far away, so inconsequential in comparison to all they had endured since, and all they faced now. What would she have made of the Corsairs’ plight? How far had she and the others advanced up the Anduin? Though he had only ever shown Truva a bold and brave façade, he was frankly terrified she would discover some truth that would cause her to reconsider what lay between them – for though he would ever love her, love was not always sufficient in the short, brutal lives of Men.

Even as Aragorn stared up at the dark mohair tent roof, he longed to hold Truva in his embrace, so that she might ease his troubled mind and soothe his weary heart. He did not sleep well that night, or the next.

After three days’ rest in the paradisiacal Óasi, replenishing their supplies and the kamels’ vigour, Castamir saw fit to resume the company’s mundane journey. Freezing mornings gave way to scorching afternoons, only for the chill to steal once more across the golden sea come nightfall. The kamels’ progress was so leisurely that their riders often preferred to dismount and walk themselves, especially when the cold tendrils of dawn still clung to their limbs.

On the fifth afternoon, a pinprick appeared on the horizon. The company made directly for this hint of habitation; and throughout the day the speck grew larger, taking on some semblance of structure. Then, even as the periwinkle curtain of dusk descended upon them, a grey smudge also emerged far in the distance beyond. But it was still only the nearest of these two aberrations that became clear in the lingering light, aided by the lighting of lanterns: a caravanserai, perfectly square with high walls and a single, well-fortified entrance.

A voice rang out in challenge when the company drew near the carevanserai’s massive archway: ‘Who goes there?’

‘’Tis I, Castamir,’ the Captain shouted back, ‘come to seek an audience with the Ephor. Are you satisfied, having seen fit to question me?’

At once, the sound of rattling chains could be heard. Slowly, slowly, the heavy wooden doors drew inwards to admit the caravan.

‘You must forgive me, milord; it is dark, and you come in strange company,’ said the porter, bowing low but never taking his eye off Aragorn and the others. ‘Nor have we seen you in these parts for quite some time.’

‘And so I return to your lands for a long-overdue counsel with your Ephor,’ said the Captain. ‘Run and have your fastest page boy inform Herufoth that I have come at last into the realm of Harad.’

The porter bowed once more and raced off, leaving the company to enter the complex unaccompanied. In the very centre of the courtyard stood a tiled drinking pool for livestock, its perimeter littered with a smattering of merchants’ stalls, boasting torches lit to entice drunkards to their foods or wares. The inner battlements were no more than two storeys high, lined with rows of arched entrances leading to both stalls and chambers beyond the encircling portico. Gossamer curtains wafted in the breeze, distinct patterns apparent even in the low light of the torches. From high above, the sound of a zither wafted down.

‘Allow your animals to drink,’ ordered the Captain. ‘Let us quench our thirst as well, then we shall put them to stable.’

Tossing the kamels’ leads over their necks and leaving them at the fountain under the care of a single hapless Corsair, the remaining travellers soon found the tavern by following the raucous noise that emanated from it. They crammed together into a corner with three tiny tables, Undómírë apologising profusely when she was pressed between Aragorn and Castamir, though Aragorn merely wedged in tighter against Éomer to allow her space.

It was the Captain himself who insisted they remain seated as he sought out the barkeep, yet Tharbadír leapt up at once to aid him in making several circuits between counter and table. In a flash, the two had transported nearly a score of wine goblets for the company members; the Captain took especial care to place one each before Aragorn and Éomer, keeping another for himself.

As he sat, he glanced about the tables to ensure the others were deep in conversation before turning to the northern Kings. ‘Perhaps you saw the shadow upon the horizon this afternoon, as we drew near the caravanserai?’

‘I presume it is our destination,’ said Aragorn.

‘That it is,’ said the Captain, taking a deep draught of his wine. Both Éomer and Aragorn raised their glasses in acknowledgement, but drank no more than a sip. ‘We shall come upon it – and its leader – on the morrow. Now, the Ephor is cunning and cruel; he has no mind for egality, only dominance. Alone, Umbar had no hope of resisting Harad’s overwhelming strength. Alone, the north has no hope of endearing themselves to Harad. But with our combined power, perhaps Herufoth might be persuaded to see reason.’

‘What terms would you negotiate?’ said Éomer.

‘Independence,’ Castamir stated simply. ‘Independence, and free trade between our lands, unrestrained by excessive tariffs. I would see the end of burdensome levies, as well, and for no King to claim superiority over the other. These are reasonable requests, are they not?’

‘And if these negotiations go poorly,’ cautioned Aragorn, ‘are you prepared for all trade between Umbar and Harad to cease, and to subsist beside a hostile neighbour? Any benefit you currently reap from your proximity and partnership with those lands – no matter how small – might suddenly be withdrawn and replaced with far harsher conditions.’

‘Even the largest advantage our alliance with Harad bestows upon us is far outweighed by the innumerable troubles they hang about our necks,’ Castamir insisted. ‘No, my lord Aragorn, I will not be turned from this path – nor should you hope that I am. A disadvantageous outcome for Umbar is a disadvantageous outcome for Gondor, as well. If these negotiations prove unsuccessful, and our relations with Harad worsen – or even remain the same – Umbar will be in no position to alter its behaviour with regard to ensuring our people are provided for.’

Aragorn did not address the thinly-veiled threat of resumed attacks upon Belfalas, Lebennin, and Lossnarch the Captain alluded to. He had seen the stunningly robust fleet floating in the Bay of Umbar. Gondor would fight if she had to; but it would be bloody.

‘Let us see what tomorrow brings,’ was all he said.

When their glasses ran dry, the company emerged once more into the courtyard and guided the kamels – thirst was now sated – into the stables lining the ground floor. Once the creatures were situated in their stalls, the travellers mounted rickety steps to the second floor, where they retired to an unfurnished room spread with dry grasses.

They did not sleep long, however, for the Ploíarkos roused them long ere dawn broke. They set out in the darkness, the haze of Herumoros growing more pronounced against the gradually lightening sky.

Chapter Text

Truva was awoken by Legolas thrusting aside the curtain to her chamber. Whether it was still night or already morn she could not guess, for in the dark Beorning halls there was no indication of time’s passage. She blinked, eyes bleary in the light of the torches in the hallway beyond, and sluggishly extricated herself from the woollen nest.

‘You are not one to sleep so late,’ remarked Legolas as she stumbled out into the passageway and stretched luxuriously.

‘There is a uniquely soothing atmosphere about the Beornings’ den, and I find myself loath to leave its comforts,’ said she.

‘Be that as it may, it is best to press on. The sooner we discover what became of the Ithryn Luin, the sooner we rejoin Aragorn and the armies we are parted from.’

‘Nor would I wish to overburden Grimbeorn and our gracious Beorning hosts,’ Truva agreed. ‘It grieves me to see how greatly they suffered this past year.’

Gimli likewise seemed eager to move on with all swiftness when they spoke of such plans with him in the main cavern, for though there could be no question of the Beornings’ generosity, it was apparent – through many sidelong cast glances and hurriedly stifled whisperings – that the Dwarf was not wholly welcome in the Den.

A rather sheepish young Dysig had just presented the travellers with bowls of porridge and honey when Grimbeorn appeared at their breakfast table. The Beorning leader placed two bundles before them.

‘Your belongings, laundered to the best of our washers’ abilities in so short a time,’ he said, indicating the larger of the two parcels. Then, almost reverently, he pushed the second forward. ‘And a supply of honey-cakes – though I must emphasise they are not for eating! Our stores of honey are low; these cakes are intended for none save the mouth of King Thranduil. I entrust you to convey them to him as a symbol of goodwill.’

‘My father will receive them untouched, and in as fresh a state as we can manage,’ said Legolas good-naturedly, though Gimli wore a peeved look, for he most desperately wished to taste the Beornings’ famed honey-cakes. Even so, it was with an unexpected hint of warmth that he and Grimbeorn bade each other goodbye in the chill, early morning air beyond the Den’s entrance, when the travellers were garbed in their own attire once more.

‘I thank you kindly for the generosity you have shown us, however brief our interlude may have been,’ spoke the Dwarf, with only a moderately begrudging air.

‘Any are welcome amongst the Beornings – so long as their heart is pure as that of the bees that once populated our hives,’ replied Grimbeorn. ‘I would most certainly not turn you away, Master Gimli, were you to call upon the Den again.’

‘Broad is the heart of the Beornings and their chieftain, in coming to see the loyalty of Dwarves far swifter than I,’ said Truva.

‘It was his companions speaking in his favour that moved me most,’ said Grimbeorn. ‘Trustworthy is he who walks together with Thranduil’s son and an Eorling warrior, whose ancient kin is mine own.’ He then clasped each of the travellers’ shoulders in turn. ‘Please convey my warmest greetings to your father, Woodland Prince, and may you find whatever answers you seek, horsemistress. Dwarf – fare thee well.’

With that, the three companions made as if to depart, but Brimbeorn started quite suddenly as if something had just occurred to him. ‘Would you go on foot?’ he asked. ‘It is no more than three days’ journey to the Elvenking’s halls, were you to ride.’

‘But we have no mounts,’ said Gimli, a hint of unease in his voice. Ignoring the Dwarf’s protests, Grimbeorn turned his face skyward. From his throat ripped a low cry, much like that he had given at the Den’s entrance. The sound reverberated in Truva’s very bones, and though it was not loud, it echoed amongst the trees. Before it even died out, three shadows came trotting through the dappled light: two beautiful blue roan steeds and a shaggy grey pony.

‘They know their way home,’ said Grimbeorn, ‘and though the Orcs were once not so circumspect, there are now none who haunt these woods that would risk the Beornings’ wrath in doing anything so untoward as endangering our dear friends. Turn them loose when you have arrived at your destination, and may you someday return in their wake.’

Truva rejoiced to be on horseback once more, and felt quite at ease despite the lack of any saddle or bridle. Gimli was not so sure-seated, however, and the Beornings’ mounts were not nearly as dependable as the Mearas of the Mark. Several times did the Dwarf nearly slip to the forest floor, and ultimately resorted to the solution that had proved successful throughout the War: riding together with Legolas – though it was still with a great deal of his grumbling that the companions resumed their journey, leaving the pony in Grimbeorn’s care.

Through sparse copses of beech and oak they rode; then, as they pushed further northward, these were replaced by dense, dark firs that grew so tall and thick they nearly blocked out the sun. Yet Legolas guided them surely, for the nearer they drew to his home, the more familiar he became with the land. They made exceptionally good time, and gained the Old Forest Road on the second day following their departure.

Here they made camp. From their campfire, they watched as more than a few journeymen rode horses along the wide dirt track, as merchants drew their carts piled high with wares, as a healer passed by in a rush, kit tucked firmly beneath one arm. All travelled boldly and openly, the fear that had kept them at home for so many years dispersed by tenuous peace. The Road, long neglected save by those with either desperate or nefarious purpose, had begun to show signs of reclamation.

The company rose before dawn the following morning, hoping to gain the Elvenking’s Halls within the day. With Legolas in the lead, they struck out across the Old Forest Road and made for the craggy foothills of the Mountains of Mirkwood. Even as the sun rose to cast soft periwinkle dapples of watery light upon the forest floor, their steeds wove sure-footed over rock and bramble, pace unaffected by the sharp incline or thickly growing pines.

Only a short while had passed, however, before Truva noted a tree swaying counter to the breeze. Unease flooded her mind as she recalled how Grimbeorn’s forces had dispatched a band of Orcs trailing them from Lothlórien. Determined not to doubt herself this time, Truva indicated the tree to her companions:

‘I believe we are being followed,’ she said.

Legolas did not so much as turn his head. ‘Yes,’ he said, whilst Gimli peered up into the tree’s upper branches. ‘My brethren have watched us from the very moment we passed the Men-i-Naugrim – and indeed a good deal earlier. Though the newly-established borders of my father’s realm of Eryngard extend only so far south as the Emyn Duir, the Tawarwaith do not trust the Beornings or Woodmen to keep Eryn Lasgalen safe.

‘Why do they not approach outright and greet us?’ asked Gimli.

‘Though I claim this land as my home, an Ereborian Dwarf and Rohirric shieldmaiden cannot,’ said Legolas. ‘War serves to bring unlikely allies together, but also serves to amplify preexisting mistrust between them; in the minds of the Wood-elves, I travel with two strangers – one of whom belongs to a race long hostile to them. They have not the benefit of our shared journey, my friend.’

Gimli harrumphed. ‘And what path must our journey take now? I see nothing save mountainous peaks ahead.’

‘There is a low pass, well-known to my people,’ said Legolas. ‘Just beyond it lies the Gûlduin, which shall give us an easy path to the river Táwarnen – or the Forest River, as I believe it is more commonly called in the tongues of others – and our destination.’

Truva was content to accept this explanation, though Gimli started. ‘The Gûlduin?’ he exclaimed. ‘You cannot possibly refer to the Enchanted River! I have heard the tale of poor Bombur a great many more times than once; the hapless Dwarf fell into its obsidian waters, and my father and the others of King Thorin’s party were left with no resort save to carry him, tied with rope, for six days – six!’

‘That is the very same river,’ replied Legolas. ‘Do not step foot in its currents and there shall be no cause for carrying or rope-tying.’

Gimli gave a huff but fell silent, perhaps recalling the numerous occasions on which the Dwarves’ quest to recapture Erebor – which he had shortsightedly been excluded from – was recounted in the halls of that very mountain.

Throughout the remaining morning, the company ascended towards a gap in the Mountains of Mirkwood, and it was only a few hours past noontide when they reached its upper heights. They did not pause for lunch, however, and immediately began to descend the opposite side. Here, the great oaks and beeches gave indication that a tremendous assault had taken place; much like the trees of Lothlórien, their boles were scorched black, their canopies and slighter branches vanished by the furious greed of fire. Ash darkened the forest floor, unfed by the previous autumn’s fallen leaves.

Then the sound of rushing water became audible. Soon, a glittering river was visible through the murk of forest shade and overcast skies. From afar, its currents appeared darker than a starless night sky, and at first Truva believed this to be a trick of the light; yet as they approached she saw that it was not. The same blackness that had guarded the walls of Orthanc and Minas Tirith, the same abyss that had been present within the palantír all those years ago, beckoned to her now, drawing her in with the hint of a promise, a glimpse of a world which lay beyond sight—

Legolas’ arm caught her across the chest. She had dismounted and begun walking towards the river, oblivious to all around her.

‘Do not hearken to its call,’ murmured the Elf.

Truva shook her head to dislodge the hazy sensation clouding her mind, though that seemed to have little effect. She and Legolas remounted, and the company continued down the mountain through the burnt forest, following the course of Gûlduin as it tumbled over rocks and through narrow gaps in the mountainside. Even though Truva did not cast her eyes upon the river’s waters, still she fought to repel its attraction. Legolas rode beside her, wary of any waver in her path.

The hours of the day dragged on, discernible only through the gradual shift of faint light from east to west as the sun tracked its determined path in the sky, unseen behind cloud cover. When the ground beneath the travellers began to even out and the Gûlduin curved westward, Legolas deviated from its banks, instead tracking northeastward. Truva was relieved to be free of the river’s allure, yet the woods were darkening, and she wondered whether they would gain the halls of the Elvenking that evening after all.

Darkness turned to near-impenetrable black, yet still Legolas did not halt.

‘Why do we make such haste?’ grumbled the Dwarf as his stomach gave a particularly loud complaint. ‘It is well past midnight; can we not make camp and proceed in the morning?’

‘There is no saying what yet lurks,’ said Legolas, his characteristic self-possession belied by the frequency with which he scanned their surroundings. ‘Though it is said all evil was cleared from these Woods in the wake of the War, so too was it said of Gondor – and we saw how little truth those assurances held. It is best we find shelter in the halls of my father before we rest.’

And so they pressed on, the night growing ever deeper. Several times Truva’s eyes threatened to close, and she nearly slipped from her mount’s back more than once. Plucking a bud from one of the few pine trees untouched by fire, she lodged the bright green harbinger of spring between her cheek and gum, chewing it whenever she felt herself nodding off, as Éothafa had taught her many years ago.

If there was a moon, it was not visible; cloud cover still plagued the sky. Without the guidance of Legolas, both Gimli and Truva would have been travelling blind. Yet soon another shepherd presented itself: the renewed sound of rushing water.

‘It shall be all the harder to resist in your lassitude,’ said Legolas, appearing beside Truva. ‘We come now upon the northern arc of Gûlduin, where it feeds into the Táwarnen. Just beyond the rivers’ confluence lies the entrance to the halls of my father. I trust you will not falter so close to our destination.’

Truva gave a short nod, and surreptitiously pinched the inside of her forearm to see if it might spur her into wakefulness. Instead, it simply bestowed upon her a dreamlike separation from the pain. A slap on the cheek likewise effected little result, as did several additional pine buds.

Then another glimpse of the entrancing river came through the trees, its currents mysteriously glittering in nonexistent light. Truva fought the waters’ lure, and yet the Gûlduin was like a void, drawing her in unwilled. Her breath suspended, anticipating the coming flood, rising up from the banks to her chest, past her throat towards her nose—

All at once, Legolas’ hand was at the back of her cloak, dragging her away from banks slippery with soot-rich mud. The abrupt action drew Truva back into the present. She tore her eyes away from the obsidian waters, only to find herself staring at the forest floor.

‘I thought the Rohirrim to be a very stern peoples,’ said Gimli, his manner not wholly unpatronizing, ‘and our Marshal the most stoic of them all; what misfortune is it, when even so bold a shieldmaiden cannot resist the Enchanting River’s enticement. I feel a great increase in sympathy for poor Bombur.’

‘The Gûlduin affects each to a different degree, regardless of origin,’ said Legolas, helping Truva to her feet. ‘Let us hope the joining of the rivers shall sufficiently negate these effects, and we shall pass unbothered across the Táwarnen’s span.’

Indeed, a pathway through blackened beeches opened before them, revealing the rushing Forest River just ahead – or what Truva assumed by its sound to be the river, for the scene was so dark that little could be seen. Even when the company drew nigh to a high bank and the water itself became visible below, still the opposite side was obscured by darkness.

‘Have our mounts any need to risk themselves in the crossing?’ asked Truva, her hay cognition recovered somewhat. ‘Let us loose them, and trust they shall return safely to their homeland, as promised by the Beornings.’

‘Wondrous idea,’ exclaimed Gimli, already on the ground.

Even without prompting, the first of the blue roans turned towards the Den and trotted off, though Truva could not help but allow her hand to linger on her own steed’s withers in a sentimental goodbye; nor was the horse eager to part with her, for he nuzzled her chin briefly before darting off after his companion. As there was kinship between the Beornings and Eorlingas, so too was there some connection between these beasts and the Mearas.

‘Now, to cross the river,’ said Legolas.

He reached out with one hand, as if feeling for nothing in the empty air. After a time, his fingers clasped some unseen object. The rope itself was imperceptible to Truva and Gimli, but it cut a line clear across the Forest River as Legolas pulled it, dripping with water, above the currents’ surface and wound it about a stout post.

‘An Elven bridge,’ groused Gimli. ‘I thought I had seen the last of them when we crossed into Lothlórien with the Fellowship!’

‘And we were in possession of additional ropes for hand guides then,’ said Legolas, ‘a benefit we do not have now. We shall have to cross as is.’

Truva, having fully recovered her senses – save a slight fog of confusion, which could in good faith be attributed to her fatigue – looked on with trepidation. To cross the Forest River’s vast expanse on no more than a single thread of rope held no attraction to her. Only the promise of rest compelled her forward.

Legolas immediately held up a hand to stop her. ‘You are not known in these lands – nor you, Gimli. Though our movements are watched even now, and those who guard the Wood are sure to know you are my companions, it is best not to tempt the unknown. I shall cross first.’

He stepped out onto the invisible line, walking with no more difficulty than if on land, and within moments he could just barely be discerned upon the steep bank opposite, beckoning for the others to cross.

‘Would you like to have a go of it first, Marshal?’ asked Gimli. ‘I should like to attribute my offer to a reluctance on my part to leave you on this bank alone, but I know you to be perfectly capable of defending yourself – and in truth, my hesitancy is due more to the need for several additional moments to compose myself.’

Truva gave him a curious look. What little cheek visible beneath Gimli’s beard flushed scarlet. ‘Don’t tell the Elf,’ he whispered.

‘I shan’t,’ said Truva with a sly smile. ‘I do believe you yielded in a most gentlemanly manner to my desire to cross first.’

‘Aye, that is as good an explanation as any,’ he muttered in approval.

Truva approached the riverbank and felt about for the rope. In spite of the darkness, she had expected at the least a faint visual sign of its presence, but it was not until the soft, drenched threads were in her very hands that she saw a blurry disturbance – simultaneously there, and yet not.

There was no doubt in Truva’s mind that traversing the rope in the manner of the Elves would not be possible for her mortal feet, and so she followed it to where the bank fell sharply away. Standing upon the rocky precipice, she curled her legs and arms about the rope and hung upside down, crawling across the span like a particularly clumsy monkey. Still, she arrived without incident, and giving a deep sigh of relief clambered onto the far bank.

Gimli followed using much the same method, and soon the trio stood shoulder to shoulder, backs to the Forest River as they looked upon the mouth of an immense cavern delving into the steep hillside. Three towering beeches shot upwards, although closer inspection revealed them in actuality to be pillars hewn from the stone itself, designed to resemble a living addition to the forest. Between the boles arched two tremendous gateways, shut tight against the world.

‘Calengroth: the Halls of the Elvenking!’ Legolas declared, spreading his arms wide.

He stepped forward and extended his hand to brush a stone pillar reverently with his fingertips, then leaned heavily upon the left-hand arch of the entryway to reveal a tiny wicket gate. Slipping into the thin ribbon of space, he motioned for the others to follow before closing the door and plunging them into utter darkness.

An echo of footsteps upon stone greeted them. From far in the distance came a faint glow, and as it drew nearer, the pooling light illuminated their surroundings. They stood at the forefront of an expansive hall, lined with two rows of beech-pillars, whose uppermost branches reached to the very rafters and met at the vaulted roof’s peak. The polished stone beneath the companions’ feet was at once black and multicoloured, flashing between pinks and greens and oranges. In her lassitude, Truva allowed the sight to consume her consciousness, oblivious to Gimli’s gasps of wonderment.

‘Brother!’ said a voice as softly as would reach them without reverberating terribly in the resonant hall. Truva’s attention snapped forward to take in the tall Elf who strode towards them bearing a silver lantern, only to discover it was none other than the elder son of Elrond.

‘Elladan!’ cried Legolas, embracing the Elf when he drew near. ‘What brings you from Imladris?’

‘The halls of my father grow cold,’ said he. ‘It is said that the last ships will soon pass into the West, but I mean not to go with them – not yet. Thus have I witnessed too much loss these last few seasons, and it seems to me Calengroth proves more a haven than the Last Homely House.’

‘You shall always be welcome here, my friend,’ Legolas reassured him.

‘And well it is to see you, Truva Marshal of the Mark, and you, Gimli son of Glóin.’ Elladan turned to greet the others, who bowed in return. ‘I thought you to be in the south, repairing the defences of Minas Tirith, or perhaps settling in at Aglarond. Surely you have not completed these tremendous tasks in so short a time; what business is it that brings you north?’

‘The tale of our recent ventures is by no means a short one,’ said Legolas. ‘But my companions are weary, for we have travelled far this day. Might I request you see them provided with appropriate accommodations?’

‘Most certainly, but do you not join them?’

‘My father will surely wish to learn of what news I have to share – and receive the Beornings’ honey-cakes all the swifter. I will seek him out before I rest. But tell me, where might he be found?’

‘The comings and going of King Thranduil are ever mysterious,’ said Elladan. ‘Perhaps you might begin in the lower halls; it is there he is most often to be found of late.’

‘Very well,’ said Legolas, striding off in the direction by which Elladan had come. ‘Rest well, my friends; I shall rejoin you swiftly.’

He disappeared silently into the darkness beyond the entry hall’s gleaming pillars – though this went wholly unobserved by Truva and Gimli, who nearly slept where they stood. Elladan roused them with a gentle hand upon their shoulders, motioning for them to follow after him towards a smaller corridor to the left.

The path along which the three passed was skillfully hewn, yet Truva could afford no energy to its details, for her attention was entirely devoted to placing one foot in front of the other. Lost to her was the curved entryway they turned through, and the elaborate atrium beyond – featuring a garden in full bloom despite the cavern’s depths – as well as the manuscripts and tomes shelved from floor to lofty ceiling. She took no note of the series of adjacent chambers or which doorway Elladan ushered Gimli into. It was all she could do to stumble into an adjacent room, collapse onto the bed, and fall immediately into slumber.

It was not rest that Truva found, however. She was visited by a dream, which at first seemed of the most pleasant sort. Even in slumber, a smile sat upon her lips; for from the haze emerged Aragorn, as bold and self-assured as upon his coronation day. A calmness overtook Truva, yet as she reached out to accept the hand he offered, it transformed into a black serpent, scales slithering and gleaming in a blood-red light. Its movements were slow, entrancing, even when it reared its head to strike. Its fangs flashed—

The nightmare shattered. Truva sat bolt upright, sweat heavy upon her brow. Through the thin, floral lattice walls of obsidian rock that enclosed her bedchamber, a gentle light filtered in. It was not the blinding glare of aboveground, but a diffuse, blue-green glow that illuminated her surroundings with a delicate wash. It did not give the impression of day, and yet it was certainly brighter than the complete darkness of night; surely it must be morning.

Truva emerged from her chamber into the atrium and properly observed all that she had been too exhausted to take in the previous evening. The garden was especially alluring, for it was comprised of plants entirely unfamiliar to her: lush arrowhead fronds and bold-coloured petals – all of which seemed to breathe in the strange light, only to exhale a golden dust, the motes of which floated upon languid air currents.

‘No sense in spectating plants when there’s breakfast to be had,’ Gimli spoke suddenly behind her.

Truva turned with a leap. Already the Dwarf was ascending a dais at the far end of the atrium, where a long table stood piled with all manner of fresh fruits and vegetables, alongside steaming bread fresh from the oven.

‘What do you suppose has become of Legolas?’ she asked, taking a seat across from him at the table.

‘Who’s to say?’ Gimli replied, mouth already full. ‘But I should like to make a most thorough examination of this cave system before he reappears and lays duties at our feet. These Halls are truly spectacular! Never before have I beheld such speleothems and speleogens; only having read of it the texts of old did I recognise the well-defined boxwork arching overhead last night. And the rimstone! Like its own calcite waterfall!’

Truva allowed the Dwarf’s incomprehensible prattle to flow about her, nodding cursorily each time he gave a particular emphatic exclamation. He had just begun to expound upon the delicacy of their own atrium’s frostwork when Elladan appeared in the archway.

‘Ah, so you have eaten,’ he said, though it was more than apparent they were scarcely halfway finished. ‘Most excellent. The King requests your presence – though to say it is a “request” belies the demanding nature of his expectations.’

Grumbling about a breakfast wasted, Gimli rose, and Truva was close behind. They followed Elladan as he strode through a maze of corridors leading ever further into the hillside – and Truva indeed saw the beauty of the honeycomb patterns Gimli had described to her.

They soon came upon a pair of massive oaken doors, carved in the likeness of patterned ivy vines – though it was crafted with such skill that, much like the beech-pillars, Truva was forced to lean in close and confirm it was not, in fact, living. Elladan swept aside one door to reveal a platform, so small they could scarcely fit as three. Beyond, the earth dropped sheer away and opened onto an immense cavern, the ceiling of which soared higher even than Truva believed the caves to delve; she could not comprehend how its rafters did not open onto the sky above.

Here too golden dust like that of the garden filtered through the air. It wafted from the floor far below to the topmost reaches of the cavern, casting a golden hue upon the awesome sight. Truva bit back a gasp, but Gimli was not nearly so reserved.

‘It is as the tales have claimed: so very much like Menegroth, which my ancestors likewise aided in the construction of. A testament to the artistry of the Dwarves, these Halls are!’ he exclaimed.

‘Welcome, travellers,’ echoed a voice from across the expanse, where the stone rose from the floor to create an island, connected to many entryways by a series of natural stone bridges. Here the golden light swarmed thickest. In its midst stood Legolas, with Elrohir beside him, and it was the latter who had spoken greeting. But most prominent amongst them was the commanding figure of Thranduil – unmistakable in his similarity to his son, and for the towering crown of woodland flowers upon his head.

Elladan stepped nimbly across the narrow bridge, though when Truva went to follow, she glanced down to see no barrier between herself and the fall, and suddenly found her balance wavering. Yet she gained the terrace safely, as did Gimli, and they bowed low before the Elvenking.

Legloas stepped forward to stand at their side. ‘I present to you Gimli son of Glóin, Lord of Aglarond, and Truva, Marshal of Rohan’s East-mark,’ said he.

Truva made as if to bow again at this declaration, but when Gimli did not, she straightened abruptly. Thranduil gazed upon them a moment in silence before he spoke at last:

‘My son has detailed the many services you each have rendered in days of late, and your experiences in Pelargir.’ His voice was sonorous and bold, possessing a warmth that contrasted sharply with his stern exterior. Truva knew not whether to keep her distance, or allow herself to feel comforted. ‘It is my honour to welcome such heroes into these Halls.’

‘And were you equally honoured to welcome my father, Glóin, or my uncle, Óin?’ said Gimli, his gruff voice quickly rising in volume. Truva stared at his sudden brashness. The sons of Elrond too shifted in a rare display of discomfort, but the Dwarf forged on: ‘What of my other kin: Balin and Dwalin? What of Fíli and Kíli, and Thorin himself? Thirteen Dwarves you kept under lock and key! And for what reason – to what end?’

‘I see the Dwarves’ propensity to bear grudges remains undimmed by our shared tribulations in days of late,’ remarked Thranduil. His composure did not waver in the slightest. ‘It was those very Dwarves who trespassed upon my lands – bringing with them antagonised enemies – and sought to steal from the tables of my people.’

Gimli’s only response was a dissatisfied grunt.

‘And yet my son counsels me to seek peace with the Dwarves,’ Thranduil continued, ‘for the assaults made upon our respective kingdoms during the War were not insignificant, and he argues it would behove us both to capitalise upon our close proximity. What say you?’

Gimli sputtered quietly. ‘I know not what to say, and indeed cannot say anything – for I am not King under the Mountain, nor have I any right to speak in his stead. It is Thorin III Stonehelm, son of Dáin II Ironfoot, recently ascended to the throne, with whom you must consult.’

‘You travel soon to your home, do you not?’ asked the King.

‘I suppose we intend to.’ Gimli glanced, unsure, towards his companions. They had not discussed how swiftly they might move on from the Elvenking’s Halls; the mere act of arriving after their northward dash had seemed accomplishment enough. But fascinated as Gimli was by Calengroth, even now his posture spoke of a desire to be reunited with his kin. Legolas, on the other hand, appeared content to linger at least a short while in his home – though in truth he was unreadable as ever. Of no help whatsoever was Truva, who was torn as ever between the desire to fulfil her duty and the fear of what she might discover in doing so.

None of them offered any further clarification as the Elvenking continued. ‘Then convey this to Thorin Stonehelm: that Thranduil of Eryngard is willing to make amends for any wrongdoing enacted unto Durin's Folk beneath the Lonely Mountain, and in the future extends his hand in allyship to those people.’

This brought Gimli up short – for he had not expected capitulation on the Elvenking’s part. He stood scrutinising Thranduil a moment, as if determining the veracity of this overture.

‘I see now that Legolas is very much his father’s son,’ he said at last, ‘for he is likewise just and magnanimous; and though our friendship suffered at its outset for the past misdeeds of our people, we overcame all such hindrances in good time. If this be the future between Dwarves and Elves, I will encourage my kin to consider your offer with generosity of mind.’

‘I can hope for little more,’ said Thranduil, and perhaps the ghost of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips before he turned to Truva. ‘And what venture is it that tasks one so strange to these lands, seeking an audience with the Elvenking?’

Truva willed herself not to quaver beneath the Elf’s piercing scrutiny; his was not the kindly gaze with which Théoden King had enshrouded her when first she came to the Mark, or even the gracious placidity of Lady Galadriel’s eyes. Truva could scarcely summon the simplest of words in response:

‘I wish to learn of my parentage,’ she mumbled.

‘I see,’ said Thranduil, ‘although my relevance in this matter escapes me.’

‘It is believed her origins might be of the East,’ said Legolas, noting Truva’s discomfort and stepping in.

The King’s gaze grew more intent at these words. ‘Has Mithrandir any hand in this?’

‘It is due almost entirely to the Wizard’s urging that we come before you at all,’ said Gimli.

Thranduil considered this a moment further before sweeping suddenly off across a bridge, making for an entrance different from that by which Truva and Gimli had come. ‘I believe this discussion calls for more comfortable surroundings,’ he called over his shoulder as the others hastened after him, ‘and the remainder of your breakfast.’

Through more winding, disorienting corridors he led the party until they arrived at another archway which opened onto a second chamber. Not nearly as expansive as the main hall, it was all the more grand for its smaller size. As with Legolas’ rooms, a garden rose up in the very centre – an elegant tangle of blossoms and leaves, the tips of several living trees nearly brushing the ceiling. Gossamer curtains floated upon a nonexistent breeze between stone archways, and a quiet waterfall tumbled from above to course a path across the polished obsidian floor and disappear belowground.

Thranduil motioned for all to take seats upon sofas and divans, which were swaddled in embroidered silks and arranged in a loose circle. Truva perched stiffly on the edge of one chair, unable to relax now that the subject of her distress had been broached. But the Elvenking did not seem as hasty to address her, and first bade more dishes be brought before them. It was not until a low table had been burdened with food and wine that he fixed Truva with his unnerving eyes.

‘Let us begin with your parentage,’ he said. ‘My son has referenced it obliquely, but I would have you tell me all that you know.’

Blunt would be best, Truva reasoned; in truth, she could manage no lengthy explanations. ‘I was sold at a young age – so young that it precedes my memory – to a slave owner in the Hidlands,’ she said. ‘Beyond that, all is speculation.’

Thranduil’s scrutiny did not relent, and indeed increased a great deal at these words. ‘I have come to understand the Hidden Lands exist somewhere amongst the northern reaches of Hithaeglir, and yet you come inquiring about the East,’ said he. ‘I assume your curiosity is, in some way, related to the route which exists between the Iron Hills and Hidlands, as you call that realm.’

‘Might you have any information to alleviate that curiosity?’ asked Truva, examining the Elvenking’s impassive features. ‘The Beornings asserted that Iron Hill Dwarves passed with some frequency along the Old Forest Road, yet could offer no further details; nor had they ever noted any Easterling within their territory.’

Thranduil fell silent for quite some time. His eyes rested upon the waterfall, observing as it cast up clouds of mist to mingle amongst the golden motes in the air. ‘Only once,’ he said at long last, ‘several tens of years ago, have I encountered an Easterling beneath the leafy shadows of Eryn Lasgalen – a woman, most distraught.’

‘But the skin-changer claimed it was primarily children taken by the— by the Dwarves,’ interjected Gimli.

‘And so I believe to be true,’ conceded Thranduil. ‘I did not think this woman a captive; and though she spoke a language unknown to any within these borders, the distress upon her face spoke with sufficient fluency.’

‘Do you suppose—?’ began Legolas, but stopped abruptly with a glance at Truva. Her eyes were trained upon where the stream vanished into its swallet; they did not need to exchange looks in order to know what thought was upon each other’s minds.

‘All we have are suppositions; there is no certainty in such matters,’ said the King.

‘What became of this woman?’ asked Elrohir, for even the Elves of Imladris were intrigued by the wanderings of an Easterling in Mirkwood.

‘We offered her food and shelter, and though she would not eat, she went to her rest readily enough. Grief brings with it exhaustion beyond compare.’ Thranduil sighed and hesitated a moment further before continuing. ‘She must have slipped through the gates of Calengroth in the deepest hours of the night, for come morning she was discovered just below the surface of Gûlduin.’

There was a sharp intake of breath from his audience; such a fate was shocking to all present.

‘It might be of no relevance,’ offered Gimli. ‘A woman of no relation.’

‘It is a mere circumstantial occurrence,’ Legolas added.

Truva suddenly wished to divert attention from the issue at hand, wished to evade their pitying eyes. ‘Yet my origin is not the true intention of Gandalf’s task,’ said she. ‘It was merely a pretext by which he might send me in search of the Blue Wizards.’

‘The Ithryn Luin,’ Thranduil mused. ‘Yes, it is believed that for a time Curunír drifted out of the East and lingered for a time north of our borders, in the Ered Mithrin or Withered Heath; yet he came alone. As for the Blue Wizards, Mithrandir was wise in his presumption that they are most likely to be found still in the East – if they are to be found at all.’

‘Can you offer us no greater certainties?’ asked Gimli. ‘Ever since we set out upon this journey, we have heard nothing save “perhaps” and “maybe”, yet not once have we been provided anything more definite.’

‘Even the sight of an Elven King is limited,’ said Thranduil archly. ‘That knowledge which Mithrandir does not possess is frequently obscure to me, also. I too wish that I could aid you further on your journey, but I am afraid I have told you all I can.’

‘You have shared a great deal previously unknown to us,’ said Truva, rising quite suddenly. ‘And it is with a grateful heart I thank you for your counsel. Now I must beg permission to excuse myself, for I am most thoroughly exhausted; I did not sleep well last night – though it is not due to any lack in your hospitality.’

‘I am terribly sorry if I have caused you any distress,’ said the King, rising with her.

‘No, no,’ Truva reassured him. ‘Indeed, I would have been far more distressed had you kept secret this information.’

She bowed deeply and exited the Elvenking’s chambers without a further word. Having been so entirely turned about, both spatially and emotionally, Truva was prepared to wander blindly in search of her accommodations. But she had not made it so far as the end of the corridor before Legolas was at her side, turning her about and ushering her in the opposite direction, Gimli following close behind.

The trio made their way in grim silence through the dark passageways. No notice of Calengroth’s geological wonders was made now, and as soon as they reentered the atrium, Truva darted about, gathering her belongings.

‘Surely you do not intend to leave this very moment!’ Gimli exclaimed as she haphazardly shoved a spare tunic into her rucksack. ‘Eager as I am to find myself back beneath the shadow of Erebor, even I do not feel the need so pressing!’

‘No,’ said Truva. ‘I will leave on the morrow.’

She then paused, bow quiver in hand, and turned unseeing eyes upon her companions. ‘But if you wish to stay, I would not fault you. For Legolas, you have returned home at last, and come amongst those from whom you have long been parted. And as his fast friend, Gimli, any reluctance on your part to leave is understandable, as is your desire to explore these magnificent caves. I will forge onward – alone, if necessary.’

Silence settled momentarily amongst the small company. Legolas crouched to offer her a coil of rope. ‘It is not necessary,’ he murmured. ‘You will not go alone.’ Gimli nodded in agreement.

With a soft ‘oh’, Truva fell back against the dais, legs splayed out before her, mouth open ever so slightly. Confusion clouded her mind; she knew not what to think, nor what to say save, ‘Thank you.’

Gimli merely gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before turning to prepare his own pack.

They worked in silence – though the task was soon done, for their possessions were few, and thus the trio set out for the kitchens in search of provisions. Legolas led them along yet another dizzying route of pathways until they emerged into a long, bleak hall. Along the far wall ran a bank of fires, their single, wide chimney rising up into the shadows of the lofty ceiling. A small contingent of Wood-elves stood circled about two long tables, though they swiftly disappeared, as had many of the other Calengroth residents Truva and her companions passed in the Halls.

Glad to have the kitchens to themselves, Legolas and Gimli set upon the larders at once, gathering all manner of dried fruits and meats, nuts and bread. They even came upon a store of lembas, piling the leaf-bound waybread upon one of the tables. But the stores were far too narrow for three to work, and so Truva wandered about the kitchen, inspecting peculiar forms of cutlery the purpose of which she did not know.

‘That is sure to be overly sufficient,’ said Legolas after a time, eyeing with satisfaction the victuals he and Gimli had accumulated. ‘If it is indeed the Lonely Mountain we make for, our journey shan’t be long, as it is.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Gimli, though his sceptical tone suggested he was not as convinced.

The two gathered the provisions and made for the door, but even as Truva struggled to transfer a small handful of lembas into her heavily-laden arms, several slipped and fell to the floor. She raced to collect them, fearful that she would lose the way if left behind; already her companions’ conversation faded along the hallway.

She had just plucked the last wafer from a cold oven hearth when a voice spoke behind her.

‘I believe you have forgotten something.’

Truva glanced up from where she knelt on the floor, only to spy the Elvenking standing, tall and regal, by a second entryway. He held what appeared to be a bundle of lembas – for though its contents were slightly smaller, they were wrapped similarly. Truva stood upright and unloaded her handful of Elven waybread onto the table.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘The Beornings’ honey-cakes,’ said Thranduil, extending the bundle to her. ‘There were too few to divide amongst the others, and I typically find myself disinclined to share as it is – yet perhaps they might benefit you more than myself.’

Truva did not reach out to take the bundle, and so Thranduil extricated one cake and peeled back the leaves to reveal a small amber wafer: twice-baked yet still moist with honey. Taking her hand in his, he pressed the cake into her palm.

‘They have been known to keep up to a year, yet are best eaten fresh,’ he said, motioning for her to eat.

Truva raised the cake hesitantly to her mouth and took the smallest of bites – though she swiftly took a second, larger one, so enraptured was she. This was not the dry, flavourless cakes of the Riddermark; its taste was somehow both light and rich, each variant of flower pollen discernible, the very life cycle of the bees themselves whispering their story upon her tongue. She understood now why the Elves had a fondness for such an ephemeral delicacy.

Thranduil observed her closely as she ate, his shrewd eyes glittering in the low light of the kitchen fires. When she finished the first cake, he handed her a second. Only once her mouth was too full to respond did he speak again.

‘I have come to caution you,’ said he, ‘and you alone; for there are others of your party who might not take so kindly to the words of warning I have to give.’

Truva would have protested – for she knew he spoke of Gimli, and that his assessment of the Dwarf’s trustworthiness was misguided; but the honey-cake was terribly sticky, and she could not open her mouth without appearing impolite. The Elven Lord took her silence as an indication to continue.

‘If you go indeed to the Lonely Mountain, I counsel you not to bring the matter of your birth before King Thorin. He is ruled most acutely by pride, even by Dwarven accounts, and to accuse his kin of such ignoble behaviour as thieving children would not endear you to him. It is dangerous – not only to yourself, but also to the tenuous truce between that land and mine own, and that of the Beornings; particularly if Thorin were to learn by which means you had come upon your information. This issue could threaten the fragile stability of the entire northern region.’

‘And what of the children?’ asked Truva, having finally succeeded in swallowing. ‘What of those families sundered by the actions of the Iron Hill Dwarves?’

‘There are other ways to effect change that do not involve direct confrontation,’ said Thranduil, drifting towards the main door of the kitchens and beckoning for her to follow. ‘Methods that, for their subtlety, are far more likely to be met with success. If you are to serve as Marshal, you would do well to master these nuances of diplomacy.’

Truva’s cheeks burned at the Elvenking’s insinuation – perhaps all the more so because she knew it was not unfounded. Yet she could not help but wonder whether Lord Thranduil himself was not already working to his own advantage; the Wood-elves would benefit most greatly from an easing of tensions amongst northern kingdoms, and it seemed their king placed greater precedent upon that over the wellbeing of lost children.

It was such thoughts that engrossed Truva as her host strode back through the maze-like corridors of Calengroth to Legolas’ chambers, and plagued her even as she lay abed that evening. She stared up at the green-glow speckled across the ceiling of her bedchamber, clutching the Star of the Dúnedain in her hand. Now more than ever she longed most desperately for Aragorn’s soothing presence, for his calm voice and level-headed counsel. It was he who allowed her to see all ends, even when the ultimate decision fell to her.

As she drifted off to sleep, Truva was visited by the obscure form of a woman drowned in the river Gûlduin.

Chapter Text

Still awash in uncertainty, Truva stood beside Legolas and Gimli in the main hall of Calengroth the following morning, relaying the company’s parting words to King Thranduil. His expression was pleasant yet perfectly inscrutable, as though the conversation he and Tuva had shared in the kitchens the previous evening was a mere figment of imagination; he revealed not a hint of his motivations.

‘It is grievous to see you depart so soon,’ said he, ‘and yet well I understand your desire to gain the splendour of Erebor so urgently – particularly you, Gimli son of Glóin.’

‘I will relay to King Thorin and Durin’s Folk the offer you have made, my lord, and anticipate working to build a more robust connexion between our peoples,’ said Gimli. ‘Though I do not believe it shall be an easy task, I suspect my brethren will see the benefit of such alliances… after a time.’

‘We are, after all, remarkably close neighbours,’ said Thranduil, turning then to Truva. ‘As for you, Marshal of the East-mark, I hope that you soon uncover the mysteries that have been delivered into your consideration.’

‘I cannot possibly surmise what the future is to hold,’ said Truva, seeking to take his advice from the previous evening and play at diplomacy. ‘Yet while my own personal history remains undiscovered, I should like to take a moment to speak in my capacity as Marshal – and as such, I do not think it amiss to extend an offer of camaraderie from my people to yours, my lord; though we have long been separated by distance and culture, I hope that the Elves of the Wood of Greenleaves might one day deign to consider the Eorlingas allies.’

‘The horsemasters’ defence of the Mark has long shielded these northern realms, and it would be remiss of me to disregard the significance of your southern campaigns,’ Thranduil replied. ‘Truly, I should like to forge a path of harmonious coexistence with Rohan, and I believe your own insight shall prove indispensable in that regard.’

‘As Gimli cannot speak for his people, nor can I speak in full for mine,’ said Truva. ‘Yet I do believe Éomer King would be amenable to such cordial relations. I part these Halls with hope, my lord – something that has been in terribly short supply of late.’

‘May you find it in even more abundance than you expect,’ said Thranduil, with a placid smile upon his face. ‘And so farewell, fair travellers; ever shall you be welcome here, so long as peace be upon us.’

Even Legolas bowed in unison alongside Truva and Gimli as the three companions took their leave of the Elvenking’s Hall.

‘There are not so many gathered to bid me goodbye as I anticipated,’ said the Elf as they passed through empty passageways; indeed, not even the sons of Elrond had been spied that morning. ‘Though in truth, it gives me some small sense of comfort. In recent years, a great many Wood-elves sought sanctuary in these caverns; their absence suggests they have returned to the forests beyond. It seems a new era of peace has arrived.’

Neither Gimli nor Truva spoke in response, however, for their own experiences within Calengroth left them with thoughts even more convoluted than when they first arrived.

Exiting the main gates, the trio stepped out onto the rocky precipice of the riverbank. Truva cast her glance upstream to where the Gûlduin crashed into Táwarnen. Even in the grey haze of overcast morning light, the Enchanted River appeared as glimmering nothingness – a void that called to her all the more strongly for knowing its power, and its past.

‘We must be going,’ said Legolas, laying a strong hand upon Truva’s shoulder and guiding her away.

The three ducked their heads and began to trudge silently eastward along the riverbank, falling easily back into the rhythm the past weeks’ travel had instilled in them. But the morning was not half gone before a small stream sprouted up on their left, trickling merrily along until it fed into a small bay ahead. Down below the bank’s overhanging scarp, a cohort of fiery-haired Wood-elves – though the sons of Elrond stood also in their midst – worked to lash a handful of barrels of varying sizes and makes into an improvised raft. Elladan hailed the small company, and beckoned for them to cross the stream’s delicate bridge and descend a ladder to join the Elves on the shallow, pebbly shore.

‘King Thranduil has requested we escort you as these barrels are returned to Esgaroth,’ he called as the company drew near. ‘If you aid in rowing, we shall find ourselves upon the western shores of Aelinand before sunset.’

‘From boat to horse, only to return to boat,’ protested Gimli. ‘I am not one to bemoan an adventure, yet I would say the modes of transportation on this current exploit leave a great deal to be desired.’

‘Come now, my friend,’ said Legolas as he leapt aboard the raft. ‘Would you delay the reunion with your kin? It shall be far swifter to travel upon the Táwarnen than on foot, hastening our arrival to Erebor – as well as the food and drink that awaits there.’

‘Methinks you know too well what entices Dwarves: the prospect of victuals, and finding themselves upon land once more,’ said Gimli. In attempting to follow Legolas onto the raft, however, the barrels wavered beneath him and he was nearly sent sprawling. He caught his balance only just in time.

Truva eyed the Dwarf’s struggles with trepidation. Despite recent improvements in her seafaring skills, rafts were a wholly new affair to her. They seemed a good deal less than stable. But with their Beorning mounts long gone, she saw no other alternative, and so hesitantly boarded the raft after her companions.

The Elves cast off at once. ‘Bend your knees, Marshal!’ called Elrohir, passing Truva a pole as the raft fed into the main current and tumbled down the Forest River. ‘Allow your movements to mimic that of the barrels beneath you.’

Truva reached out to accept the proffered oar. It was much like those the Beornings used to guide their skiffs, though perhaps slightly shorter, and it sported a paddle at one end. Struggling to abide by Elrohir’s advice, Truva shuffled towards the raft’s left side and mimicked the Elves’ rowing movements, but nearly sent herself cartwheeling into the river instead.

‘Steady,’ said one broad-shouldered Wood-elf, who prevented her from falling overboard with a bracing arm. ‘It is not so easy as some might think!’

‘Thank you,’ said Truva. Though she made no further comment, the Elf must have noted the unspoken curiosity in her eyes.

‘I am called Nellon,’ said he, ‘an apprentice vintner for King Thranduil – one of few with any command of the Common Speech; thus I often find myself assigned the typically unpleasant duty of returning barrels back downstream – though I think it immensely more pleasurable to have company along.’

‘Is that so?’ Truva prompted.

It swiftly became apparent as to why Nellon knew tongues other than his native Sindarin, for he proved to be the most garrulous Elf Truva had ever encountered. He continued to chatter on about the Elvenking’s wine stores – and indeed, about all of Calengroth and the Wood of Greenleaves – as the company forged down the Forest River. He did not seem to mind the task of filling Truva’s portion of the conversation, allowing her instead to focus on paddling. More than twice he rescued her from a certain tumble.

Over time, however, Truva grew more comfortable with the precarious footing, and even began to feel as though she were contributing (rather than detracting) from the raft’s progress. She threw her head back and took in the sight of towering oaks weaving their branches together overhead, casting the river into even darker shade under overcast skies. On occasion, she caught glimpses of Eryn Lasgalen residents, or their secretive flets high in the topmost branches of the trees, and when the company moored briefly for their noontide meal, the beautiful strains of a lyre graced them from above. Elrohir extricated his own instrument to play accompaniment.

As the afternoon progressed, however, these encounters grew fewer. Early evening drew near, and the sound of Táwarnen crescendoed – imperceptible at first, but ever increasing until it roared in Truva’s ears. Ahead, the waters roiled and churned, crashing between jagged boulders as the river funnelled between narrowing banks. Rocky cliffs on each side rose up higher and higher, their overhang nearly forming a tunnel.

‘I have seen more auspicious portents at a Dwarvish wake!’ shouted Gimli over the thundering current, but the others were too preoccupied to hear.

Truva stared ahead, consumed by the sight; these were not the mild rapids she had encountered at the confluence of Anduin and Gladden River, or even at Sarn Gaber – which the trio had bypassed on foot. She frantically cast about for anything to seize hold of, but there was nothing.

‘Lay flat upon the raft!’ called Nellon. Truva dropped to her stomach at once, followed quickly by Gimli.

All too soon, they were in the midst of the storm. The Elves wielded their poles as readily as if they floated along any other calm stretch of river, shunting the raft away from boulder and bank with ease. But not even their self-assurance could mitigate Truva’s fears. Barrels shuddered beneath her, and the ropes lashing them together strained, threatening to snap or splinter. Her trembling fingers scrabbled for purchase, but found nothing save the barrel chimes, which she clung to as the moments of terror stretched on endlessly.

‘We are near the end!’ cried Elrohir, yet even as his words reached Truva’s ears, the raft gave a tremendous buck and sent her flying high into the air.

She was swallowed instantly, swept head over foot by the rapids. The impact knocked the breath from her, but she could not orient herself towards the surface, could not discern up from down. Panic ensnared her mind and a tightness seized her chest, lungs desperate for air. Truva flailed against the whirling current; not even Éomer’s dogged training had prepared her for such a struggle.

By sheer luck, she gained the surface, though it offered little respite. Water continued to crash over her until she was sucked back down into the depths of the river. Searing pain shot through her right shoulder and neck; she had struck a rock.

Then her head was above water again. For a split second, she caught sight of the raft, as well as a glimpse of the Dwarf leaping from it. A cry of ‘Gimli, no!’ could be heard over the crash of water before the current submerged her once more, and again the world grew disorienting.

Yet in the next instant, a force dragged at the back of Truva’s surcoat, then another – and she suddenly found herself face-down on the raft. She was able to breathe again, though at first her body expelled more water than it inhaled air, and she lay coughing and sputtering on the wooden barrels. Her throat and lungs burned, yet she managed to gasp out, ‘Gimli?’

‘Right here, lassie,’ said the Dwarf. Truva flopped onto her back and spied him crouched beside her, drenched but in a considerably fairer state than herself.

‘It was reckless for an inexperienced swimmer to enter such treacherous waters,’ lectured Elladan, giving Gimli’s back a few solid slaps.

‘The result was the need to save two, rather than one,’ said Legolas. He would not even look upon his friend, and instead gazed off sullenly into the forest’s darkening gloam. His garb, too, was soaked.

‘I could not stand about and do nothing,’ grumbled the Dwarf.

Truva simply closed her eyes and lay still, for every last modicum of strength had been torn from her body. The others bustled about her, speaking reassuring words of the nearing of their destination, for the Forest River’s waters had smoothed, and their progress was easy once more. When the weighted warmth of a blanket was laid over her, Nellon’s voice declared: ‘What is this, Marshal? Are you hurt?’

Truva’s eyes snapped open to find the heads of her companions all clustered about her. Legolas bent nearer.

‘May I?’ he asked, helping her to sit up. His cold fingers drew aside the back of her tunic and inspected her shoulder where it had collided with rock. ‘Minor bruising and lacerations, no more,’ he concluded, ‘though the morning will not be kind to you.’

As he pulled a salve from his pack and applied it to her skin, Truva gazed listlessly upon the banks of Táwarnen. The rocky scarps petered out and the trees thinned, giving way to swampy marshland. Amidst oak and alder, the shadows of true evening descended, bringing on the melodies of song thrushes to mingle with those of lapwings, whose music filled in for where the Elves played no longer.

All at once, the river opened before them upon a slight bay, the rocky northern bank of which jutted out as a crescent-shaped promontory into the vast lake beyond. Tremendous ash trees grew not only on land but in the water itself, their grey-barked trunks protruding from the shallows, bases swollen like bulbous gourds. Silver minnows and bream darted in the calm aquatic forest below, illuminated by a warm wash of lamplight.

Upon the lakeshore were clustered huts of golden reed, the long stems dried and woven into elegant patterns: braids and knots adorned wall, door, and roof alike. In the trees above, flets like those the travellers had encountered in Dwimordene were nestled in the highest branches. Every bole rooted in water boasted a circular dock.

Nellon directed the company towards the ash growing furthest into the lake, yet he did not moor the raft; instead, the Elves leapt one by one onto the dock. With a tense scramble, Gimli did likewise. Yet it was apparent such a feat was beyond Truva – for though she had greatly recovered already, still her legs trembled beneath her. With one deft movement, Legolas swept her into his arms and spanned the distance, setting her down again upon the solid planks.

When all save one Raft-elf had safely disembarked, the vessel was cast off once again. It drifted northward across the expanse of water with its singular guide.

‘The barrels shall be taken to Esgaroth upon Aelinand,’ said Nellon, pointing off into the distance, across gentle waves painted with the rich colours of sunset. Even in her lassitude, Truva felt compelled to blink and rub her eyes, for surely she was mistaken—! On the very surface of the lake itself, a veritable hamlet of wooden houses floated, connected to shore a short distance north of the Forest River by a long bridge.

‘It is with great relief I see Lake-town still stands,’ remarked Legolas. ‘My father spoke of widespread devastation within the Kingdom of Dale – yet here it looks as though no war has fallen upon these lands at all.’

‘The inhabitants of Esgaroth were forced to flee under a formidable onslaught of Easterling forces,’ Nellon explained, ‘and in coming to the city of Dale in the north, were again attacked. After the fall of both King Brand and King Dáin II Ironfoot, Men and Dwarves alike took shelter within Erebor.’

He cast his gaze across the lake to where the Lonely Mountain stood, its snow-capped peak just barely visible, painted amber by the last rays of sun: a solitary sentinel guarding the northern reaches of Aelinand. ‘The Easterlings threw all their might against that impenetrable fortress, but no sooner had the news of Sauron’s defeat come than they fled, failing to inflict any great destruction in their wake.

‘Even so, the Aelrim have exerted immense effort to restore what damage was done, to recreate their home yet a second time. Dale did not fare so fortunately, however; you shall see how terribly that city was ravaged when you journey to Thorin’s halls.’

Nellon ascended a ladder then, and while the others swiftly followed, Legolas lingered as Truva stared up at the swaying rungs of rope.

‘You cannot climb,’ he stated, turning round and motioning for Truva to climb upon his back. In better circumstances, she might have laughed at the absurdity of such an offer. Now, she merely clung to the Elf as he sprung up to the upper platform, favouring her injured arm.

Once the entire company stood amidst the treetops, they wove through a network of flets, connected by bridges of intertwined rope and tree branches. On occasion, they encountered small gatherings, and both Elven parties would exchange brief greetings in their own language before the travellers moved on.

They came at last to a flet on the shore’s very edge – a flet so large its platform encircled the boles of several trees, and easily fit the entire company. Lanterns cast their soft glow amongst the foliage, dispelling the darkness that had settled in full. In the distance, the lights of Lake-town glimmered faintly. Here their hosts bade the travellers sit and rest, though there was no communal table to take their place before, nor any chairs to sit upon, for the tree boughs protruding through the flet were too many to allow sufficient space for such formalities. Instead, soft cushions were scattered about and rugs spread underfoot; a light meal arranged upon low tables awaited.

The soft voices of Elves singing in nearby abodes accompanied the travellers’ repast, and Elrohir in turn graced them with ancient songs of the sea and wood, though Truva would not have understood their meaning had Elladan not whispered their translations to her. This music differed from that of Dwimordene, as it was not nearly so solemn, and was lighter in spirit than even that of Rivendell; yet it soothed Truva’s wearied mind all the same, and lulled her towards slumber.

She awoke the next day feeling mildly refreshed, though her ribs were splotched blue and purple, and ached fiercely. Gimli was already about, his mood much brighter than oft it had been along their journey – enthusiasm easily attributed to anticipation of returning home, in spite of his trepidation at the outset of their journey.

‘Many moons has it been since last I saw my sire, or tasted Dwalin’s marvellous salted pork,’ he exclaimed, sitting down to the elegant breakfast of the Elves. ‘And I shall greatly enjoy speaking of developments at the Glittering Caves to those who voiced doubt when last I visited; perhaps a few might even reconsider my offer to join our new settlement.’

‘May you often pass thus through Elven lands, travelling from Aglarond to Erebor and back, Master Gimli,’ said Elrohir as he handed fresh bread and preserves to Truva. ‘We shall miss your presence amongst us.’

‘You will not come?’ Truva asked, rather sorry to lose the company of Elrond’s sons.

‘I do not believe King Thorin would take too kindly to one Elf descending upon his citadel, let alone three,’ said Elladan. ‘We shall return to Calengroth, and thence to a land yet undetermined.’

‘May we meet again ere too long,’ said Gimli.

‘To hasten your reunion,’ said Nellon to the three travellers, ‘the Raft-elves shall lend you a craft by which you might advance up the waters of Celduin to Erebor itself – and for use in any subsequent ventures, should they arise.’ This last comment was spoken with a pointed glance towards Truva.

‘Having come into these lands a stranger, I could not have hoped for such liberal generosity, even whilst in the company of one so august as Legolas Prince,’ she replied.

‘Perhaps they offer this vessel, not knowing we were the cause of another’s destruction,’ Gimli quipped as an aside to her. Truva smothered a grin as she feigned not to hear, saying to Nellon, ‘I would consider it good fortune were I to have cause to return amongst the Halls of Thranduil King and the Elves of the Woodland Realm.’

‘Eryngard shall ever be welcoming to those who come with peace in their hearts,’ said Nellon.

Even as he spoke, a Raft-elf paddled a deep-hulled canoe towards the company and drew abreast of the circular dock below. This vessel was hewn from the trunk of a single ash tree and bore the design of both Elf and Dwarf. Graceful knots were etched from bow to stern, yet in looking closer, these revealed themselves to be Khuzdûl runes interwoven into woodland scenes. The prow was carved to resemble the Lonely Mountain peak itself.

To both Truva and Gimli’s immense relief, it proved far less unwieldy than the wine barrel raft, and even the boat of Lorien. After a chorus of ‘fare thee wells’ and wishes of good fortune, the three travellers parted company with the Woodland Elves and sons of Elrond, and were soon circling about the northern shore’s promontory. But within the calm, protected waters beyond, Gimli briefly pulled up his paddle.

‘Look down, Marshal,’ he said, pointing towards the lake’s shimmering surface.

Truva peered into the beryl-hued waters, only to spy the dark, rotted piles of an old city. Amidst gold and glittering gems scattered across the lakebed – though the nature of these was obscured by the water’s colourless depths – lay sprawled the ivory skeleton of an immense beast. Its long tail and spindly fingers stretched nearly the entire length of the now-vanished city.

‘Smaug the Terrible,’ Gimli half-whispered, eliciting a shiver from Truva; the tale of Erebor, Esgaroth, and the dragon’s assault had been one the Dwarf had shared along their journey. She was glad when they forged on quickly, and soon came to the Lake-town bridge. There, a newly-constructed guard box stood occupied by two armoured soldiers. A shout rang out as soon as the travellers were within hailing distance.

‘Halt!’ came one guard’s cry as he stepped forth from the box. ‘Who goes there, and what is your business with Esgaroth upon the Long Lake?’

‘I am Gimli son of Glóin, of the House of Durin!’ called the Dwarf in response. ‘I travel with my companions, Legolas of the Woodland Realm and Marshal Truva of Rohan. We pass on our way to the Lonely Mountain, to greet my kin and seek an audience with King Thorin III Stonehelm.’

‘Master Gimli!’ said the guard. ‘Many hearts will rejoice to know you have come again into the Kingdom of Dale so soon. Will you not stay a while, and greet the Master of Lake-town? The children did love your stories of distant lands, when you graced our humble tables last…’

Gimli reserved his answer momentarily, for the travellers’ canoe passed beneath the wooden slats of the bridge then, forcing them to duck low and draw their oars in away from the heavy piles. A cart clattered deafeningly overhead.

‘Nay, I have pressing business in Erebor,’ said Gimli, when they emerged on the other side. ‘But I am certain to make berth at your docks ere too long – and at that time I shall gladly join in whatever revelries you concoct.’

‘Pass then swiftly, to hasten your return!’

Beyond Lake-town, the travellers’ progress proved more expeditious than the southern legs of their journey had been, for the calm waters of Long Lake were far easier to navigate. Even as morning wore into afternoon, the northern shore came slowly into view, and their canoe became one more in a parade of vessels streaming up and down the outlet of Running River, bearing goods southward towards Esgaroth or the lake’s eastern reaches, or northward towards the looming crags of the Lonely Mountain.

Then, as day shifted to evening, the lights of villages began to twinkle all along the water’s edge. By nightfall, the trio had made camp on the outskirts of a town settled about the mouth of the River, though they did not enter the cluster of buildings for fear of creating a fuss; Dwarves were common enough in these parts, and Truva would not draw so much as a second glance, but Legolas was sure to engender curiosity. And so they built a surreptitious fire and tucked into pasties provided by Nellon that morning, and enjoyed the display of boat lights drifting by.

‘I suppose we shan’t evade making a stop at Dale on the morrow,’ Gimli remarked when they had settled in, their cloaks more than sufficient to keep the mild spring night chill at bay. ‘Where once the Celduin merely circled about the city, the Bardings have spent several generations expanding upon the opposite bank; there is no longer any passing undetected.’

‘I do not think the new King of Dale would take too kindly to a snubbing on our part, as it is,’ Legolas agreed.

‘Do you think it will delay us greatly?’ asked Truva.

‘I cannot rightly guess,’ said Gimli. ‘I have spoken with Bard son of Brand but once, though I deemed him to be a just and reasonable figure, well worthy of his ancestors. Perhaps he shall spare us all ceremony, and send us quickly on our way.’

But Gimli’s prediction did not seem as though it would prove accurate. The travellers set out in the earliest hours of the following morn, hoping to pass by Dale whilst the King was still abed, yet no sooner had they gained the city’s battlements – still badly damaged by the ravages of war – than a deafening fanfare sounded. This trumpeting continued even as they passed beneath the tremendous portcullis, crowded with guards, and came upon the main docks just beyond. There, a grand company of councillors and advisors was assembled about King Bard, for he (like many such leaders) had grown accustomed to rising especially early of late. He stood tall and proud, garbed in fine raiment of light blues and greens, with his black locks beneath a silver crown flying in the breeze off Long Lake.

‘A messenger from the settlement downriver brought news of your coming,’ the King called as the travellers’ canoe drew abreast of the docks. His voice boomed with a richness and great confidence for one so young, and he proffered a wide smile. ‘It seems your attempts at evading notice were unsuccessful, and for that I am most sorry.’

‘I hope you shall not take it as any reflection of our regard for you, milord,’ said Gimli. ‘We are weary from our long journey, and longed only to reach our destination all the sooner – nothing more.’

‘Nay, Master Gimli, I would never dare accuse you of any lapse in manners. Glad I am to see you returned, and I welcome your companions to the Kingdom of Dale – woeful though the state of our capital is at this time – with equal joy.’

‘As for those of Calengroth, we were deeply grieved to hear the loss of your father, King Brand Bain’s son,’ said Legolas, stepping first onto the dock. ‘My father Lord Thranduil extends his profound sympathies. May such misfortunes never shadow your reign, or the reigns of your sons.’

‘Well met, Prince Legolas,’ said Bard. ‘Had I known earlier than yesterday eve that so estimable a presence was soon to grace my docks, I would have urged my craftsmen to hasten their repairs.’

‘Many lands in varying states of ruin have I visited in these past months, and come to believe that what once might have been a point of shame is now an indication of valour,’ replied Legolas. ‘Though if any assistance can be lent by my people, we offer it; long has the symbiotic relationship between Eryngard and Arnad-en-nand flourished, and recent circumstances have only served to demonstrate how intertwined the prosperity of one is with the other.’

‘I thank you for your kind offer, and will give it thorough consideration,’ said King Bard, turning then to Truva. ‘Yet what of this third companion? You are neither Elf nor Dwarf, nor a Man from my lands. You wear the livery of Dol Amroth and bear their dark hair; are you of those people? What brings you so far from your home, and in such strange company, soldier?’

‘In truth, my lord, I hail from the lands of the Riddermark,’ Truva clarified, stepping forward and bowing low. She stifled the amusing notion of having travelled so far, only to discover her origins lay at the outset of her journey. ‘I serve Éomer King as Marshal of the East-mark.’

‘A shieldmaiden of the horse-lords!’ cried the King. ‘Do rise, brave warrior, for I have heard tales regarding your peoples’ deeds during the War; indeed, I believe it is I who ought to bow before you!’ And to the great astoundment of all onlookers, he did so.

‘I beg of you, milord, there is no need for such deference,’ Truva pleaded. ‘I am a mere emissary, and come bearing the greeting of Éomer King, which is thus: that he regrets it is only now an overture has been made for the first time, and that – though the threat of Sauron seems fallen from our shoulders – it is never unwise to establish bonds of good will, even in times of peace.’

Perhaps King Bard knew of the southern conflict, perhaps he did not; but it would not do to spook him by laying a new conflict at his feet in the very same motion as extending a hand of friendship. Truva made no mention of Pelargir.

‘It is with immeasurable gratitude the region of Dale accepts King Éomer’s offer of allyship,’ Bard replied, ‘and eagerly return the gesture tenfold. There are a great many things I wish to consult with you regarding, yet you must forgive me; I believe I impinge upon your time. It is not I whom you seek – you make for the Lonely Mountain.’

‘Yes, my reunification with the House of Durin is eagerly anticipated,’ said Gimli, already inching back towards the canoe. Perhaps his perception of the King’s consideration would prove accurate, after all.

‘Then I will keep you no longer,’ said King Bard. ‘Go now to your people, though I hope we may see each other again before too long.’

‘Farewell, Lord of the Long Lake,’ said Legolas as he followed Gimli into the craft. ‘May the reconstruction of your city and the lands beyond be swift and successful.’

Truva was last to clamber into the canoe before Gimli cast off, leaving King Bard and his counsellors to wave their goodbyes upon the docks. Even as the travellers surged forward between old battlements on one side and high-walled stone buildings lining the river upon the other, curious citizens leaned from windows and porches to catch better sight of the strange companions. Some even waved in greeting, pulling colourful scarves from about their head to flutter on the breeze.

‘Hello, Master Dwarf!’ they cried, or exclaimed amongst each other at the sight of an Elf, but especially to see the two together. Little children could be glimpsed along byways and secondary docks, staging mock battles between bow-wielding Elves and Dwarves bearing feeble staves – which were in actuality the nearest stick at hand, being the closest approximation to an axe they could find.

The Bardings paid little attention to the travellers’ unassuming third companion, which suited Truva just fine; she was content to merely observe. Her heart was wearied by the sight of pile upon pile of rubble and debris: the remnants of residences and towers and shops that had fallen victim to the Easterlings’ onslaught. Happy as she was to receive the citizens’ cheery salutations, some small part of Truva’s heart was thankful when they passed through the northern battlements, which lay in utter ruin, and looked towards the looming mass of Erebor.

Chapter Text

The northern outskirts of Dale faded behind Truva and her companions as the spurs of Erebor reared up on each side, ensconcing them in a deep valley. To the west, a trail petered up along the cliffside, leading towards the guard-post upon Ravenhill, where sounded a horn as they forged up the Running River. Beyond Dale, the river’s source came into sight, spilling from a tremendous stone archway hewn into the mountain’s base to its continuation far below.

This was the entrance to Thorin’s halls: sufficient in size for three Gorgoroth trolls walking abreast to pass through without so much as bowing their heads, and fortified with immense gates. The silver sheen of mithril gleamed in the late afternoon sun. Though the gates lay open, they were overseen by a company of two dozen Dwarves, armed and alert. These Guards of the Gate stood just beside the waterfall’s crest, where a wide stair led from the entrance to the docks below, its smooth stone steps wet with mist.

A crew of stowadores milled about the docks, ladening ships with goods to be taken downriver. As the trio guided their canoe towards an open berth, several glanced up from their work and recognized one passenger in particular.

‘Durin’s beard!’ cried one stowadore. ‘It’s Master Gimli, returned!’

‘You don’t say!’ echoed another. ‘I thought he was gone for good!’

‘Come now, young chap, what excuse have you for staying away so long?’ one accused.

The Dwarves fell upon Gimli as he stepped onto the docks, and smothered him with affectionate pats on the back and questions innumerable, until all at once they were brought up short by the gruff cry:

‘Oi, what’s an Elf doin’ here?’

The congregation turned as one to where Legolas stood, his height casting a column of shadow over the central figures, leaving those on the edges to blink in the sun.

‘This is Legolas son of Thranduil, Prince of the Woodland Realm,’ said Gimli. ‘I told you of him when last I came: ever was he at my side during the Long Journey, and countless times has he come betwixt myself and death. I owe him a great debt, and he is deserving of unbounded respect.’

‘The very Prince himself!’ came the response. ‘Whose father saw fit to lock our most revered leaders in his dungeons!’

‘And you bring him to our Halls, with the expectation that he be greeted warmly?’

‘Absolute absurdity!’

‘What’s the fuss, now, boys?’ said a Guard of the Gate, descending the stair. He was a stout Dwarf with sharp features who went by the name of Buri. Making his way across the docks, he shoved through the commotion, only to halt directly before Legolas. ‘And who precisely are you?’

‘That’s Legolas, the Mirkwood prince!’ one stowadore offered.

‘I come at the behest of my father,’ interjected Legolas, ‘with the hope of repairing relations that were once sundered between our people. Will you not deign to grant me entrance, so that I may convey my sympathies for the loss of King Dáin Ironfoot, and hail ascended King Thorin III Stoneshield?’

‘You speak pretty words, Elf,’ said Buri. ‘But of what worth are pretty words when your actions have proven false?’

‘I beg of you, afford him the opportunity to speak his piece,’ Gimli implored. ‘It is not Legolas himself who has ever acted against our people, save in mistaken assumptions now rectified – a fault many of us are equally guilty of.’

Truva looked from one Dwarf to the other, then to Legolas’ seemingly passive expression. As sincerely as she wished to speak in his favour, she had no standing with the Dwarves; it would only serve to detract from Gimli’s arguments. She settled into the background.

‘Never before has an Elf entered the Lonely Mountain,’ Buri said with a frown.

‘A great many “never befores” have been changed in the wake of the War,’ Gimli urged.

Buri mused for a moment further, his frown deepening. Then, quite suddenly, he turned on his heel and forged a path through the onlookers. Gimli stomped after him up the stair, followed in turn by Legolas, Truva wordlessly bringing up the rear.

In their wake, the gathering of Dwarves folded in on itself and broke into frantic whispers. The remaining Guards of the Gate looked on in puzzlement as Buri led the three companions through Erebor’s prodigious gates, though an additional pair fell in behind Truva. Once inside, the company was plunged into impenetrable darkness – or so it seemed, in contrast with the blinding sunlight outside.

Unable to see where she stepped, Truva halted quite abruptly, causing one of the guards behind to bump into her. As he muttered quiet curses, Truva’s eyes slowly began to adjust, revealing the scene about her: an expansive atrium, illuminated by a silvery light to its towering peak. Along Truva’s left flowed the very source of Running River; at her right, the floor dropped clear away to a lower level, unseen but effusing a warm glow. The flagstone aisle underfoot branched off to arc in sturdy bridges over river and gap alike, leading to an array of offshoots and crosspaths. In alcoves between each entrance rose up colossal statues, monuments to Dwarven kings of old.

In each and every corner of the atrium, spectators stood gawping at the new arrivals. But Buri paid them no mind, nor did he pause, prompting Truva to jog to catch up. She felt conspicuous, as though she were on display – for though Legolas drew the majority of the Dwarves’ attention, still her height and features caused some to turn their eyes upon her as well.

As the company made its way from one end of the atrium to the other, she paused once again to peer over the unrailed edge into the lower level. Down below, a hive of market activity buzzed within a patchwork of muted stall roofs, oblivious to the events playing out far above. Truva had always imagined the halls of Dwarves to be dark and sterile, but there was a surprising warmth to the Lonely Mountain that belied its name.

On the atrium’s far side, a tremendous corridor bisected the hall, forming eastern and western wings. Directly ahead, however, three staggered rows of hexagonal columns created a screen between the Mountain’s entrance and the space that lay beyond. Weaving between these pillars, Buri led the company to a second hall – smaller in scale yet no less grand, its flooring an ornate pattern of black and white marble depicting a hammer and anvil crowned with seven stars. From a tiny window high upon the wall, a single ray of light beamed down upon a raised dais, where sat an unoccupied throne.

‘Who goes there?’ boomed a voice, the echoes reverberating so that its source could not be pinpointed. ‘Who disrupts my council?’

‘Buri, my lord,’ said the guard. ‘I come to you only because Master Gimli has returned – and he brings with him a most peculiar guest.’

‘Gimli!’ From behind the dais emerged a Dwarf, whose opulent robes of sable cloth, woven with glittering silver, clearly marked him as none other than the King.

‘My lord,’ cried Gimli, falling immediately to one knee. Truva and Legolas promptly followed, bowing their heads before this magnificent figure. ‘Hail King Thorin III Stonehelm, son of Dáin II Ironfoot of Durin's folk!’

‘An Elf?’ was King Thorin’s hushed response, though his voice swiftly crescendoed: ‘You would bring an Elf into these hallowed halls, when they have brought nothing but grief to our people – demanding treasure undeserved, and imprisoning our forebears unprompted?’

‘I was likewise hasty to scorn Legolas at first, as you well know,’ said Gimli, who did not rise. ‘I thought as you do now: that Elves have been a source of antagonism and suffering to our people for ages upon ages. But I have travelled many thousands of miles, and endured many ordeals since departing these halls for Nâlabizar. I came to understand the differences between Dwarves and Elves are not few – yet when viewed as individuals, those differences are not so significant in the end. I owe my life to Legolas many times over; had we not fought side-by-side as brothers, I would never have returned to you at all.’

The Dwarven King made as if to speak, storm clouds darkening his features, yet Legolas interjected:

‘My Lord Thorin,’ said he, like Gimli still upon a knee. ‘I do not beg forgiveness for the past trespasses of my kin. There are no words or actions that can undo what has already been done. I ask only that you look with open mind upon a future that imagines Dwarves and Elves coexisting peaceably, if not in outright camaraderie. I believe the War affected my father greatly; I come bearing his sincere desire to forge a bond that has not existed in more than an Age between us.’

‘It is all very well and fine for the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm to change his mind upon any wisp of a whim. But it was not he who suffered at our hands, and the other way around, rather,’ growled Thorin King. ‘Does Lord Thranduil think the sheep is so foolhardy as to suddenly trust the fox?’

‘He is not so insensible, no,’ said Legolas. ‘It is merely his desire to make the offering, in the hopes that one day the sheep shall come to see he is not a fox after all, but a sheepdog.’

These words elicited a deep, barking laugh from the King. ‘I find it amusing you would make yourselves out to be guardians of the Dwarves, when for millennia it has been we who protected ourselves – often in spite of the Elves!’

‘Not so long ago, our peoples fought together against a host of Orcs and Wargs before this very mountain,’ said Legolas. ‘Though my father’s intentions were perhaps not so pure at the time, is it so impossible to imagine he might one day be redeemed?’

‘Will you not hear our tale before determining there is no hope for good in the hearts of the Folk of the Wood?’ implored Gimli.

Thorin looked from one to the other, then heaved a deep sigh. ‘I will listen to your tale,’ he said. ‘But first, do tell me who this companion of yours is.’

For several moments, Truva did not realise he spoke to her, for the pain of her knee upon unforgiving marble occupied a large portion of her mind. It took a sharp nudge from Legolas to return her thoughts to the present conversation.

‘I am Truva, my lord!’ she exclaimed quite suddenly, bowing her head once more. ‘Marshal of the East Riddermark; I too bring greetings from my King, Éomer Théoden’s sister-son – though I believe our history with the Lonely Mountain to be far less complex than that of the Elves, and hope that you might accept our offer of allyship more readily.’

When Thorin laughed this time, it was warmer and far more inviting. ‘The horse-lords!’ he cried. ‘Never would I have imagined playing host to an envoy of such origin, and yet here you are! Gladly do I welcome King Éomer’s overtures; indeed – come here, fair shieldmaiden,’ he said, beckoning Truva forward.

She rose swiftly, but nearly fell upon her face in stepping forward, for her abused knee would not hold. The King stepped forward instead, motioning for her not to exert herself. From his finger he drew a ring forged of purest mithril, embellished with intricate knots and an emerald set in the very centre.

‘It is said this jewel was taken from Nauglamír itself – the Necklace of the Dwarves, worn by Lúthien and adorned with the gems of Valinor,’ said he. Taking her hand in his, Thorin placed the ring into her palm, then folded her fingers over it. ‘Convey this ring to King Éomer as a symbol of my goodwill.’

‘He will be glad to hear your answer, my lord,’ said Truva.

‘That pleases me,’ said the King, and his beard twitched in smile.

To see the twinkle in Thorin’s eyes – not unlike that which had so often been spied in Théoden King’s – Lord Thranduil’s warning nearly slipped Truva’s mind, as did the knowledge that Thorin’s kin was perhaps the source of her childhood misery. Still, it was surely not the Dwarven King himself who had committed such heinous acts, and so Truva indulged in the feeling of warm affinity.

‘Buri!’ cried Thorin then.

The guard stepped forward at once. ‘Yes, my lord?’

‘See to it that this ambassador of the Rohirrim is shown the full glory of the Kingdom under the Mountain. Answer all her questions, and when she tires, provide her with our finest accommodations. In short, demonstrate to her the full hospitality of the Longbeards.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Buri, bowing low and exiting the throne room. With her own bow and a last glance at the tense figures of Gimli and Legolas, Truva followed after the guard, weaving past the wall of columns out into the atrium once again.

‘As if I would give a visitor anything less than the most spectacular tour,’ Buri grumbled to himself. ‘Right, first things first.’

Without so much as consulting Truva, he took an immediate left into the atrium’s eastern wing, where the full length of the corridor was lined with small alcoves. A stream of Dwarves seemingly materialised from these alcoves, or entered into them and – to all appearances – vanished. Truva stared in complete incomprehension as Buri stepped in front of the third alcove and waited for a box to levitate within, containing three Dwarves. They acknowledged Buri with a quick nod of the head before emerging into the corridor and shuffling off towards the atrium.

‘Well?’ Buri asked, turning to Truva expectantly when she did not budge. ‘Whatever’s the matter? Have you never laid eyes on a lift before?’

Truva eyed the immense boxes rising and falling in the nearby alcoves with suspicion. ‘Indeed, I have not.’

‘Don’t be silly, there is nothing to fear,’ said the guard, flapping his hands to herd her into the box. ‘It is operated by counterweights and pulleys, and is quite safe. Such a system allows us to move from one level to the next far more rapidly than via stairs.’

Truva stepped tentatively into the box. Before she could gather her wits, Buri had seized a rope running through a hole in the floor and up into the darkness above, and pulled. As the box’s floor began to descend, Truva braced herself against its walls, feeling entirely unsteady. Down, down they went, down until a second opening revealed a well-lit chamber beyond.

She saw then that the market extended far beyond the small area she had glimpsed from above; for tucked beneath the floors of the upper levels was an expansive mess of tents and stalls. Dwarf-wives and -husbands (Truva certainly could not tell which was which) bustled here and there, in search of anything one might obtain at a market. There were tradesmen, too: leatherworkers and weavers, carpenters and locksmiths, each with their own shop erected amidst the chaos. On occasion, Truva caught sight of particularly tiny Dwarves, who she took to be children in spite of their bushy beards.

‘Wander where you will,’ said Buri, gesturing vaguely. ‘I will follow.’

Needing no further encouragement, Truva stepped towards the row of greengrocer stalls nearest the lifts. A path immediately cleared before her. Half the Ereborian residents went about their business as though nothing were out of the ordinary, purposefully ignoring the towering outsider walking amongst them, while the other half stared openly before turning swiftly to their companions and whispering behind their hands. Truva strove not to allow their standoffish tendencies perturb her as she examined a stunning diversity of mushrooms – though there were greens and grains and fruits as well, in no way dissimilar to the markets of Edoras.

‘Are these crops grown in the Lonely Mountain, or are they imported?’ she asked Buri, leaning in close to inspect a heap of fresh rhubarb.

‘There are fertile lands on the northern slopes of Erebor, and along the banks of Celduin,’ he replied, ‘We did not grow our own provisions in ages past, and discovered through terrible misfortune how foolhardy relying upon outside sources was. Even so, much of our foodstuffs still come from the Kingdom of Dale, in exchange for our metalworks.’

Truva nodded, observing the fingers of a textile worker flit through the colourful threads of a tapestry in the next stall. Even in its incomplete state, the textile’s image of Gimli with axe raised in battle was unmistakable. Similarly, the neighbouring stall – a woodworker – boasted carven figures of the very same Dwarf. Yet even as Truva bent to inspect the craftsmanship, she heard whispers of a pair behind her.

‘I do not understand why they idolise him so,’ murmured one Dwarf to his companion.

‘They say he achieved great feats of valour in the War,’ said the other, their voice equally low. ‘Killed forty-two enemies in a single battle.’

‘Yet how many did he kill in our battle? Not one!’ quipped the first, before their voices faded off. Truva glanced over her shoulder to see who might have spoken, but could see nothing save the typical swirl of the market.

Shaking off the conversation, she moved on to a stall where one Dwarf sat upon a low stool, working a swath of leather with a needle. Belts, shoes, coin purses and all manner of goods lined the display, and Truva gazed in awe at their beauty.

‘Best leatherwork you’ll find this side of the Greenwood, milady,’ said the Dwarf, observing Truva with amusement, light brown eyes gazing out from beneath long lashes.

‘I do not doubt it,’ said Truva, running a gentle finger along the length of a dagger sheath, embossed with bold patterns. Not even in the Riddermark had she seen such fine quality of craftsmanship. She glanced down at the worn sheath hanging from her waist. ‘I have only a little silver from my homeland; will this be acceptable?

The Dwarf rose from his work and took into his hand the coins Truva extended towards him, inspecting each carefully. ‘Silver in the land of the Horse-lords is silver in the Kingdom under the Mountain,’ he said. ‘Though in truth you flatter me in offering so much.’

He returned all the coins save one, and passed the sheath to Truva. She eagerly fastened its belt about her waist and transferred her knife into its soft casing, though she struggled somewhat with Thorin’s ring still clutched in her hand.

‘I can aid with that, too,’ said the Dwarf, selecting from a second shelf a black leather thong, crafted of thin braided strips. Taking the strap reverently in her hands, Truva threaded it through the ring then looped it about her neck, tucking both thong and ring beneath the cloth of her tunic.

‘Thank you kindly, Master Dwarf,’ she said. The leatherworker merely returned a warm smile from behind his beard before returning to his work.

As they drifted toward the next stall, Buri gave a light harrumph. ‘I still do not understand how outsiders cannot distinguish male Dwarves from female,’ he declared. ‘Is the difference not startling?’

‘The leatherworker is a Mistress?’ asked Truva in genuine shock, only to fall under Buri’s withering glance.

‘Incomprehensible,’ he mumbled, shaking his head.

When at last Truva was satisfied with her tour of the market, Buri led her back to the lifts and down to an even lower floor, where the waters of River Running seeped into the earth and created a network of damp caves. Here grew whole forests of mushrooms, to be harvested and sold at market, or used in medicines. They also explored great smelting chambers, and caverns where long lines of sluice boxes were used to process placer ores. But the mines themselves, Buri explained, were far deeper within the mountain, and would take far longer to navigate.

‘If you are yet curious, I will guide you through the mines on the morrow,’ he offered, and Truva readily agreed.

And so, when the gas lanterns of the underground city were dimmed to signal eveningtide, Buri led her back to the lifts once more. This time, however, he took her upwards, passing the exit for the throne room and continuing on until they reached a floor several levels higher. Unlike the expansive atrium network, these corridors were far narrower and entirely deserted, making their progress all the more swift. It was not long before Buri pushed aside a heavy oaken door to reveal a small inner chamber.

‘Truva!’ exclaimed Gimli. Already he and Legolas sat at a long table, enjoying their evening meal. ‘We wondered where you had gotten to.’

‘I see now why you are always eager to return home,’ said Truva as Buri bowed and slipped out surreptitiously, shutting the door behind him. ‘It is truly incredible – the resources your people have built here, the architecture, the culture!’

‘Indeed, I was gone but a few months, and yet it felt as though I had spent a century away,’ said Gimli. ‘But come, dine on the feast that is an ordinary Ereborian meal.’

A tremendous hearth was set into the chamber’s dark walls, between ornate pilasters hewn from the living rock, where a blazing fire sent curls of smoke up the chimney. Truva sat nearest this – for though the chill within the mountain was not nearly so intense as that without, the tendrils of winter still swirled along its halls – and gratefully accepted a portion of the salted pork Gimli had so often rhapsodised about.

‘I trust your talks with Thorin King went well, then,’ she remarked as Legolas passed her fresh bread and cheese, ‘considering how we dine peaceably in his Kingdom, and have not yet been cast out.’

‘I do not believe the situation is fully resolved, nor do I think it ever shall be,’ admitted the Dwarf. ‘Yet neither is it hopeless, I feel. Above the conflict with Lord Thranduil and the Wood of Greenleaves, King Thorin seemed rather more upset that I have not altered my intentions of removing to the Glittering Caves.’

‘He does not approve?’ asked Truva. ‘But already you have been made Lord, and spent much time examining the caves with those who wish to join you!’

‘Thorin fears Erebor is still weak,’ Gimli explained, ‘and that my removal to Glǽmscrafu would leave the Mountain’s defences vulnerable. He forgets that a robust southern defence is perhaps even more advantageous than the insular philosophy we have adhered to these past Ages. And his fears have surely been fanned by the whisperings of Dwarves who were too hesitant to set forth upon my first expedition, but have since reconsidered.’

‘The mood in these halls is already tenuous,’ Legolas warned. ‘You would do well not to speak openly on these matters, and disturb the balance further.’

‘Perhaps,’ mused Gimli. ‘We shall see what becomes of things at the feast tomorrow.’

‘There is to be a feast?’ Truva interjected.

‘To hail the victorious hero returned!’ Gimli spread his arms wide and laughed in a manner that was not entirely joyous, tinged as it was by irony; it remained unspoken yet understood between the three that, while they had most certainly been victorious, none felt themselves to be heroes.

The following morning, Buri interrupted their breakfast to make an official announcement regarding the feast, and to specify the invitation extended even to Legolas. He then acknowledged his promise to escort Truva on a tour of Lonely Mountain’s mining facilities, and suggested they had best depart immediately if they wished to conclude before the festivities. When Legolas rose to join them, however, Buri held up his hand.

‘King Thorin has seen fit to dine with Elves, but not reveal to you our most closely guarded secrets,’ he said. ‘Of the outsiders, the Marshal alone has been given permission to explore the depths of Erebor.’

‘And what would he do with such knowledge?’ challenged Gimli. ‘Delve into the deposits of Greenwood? Skilled as the Elves are in all their fine arts, they shall never match the Dwarves when it comes to hewing rock and earth.’

‘Still,’ said Buri, apologetic, ‘it was verboten by the King.’

‘Then I will not go,’ said Truva, sitting back down to breakfast.

Buri shifted from foot to foot, the conflict between his duty to Thorin and an intense desire to demonstrate the source of Dwarven pride clear on his face. The three travellers continued to eat, casting only the briefest of glances between each other and refusing entirely to look at Buri, until at last he gave a sharp harrumph.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But be quick about it – I don’t fancy getting caught disobeying an official decree.’

The three rose as one and strode out the door, leaving Buri to follow in their wake. Deep into the mountain Gimli led them, travelling first by lift, then by cart along cramped tunnels, always tucked amidst a press of Dwarves scurrying about their business. The company eventually emerged onto a high ledge overlooking a vast subterranean cavern through which the Celduin flowed. Massive water-wheels turned in its current. The sound of rushing water was so deafening that nothing else could be heard, though Buri succeeded in using gestures to explain that giant bellows at the far end of the cavern were used to ventilate the mines’ ore shafts.

Thus the two Ereborian hosts guided their foreign guests, detailing their methodologies in words when they could, and using gestures when they could not. The finer points of Dwarven metallurgy they avoided, for even Gimli’s secretive nature prevailed; yet their elation in boasting of their peoples’ skills was apparent as the company delved deeper into the Lonely Mountain.

Legolas took in these sights with his typical impassiveness, though his occasional appreciative remark at the Dwarves’ ingenuity sent Gimli into increasingly complex explanations. Truva, on the contrary, stared openly in fascination; she had never been privy to what little mining occurred in the Hildands, or even in the Mark, and so each step of the process was unfamiliar to her. Most striking of all was the machines’ immensity, which made her feel so very insignificant – as though she were an ant to be crushed beneath the oliphaunt’s foot. She greeted Buri’s suggestion that it was time the company returned to the upper levels with equal parts disappointment and relief.

When they gained the main atrium, it was surprisingly still. The stream of Dwarves typically bustling across bridges and along passageways seemed slackened, and the commotion of the market below abated. But however empty the atrium may have been, it was most certainly not quiet – for a great clamour emanated from the western wing corridor. As they drew near, a flood of warm light enveloped them, spilling from between massive doors bearing the insignia of Durin’s hammer and anvil, which lay ajar.

The feast was already underway within. Entire roast boars and deer graced long tables stretching from door to dais. Platters laden with pies or bread loaves or cheeses were borne from corner to corner by a flock of serving masters. Pheasant, duck, geese, partridges: all could be known by which feathers adorned the dishes, tucked in as they were amongst apples and pears, preserves of peach and plum, and cherry tarts. Foremost of all was, of course, great tankards of ale.

Even had the travellers wished to take a surreptitious seat amidst the chaos, Truva and Legolas’ height very quickly gave them away. Thorin King spotted the party at once and beckoned for them to join himself and several advisors at the head table. But even as the travellers were seated, Thorin raised a horn and sounded it, for he would not allow their arrival to go unannounced.

‘My dear Longbeard brethren!’ he cried over the gathering’s chatter. The din fell to a hush. ‘Today, we welcome back into our number one of our very finest: Gimli, son of Glóin!’

The Dwarven King was swiftly interrupted by a riotous cheer from those gathered. He did not rush to quiet them, but waited for them to settle before he spoke again: ‘Once before has Gimli returned to us, after venturing forth as emissary to the lands of Nâlabizar and wielding his battleaxe on the southern front during the War.’

Whispers broke out at these words, and many eyes fixed upon Gimli. Truva recalled with a start the conversation she had overheard in the market the previous day; it seemed Gimli’s long absences were considered disfavorable by more than a few. Nor did these hushed exchanges escape the ears of King Thorin, though whether he attempted to curtail criticism or flame it Truva could not be sure, for even by his own word Thorin’s position was indiscernible to her:

‘And he returns again now,’ he continued, ‘having defended our southerly neighbours from yet another assault, thus protecting us from threats we had no awareness of. In each of these quests, he fought alongside the Horse-masters – both before their own great fortress, and those of Abanulkâmin – and so an ambassador from the land of those people comes into our presence, offering goodwill and allegiance—’

‘And the Elf?’ came a cry, interrupting him. ‘What is his purpose here?’

‘Has he come to demand our gold?’

‘Will he command us to repair the damage war has done to his Halls? For we shan’t!’

‘It is with friendlier intentions he comes,’ said Thorin, though his own doubt tinged his voice. The murmurs of the audience began to grow louder. ‘He asserts he has come with the Elvenking’s amenability to repairing the bond between Mountain and Wood.’

‘Elves cannot be trusted!’ exclaimed another. The hall erupted into disarray, each Dwarf determined to make his own mind heard.

‘Legolas is of good honour!’ Gimli shouted, rising so suddenly from his chair that it toppled over behind him. ‘As you well know, to wield weapons side by side reveals much which cannot be hidden. Too many battles have I fought in days of late; yet time and time again, Legolas has demonstrated no less honour than any of you! His kind are strange folk, ’tis true, as their long years endow unto them perspective we cannot comprehend – yet fealty and truth find equal value in their minds as they do ours.’

In the hush that followed, the King spoke once more: ‘I will travel to the Wood of Greenleaves to speak with Thranduil, and determine what resolution might be had between us, if any.’ The uproar was immediate, but Thorin held up his hands for silence. ‘Such does not indicate acceptance or agreeance, merely willingness to talk – which might behove us in these uncertain times. This is my decision as King.’

Grumbles washed over the gathering, but the outright objections ceased. Thorin King then raised his tankard and said, ‘Now let us drink! To those who were gone but now return, and to those who are gone and never shall! Baruk Khazâd!’

‘Baruk Khazâd!’ the assembly shouted in return. Even Legolas joined in, for often had Gimli’s companions heard him cry such words in battle.

Pacified by the promise of more food and drink, the Dwarves returned to their feast, and a less contentious atmosphere reigned. Truva set eagerly upon a heap of mutton pie, but no sooner had she seized her knife than Gimli took her by the arm and led her down from the dais, Legolas on his other side.

‘Come, meet my Father!’ he insisted, dragging them a short distance along the centremost tables. He stopped quite suddenly before an elderly Dwarf with a shock of white hair, who appeared rather shorter than the others, bent by advanced age. Truva made as if to bow, but Gimli interrupted her:

‘Father!’ he groused. ‘Why do you not sit at the high table with the other advisors?’

‘What? Speak up!’ shouted the elderly gentleman, though there was a gleam in his eye (he had, of course, been conversing easily with his companions only moments before).

Oblivious to his father’s feigned bumblings, Gimli made pointed gestures towards where Thorin King sat with half a dozen elegantly-garbed Dwarves. ‘The high table!’ he spoke in a loud and clear voice, enunciating every syllable. ‘You are one of the King’s most esteemed counsellors; you ought to be sitting amongst them!’

‘Sit with those stuffy statesmen?’ huffed Glóin. ‘Bah! I much prefer the company of old Dwalin here.’ He indicated a similarly wizened Dwarf, who wiggled his fingers in greeting before stuffing a pork pie into his mouth; he clearly wished to avoid the conversation.

‘Lord Dwalin likewise ought to be seated beside the King in a place of honour!’ Gimli huffed in exasperation.

‘Let us old grandfathers drink our ale in peace,’ said Glóin. ‘Though you’re more than welcome to join us here, if you’ve a mind to – even that Elvish fellow.’

Legolas seized on this opportunity at once. ‘I understand you were among the party of Dwarves my father imprisoned in the dungeons of our Halls,’ he said, swiftly taking a seat beside Glóin and refilling the Dwarf’s tankard.

‘That we were,’ answered Glóin with a puzzled glance to Dwalin.

‘I must admit, there is no small part of me that is thankful I was away visiting Imladris at that time,’ Legolas continued. ‘It shames me to imagine how I might have treated you, for I do not think it would have been well; I did not understand Dwarves as I do now, and I allowed past preconceptions too strong an influence over my mind. Regardless, I should like to express my most sincere regret for the treatment you received in Taur-nu-Fuin. I work even now to overcome my own predispositions, and encourage my kinsfolk to do the same.’

‘Your words do you credit,’ said Glóin. ‘Let us hope your actions do, also.’ Though his words were laced with hesitancy, the elderly Dwarf filled Legolas’ tankard in return. No toast passed between them, but still they drank together.

‘And what of you, shieldmaiden?’ asked Dwalin, speaking at last. ‘Come, sit and tell us what business brings a horselady all this distance from her homelands.’

‘Not a lady,’ Truva clarified out of habit, joining Legolas on the bench. ‘As a Marshal and envoy of Éomer King, I bring greeting to the realms of the north, to solidify or establish our allegiances and reassure you of our unfaltering loyalty.’

‘All that for a hullo,’ said Dwalin, eyebrows high. ‘And a Marshal, at that!’

‘Close relations during times of peace – perhaps even more than during war – are essential to ensuring a region’s viability and prosperity,’ said Truva, avoiding the others’ eyes. Not even to Thorin King had she spoken of the true purpose underlying her travels, and thought it best to continue her discretion.

‘Wise words,’ said Glóin, and offered her a pint.

The two elderly Dwarves began to pepper both Truva and Legolas with further questions, drawing in neighbouring ears as early evening slowly shifted into true night – though it was not an easy distinction to make in the spacious underground halls. The lanterns were not dimmed as they had been the previous day, and neither the feast nor the noise abated; ever was there a new dish upon the table, a new topic of conversation upon the tongue, a new song upon the strings of a viol.

But even as the House of Durin made merry, currents of a chill mood swept through the revelry. They followed Gimli in particular as he made his way surreptitiously through the revellers; and each time he approached an old acquaintance, the effects rippled outwards to set unease into the hearts of those who listened.

‘Immense caverns, with walls of shimmering gems and rich deposits just below the surface!’ he whispered to a cluster of Dwarves just down the table. ‘The halls of Khazad-dûm shall ever be more inspiring of awe, yet Kheledgathol will one day boast an elegance not found elsewhere!’

‘It makes me ill at ease when he speaks so,’ murmured Glóin to Dwalin, his voice low. Truva leaned in close with the hope of gleaning new information.

‘Do you not intend to go with him when he removes permanently to the Caves?’ asked Dwalin.

‘I do, I do,’ admitted Glóin. ‘I simply do not think he comprehends the full breadth of Thorin’s displeasure with such notions.’

‘My displeasure with what notions?’ said a voice behind them. All three spun round to find Thorin King standing directly behind them.

‘What?’ shouted Glóin, suddenly hard of hearing again.

‘It is no matter you are not already aware of, my lord,’ Dwalin clarified. ‘We speak merely of Gimli and his new lordship over the Glittering Caves.’

‘I see,’ mused the King darkly, taking a seat beside Truva. Glóin and Dwalin took this momentary pause as an opportunity to turn and strike up a conversation with those sitting upon their other side, but Thorin would not so easily allow Truva to evade his inquiries.

‘And what have your people to say of this arrangement?’ he asked. ‘Did these Caves not once belong to the Rohirrim?’

‘It was Éomer King himself who offered Gimli lordship,’ Truva replied, ‘and thus warmly welcomes a closer bond with the Dwarves, who proved loyal and invaluable during the War.’

‘Yes, comradeship and so on and so forth,’ said Thorin, waving his hand. Then he altered tack and broached a new subject entirely. ‘In my talks with Gimli yesterday, he mentioned you travel to our lands with some secretive purpose – a purpose that might have some connection to the Dwarves.’

Trepidation overcame Truva; she recalled Lord Thranduil’s warning and the danger of accusing the Longbeards of impropriety before their very leader himself. But it had also been more than apparent the Elvenking cared only for his own advantage, and not one whit for Truva’s plight. Perhaps King Thorin’s sentiments would be no different – and yet, if any Dwarf was capable of wielding sufficient influence to uncover this mystery, it was he.

‘Perhaps the issue he referred to was that of my parentage,’ Truva began. One of Thorin’s eyebrows raised the tiniest of fractions. Had Truva not been staring at his face for any indication of his thoughts, she would not have noticed it.

‘And what concern have I for the parentage of a mere Rohirric shieldmaiden?’ he asked, though he was quick to amend: ‘Glorious emissary though she may be.’

‘Have you heard tell of the Hidden Lands, in the northern reaches of the Misty Mountains?’

‘It was not until Gimli first returned from the War that both rumour and confirmation of this realm’s existence came simultaneously to my ears, but the name is no longer unfamiliar to me. I am most sorry for your experiences.’

Truva weighed her words carefully. ‘Then perhaps you have learned the method by which many slaves who once languished in the Hidlands were obtained.’

‘Slaves beget more slaves, do they not?’ Thorin postulated with a casual shrug of his shoulders.

‘Not so swiftly or frequently enough, or with sufficient diversity to satisfy the Hidlanders’ ravenous taste for violence.’

‘Then do tell.’ Thorin folded his arms across his chest and sat back, face impassive. Truva cast a glance about them, searching for eavesdroppers, but all were preoccupied with their own carousing.

‘They were brought from other lands,’ she whispered. ‘Taken, stolen, snatched from their homes and loved ones, transported great distances and subjugated for the base intrigues of despicable men.’

Thorin continued to stare at her, unblinking, and so she forged on: ‘These thieves came most often from the east, over the High Pass in the Misty Mountains, taking advantage of the Woodland Elves’ apathy and evading the Beornings’ toll points with passages of Dwarven construction.’

‘Dwarven construction,’ Thorin repeated, beginning to untangle the implication of her words. ‘There are the remnants of many a clan out East: Ironfists and Stiffbeards, Blacklocks and Stonefoots – those that did not flee into my father’s protection under the days of Shadow; it is said they have fallen to ways of evil mind, and the atrocities you speak of would not be outside their nature. But if it is such Dwarf-kind you seek, I cannot help you – for none know where these clans make their homes, if indeed they make them at all. Nor does my influence extend to Rhûn; I do not consider them kin.’

‘Have you ever known such characters to venture so far Westward?’ Truva pressed. ‘Chief Grimbeorn of the skin-changers suggested the interlopers might be known by their long beards and colourful hats. Is it beyond all possibility that those who inhabit the Iron Hills were at least in some part responsible for this supply of human livestock?’

Thorin’s response was immediate. He leapt to his feet, face scarlet and mouth pulled down into a deep frown behind his beard, seething with anger. ‘You dare come into my Halls, partake in my generosity, and in return accuse my folk of trafficking human slaves?’ he cried.

Truva realised far too late that Lord Thranduil had been correct; nothing was to be gained from seeking Thorin’s aid. He radiated the same fire with which Éomer had once defended Truva against the three hunters’ specious accusations, but Théoden King had been there to temper his sister-son’s passion. Even so, it was one thing to question an outsider who had only recently come into the Eorlingas’ presence, another entirely to question longstanding kin. Thorin was a young, prideful king, bereft of the wisdom Théoden possessed; he would not help.

‘They are not merely accusations,’ Truva mumbled, but her protestations stumbled upon her lips. The entire congregation sat so silent the brush of beard upon tankard could be heard. Ereborian King and Hidland Marshal alone were the sole focus of each and every eye.

‘It was not so long ago I myself lived in the Iron Hills!’ Thorin exclaimed. ‘It was my birthplace ere we returned to this Mountain after many years of wandering. Those lands lie within my kingdom, and under my rule; those who live there are my brothers, no less a part of the Longbeard clan than any whom you dine with this very night. Look at their faces – look! Do you think these Dwarves capable of tearing a baby from its mother’s arms?’

‘I saw them myself,’ Truva muttered, eyes downcast. ‘They came into my village, leading chains of bound captives to be sold in exchange for gems and metals.’

‘It is not possible,’ said Thorin, with a rough shake of his head. ‘It cannot be.’

‘I do not ask that you accept my words on blind faith. All I ask is your leave to investigate the goings-on of the Dwarves residing among the Iron Hills.’

‘I do not grant it!’ shouted the King. ‘I do not grant you leave to travel there, and indeed I do not grant you leave to travel anywhere within my kingdom! You are no longer welcome here – neither you nor those for whom you speak.’

He reached out in that very moment to snatch the ring he had bestowed upon Truva from her breast, where it had come untucked from her tunic. But the leather thong was of impeccable construction and did not give. She was dragged forward as Thorin tugged viciously at the ring, eventually managing to slip the band from about her neck.

‘I wish to see you gone completely from my presence,’ the King continued, folding the ring into his hand, ‘but it is already late, and I would not turn out a guest so deep into the evening – nor would I grant you the opportunity to accuse me of such a misdeed. No, you will leave on the morrow to go whither you will, save anywhere within my dominion; from the border of Greenwood to the Iron Hills, and the Withered Heath in the north throughout King Dain’s realm of Dale you are banished.’

Truva inhaled a deep breath before speaking. ‘I am sorry to see us parted thus,’ said she. ‘But the Eorlingas’ loyalty shall not be swayed so easily; our hand is ever extended in offering of alliance, should you reconsider.’

King Thorin said nothing in response. He merely stood glaring, arms still crossed, as she rose. Those about him absorbed the hostility he exuded and amplified it tenfold; even Glóin and Dwalin refused to meet her eyes, though they sat half-slumped, as if in defeat. Under crushing silence, Truva paced between the long tables until she exited through the halls’ main doors, but even as made her way along the corridor, the sound of shuffling feet came from behind. She turned to see Gimli and Legolas striding after her.

‘You needn’t abandon such a marvellous feast for my sake,’ she insisted.

‘In truth, I do not think we are particularly favoured guests, either,’ grumbled the Dwarf.

All three fell quiet as they traversed empty, echoing halls to their chambers. Once returned, however, none seemed inclined to sleep, and so they sat about the fire together, absorbed in their own musings. Quite suddenly, Truva spoke:

‘You must stay.’

‘Beg pardon?’ Gimli questioned, startled.

‘Thorin King’s words were unmistakable – I am to leave the Lonely Mountain; he said nothing of you two. Before us lies the most promising opportunity to ease tensions between Eryn Lasgalen and Erebor as ever there has been, and it must not be squandered. Who knows what will be uncovered in the East? Perhaps it is a wild-goose chase, and will ultimately prove fruitless. But if there is any quarter from which succour is more sure to be gained, it is here in the north. You must stay for the sake of Aragorn King, and for the armies he leads.’

‘It is not safe to travel unaccompanied in unfamiliar lands,’ Legolas stated.

‘Or perhaps I shall draw less attention as a lone Man than were I to travel in the strange company of a Dwarf and an Elf,’ Truva countered. ‘If my origins are truly Easterling, then I shall find little difficulty in disguising myself. Nor am I defenceless – this you well know.’

Her companions pondered the notion for quite some time. Silence reigned and the fire slowly began to die out, its edges settling into embers as the central flames burned ever lower.

‘My father is sure to be more amenable if I am present when Thorin travels to Eryn Lasgalen to meet with him,’ said Legolas at last.

‘As will King Thorin, if I am granted any opportunity to wield influence,’ added Gimli. ‘And there is a smattering of Dwarves here who might yet be willing to relocate to the Glittering Caves; any who do so can surely be counted upon to stand beside Gondor.’

‘Then we are decided,’ said Truva. ‘I shall depart in the morning to seek answers in Rhûn, whilst you remain behind and speak reason into the minds of the northern realms’ leaders.’

The three returned to their introspection, pondering what was to become of them, and whether any were likely to find success. After a brief spell, Gimli stood and disappeared into his chambers before returning with a small object clasped in one hand. This he extended to Truva.

‘It is not nearly so significant as a King’s jewel,’ he said, ‘yet perhaps you might accept it nevertheless.’ Into Truva’s palm he pressed a small wooden figure: an intricate carving of a horse – but not just any horse, for its features were clearly those of Bron.

Tears sprung into Truva’s eyes, for still her loyal companion raced in her heart despite the time that had passed. Memories came flooding back – memories of all she had endured the previous year; of having lost not only Bron, but Théodred also, and Théoden King, and Éothafa. She thought too of Aragorn, and how desperately she longed for his comforting embrace when sorrow overwhelmed her.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, tears coursing unchecked down her face. She was not alone, however; a single watery track glistened along Gimli’s cheek in the firelight, as well. ‘I shall cherish it always.’

And then – most unexpectedly – Gimli stepped forward and embraced her. No words were exchanged between them, for indeed what words could be said?

Chapter Text

Far in the distance, the peaks of Ered Enaid broke the vast sea of sand, rising up like battlements in the east that divided the realms of Harad and Khand. From a series of lakes in the mountains’ upper reaches, fed by rainfall off the less arid eastern region, the Sîr Talath coursed down to provide life-giving water to the flat Sunlands. This river flowed eastward for some distance before eventually curving south, thereby creating a basin in which wheat, barley, and other crops could be grown.

Against this mountainous backdrop, at the intersection of the road from Umbar and another sweeping across the landscape from north to south, stood Herumoros: the city of clay upon a hill, surrounded by tremendous battlements and towers. At its summit loomed the citadel of Luxumarto, home of Ephor Herufoth, descendent of Herumor himself. Many millennia ago had the Black Númenóreans sailed forth under the shadow of Sauron to establish such strongholds, and though nearly all others had since vanished into the sands of time, Herumoros still domineered over the region as a serpent over mice.

Here, along the road between caravanserai and fortress, the earth did not shift beneath the kamels’ feet as the dunes did. The company’s pace increased nearly twofold, and Castamir did not did not slacken it until they stood before the massive city gates. Merchants and tradesmen, farmers and travellers streamed in and out of the archway, each halting in turn before a contingent of guards for inspection. As soon as the Captain approached, however, those upon the road drew aside and all movement ceased. A horn sounded from the guard tower, and was answered by another within the citadel high above.

‘Hail Castamir, Captain of the Corsairs of Umbar!’ cried one guard, stepping forth into the company’s path. ‘What business is it that brings you to Herumoros?’

‘I seek an audience with the Ephor,’ Castamir replied, his voice laden with an affectation of indifference. ‘Will he grant it to me?’

The guard peered at Aragorn, Éomer, and each of their Forodrim companions in turn, suspicion written clear upon his furrowed brow. ‘And who is it that travels in your caravan?’

‘These are emissaries from the northern realms of Gondor and Rohan, come to seek the Ephor’s favour, and to bolster the accords between our lands.’

The Captain’s failure to properly identify his guests by name did not evade Aragorn’s notice, nor that of the guard. Even so, the harried Southron hesitated just a moment longer, eyes passing back and forth along the company.

‘It was only this morning Ephor Herufoth returned from surveying the eastern border,’ he said at last. ‘My lord rests now, and so I cannot hazard how soon he will grant you an audience – or whether he shall grant it at all. But Umbar and Harad are yet allies, and thus you may enter the city and bide amongst our people… so long as you understand you shall be held accountable for any misdeeds the outsiders commit.’

Castamir glared at this guard so long it appeared as though he was attempting to set fire to the tails of the man’s brigandine, but then he gave a cursory wave. ‘It is agreed,’ he said, urging his kamel forward with such swiftness the guard was forced to leap aside.

The stream of Haradrim began to flow again as the company passed through the main gates into a tunnel, vast enough to allow a fully-grown oliphaunt passage, and nearly so long as the beasts were from tail to trunk tip. Once into the city itself, buildings of rammed earth rose up around them: armouries and inns, crammed shoulder to shoulder with alehouses and – just around the corner from the gates – a caravanserai.

Unlike the sprawling complex where they had passed the previous night, this caravanserai was cramped and boasted far fewer amenities – though it had little need to. The company swiftly stowed their kamels in stalls reserved for especial use by Umbarian officials, and guards settled in to watch over the creatures as Castamir assisted his daughter in descending from the litter. The two set out into the main city with the Forodrim in tow, the Ploíarkos and his men lurking as ever in the rear.

As it was at the entrance to Herumoros, so was it throughout the rest of the city; between a series of concentric defensive walls, watched over by sentries at their guardhouses, the press of earthen structures drew ever closer. The small party passed granaries and shops, bathhouses and bakeries, from the windows and walls of which hung woven tapestries bearing floral or geometric patterns, their golden and silver threads glimmering in the midday sun.

Despite being garbed in a manner similar to their companions, the northerners’ pale complexion – and Éomer’s golden locks especially – drew many a sceptical glance from the residents of Herumoros. These Haradrim did not approach, however; they knew the Captain by sight, and so gave the company a wide berth, choosing instead to glare from doorways or behind food carts, never taking their eyes off the strangers.

As Aragorn and the others progressed up the hill towards the citadel, the roads of hardened earth gave way to narrow passageways paved with glazed tiles, bearing geometric patterns similar to those of Coronon. Despite the blazing afternoon sun, the tiles were cool beneath the travellers’ feet, for the residences and shops crowding each side of the street were built with overhanging upper floors. Between the small gap that remained between rooftops, swaths of calico had been stretched, shading the street below.

The buildings ultimately came to a very sharp end, opening onto a bare strip of land, where not a single boulder or shrub offered even the slightest suggestion of cover. Beyond lay the formidable defences of Luxumarto: lofty battlements constructed of limestone blocks the height of grown Men, plunging featureless down to sheer, rocky cliffs; embrasured corner towers – the more ancient origins of which were evidenced by their square construction, unlike the drum towers set into the main fortifications. There was but a single tiny gate, set deep into the wall and approached via a curving, steep-sided causeway.

The guards stationed at this gate were even less welcoming than those below. Their halberds glinted in warning. More than one scimitar was drawn at the company’s approach.

‘Halt!’ came the predictable cry.

The Captain slowly came to a standstill halfway up the causeway. Undómírë was still at his side, though Tharbadír now strode to the forefront and stood protectively before them. Acutely aware of the trouble their presence might arouse, both Aragorn and Éomer lingered behind the Corsairs. Maeron and the Gondorian guards hung even further back.

Then Castamir spoke, his voice clear in the sweltering stillness: ‘I know the Ephor is returned to his halls of late,’ said he. ‘I have no intention of disturbing his rest; I will wait until he sees fit to grant me audience.’

‘Then you will have a long wait,’ the guard said in reply, ‘for you come in the company of the Kings of Gondor and Rohan, and many Forodrim. I myself recognize them, having witnessed with my own eyes the atrocities they committed at Morannon. The Ephor will not be pleased.’

‘His displeasure I shall suffer at my own choosing,’ the Captain insisted mildly. ‘Will you not send a messenger, to learn the Ephor’s mind; or, if he is not awake, the counsel of his Yüzbashı?’

The guard’s face the travellers could not see, for he was cast in the gate’s shadow, and wore a headwrap that concealed his features; yet his irritation was apparent in the clipped tone of his response. ‘To what purpose do you wish to speak with the Ephor?’

‘It is regarding peaceable notions, nothing more,’ said the Captain. ‘I seek to reforge the connection between our lands, and the Forodrim have expressed they are amenable to colloquies of a more… reciprocal nature.’

The guard appeared unswayed by these words, however. ‘I will send a messenger, but perhaps you ought to return to the city and wait there. Should the Ephor respond positively, I will send my guards to fetch you.’

‘Or perhaps you could ask now,’ Aragorn spoke suddenly, nodding towards what little of the inner bailey could be glimpsed through the archway. A dark-cloaked figure descended along the path between palace and gate, joined by his many attendants. It could be no other than the Ephor himself, tall and broad, true master of the armies he had led north.

‘Please excuse my gatekeepers,’ the Ephor called out when he drew near, waving the guards aside. ‘They are overzealous, which indeed makes them well-suited for such duties.’

As one, the contingent snapped into low bows, then stepped back into formation as their ruler strode through the gate, the hem of his silk robes wafting on the insipid breeze.

‘Ephor Herufoth,’ said the Captain, inclining his head only slightly. His cold tone was in stark contrast to the heat of the day.

‘Castamir, and lords of the North,’ the Ephor replied. He did not give even an approximation of a bow. ‘I cannot say that I am unsurprised to see you here, but whatever your purpose, it strikes me as a tale long in telling. Yet I am certain you are weary from your journey; it is no easy trek from the Havens to Herumoros. Come, take your ease in the shade of my halls, and we shall talk when you are rested.’

‘Such hospitality would be sorely welcome,’ said Éomer King, though the Ephor merely smiled and turned back up the hill, leading the company along a path lined with the same spindly trees that had grown about the Óasi.

The outer wall of the palace itself seemed more to serve aesthetic rather than defensive purposes, though it did this with great success. Across the clay surface, glazed tiles of black and red were embedded to draw the eye to its keyhole archway, which was outfitted with a door of mottled wood smelling faintly of pine – though it was of no variety any of the northerners were familiar with. Within the palace walls, arid wasteland gave way to a lush garden patterned with winding paths and raised flowerbeds. Trees of orange and jasmine towered overhead. The temperature plummeted and Aragorn breathed in the cool, earthy scent of rich soil.

Beyond the garden, the party came upon a courtyard paved with a bold patchwork of diamonds and flowers, an immense copper fountain bubbling at the very centre. On all three sides, the courtyard was surrounded by a portico of arched columns, their arabesques painted in vibrant yellows and blues. Hidden within the portico’s shade were swaths of deeper darkness that suggested halls and passageways unseen.

The Ephor did not stray towards either wing, however, and instead made straight for the corps de logis in the rear, where beckoned a series of latticework doors. The centremost of these opened onto an expansive and colourful throne room, the floor and walls of which were adorned in their entirety with tessellations and polygons and overlapping circles. Even the wooden ceiling bore a mural depicting the stars of the night sky.

Atop a dais against the far wall sat a bronze throne, but Herufoth did not take his place upon it. He instead led the company through a secondary door into a more comfortably situated side-room, where plush rugs and the Sutherlands’ ubiquitous pillows littered the floor. Already attendants awaited, bearing chilled mint tea and other refreshments.

In the very middle of the room sat a figure whose very presence demanded rapt attention: that of a woman most elegant, adorned in silks and jewels. She could be none other than the Ephor’s daughter, for when she rose she was near equal to her father in stature, and the light pink of her robes was offset by skin darkened beneath the unrelenting Harad sun, as her father’s was.

Immediately upon entering, Undómírë dashed forward to wrap the woman in her arms. ‘Oh, Indil!’ she exclaimed. ‘How I’ve missed you!’

‘Have you?’ the woman questioned, though there was no edge to her voice as she returned the embrace. ‘Not since the War have you ventured east to pay me any visit!’

‘Nor have you come west to see me,’ Undómírë countered.

‘Ah, and so we justly accuse each other!’ Indil laughed, a beaming smile breaking across her youthful face. She then gestured to the travellers. ‘And who are these companions of yours?’

‘My dear lord and lady,’ said Castamir, stepping forward. ‘Might I introduce you to Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur and High King of Gondor? He has come in the company of Éomer, sister-son of Théoden, who by rights ascended to the throne of Eorl the Young of Rohan.’

‘Yes,’ said Herufoth, his tone and expression inscrutable. ‘I know their faces.’

Aragorn bowed before both Ephor and Princess. ‘Terrible acts have passed between our lands, which can never be undone,’ said he. ‘But as I stated to your envoys those many months ago, at the negotiations following the Final Battle’s conclusion, my hope remains as ever to set forth into a new age of peace amongst the many nations of Men.’

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘As do my own hopes,’ said Éomer, quick to follow with his own greeting. ‘Though I imagine you have little concern for the humble Riddermark – far as it is from your borders, and few in number as its people are – we are similarly dedicated to establishing concord amongst north and south. Our alliances have historically placed us in opposition, yet it needn’t be so in perpetuity.’

‘Your reassurances are well-met,’ said the Ephor, though his manner spoke otherwise.

‘Come, sit!’ Indil interjected, motioning for the company to take places about a low table. ‘I thank you for ensuring Undómírë’s journey across the barren expanse was safe and – I hope – uneventful.’

‘As uneventful as such things are,’ said the Captain, only taking a seat once the Ephor had situated himself at the table’s head. ‘It is always a pleasure to find myself once more within the walls of Herumoros.’

Herufoth turned a discerning eye upon the Captain. ‘You wish to speak of business so hard upon your arrival?’

‘I gave no indication of any such aim!’ Castamir sputtered. ‘Though if you would perhaps be open to considering—’

‘I would not,’ the Ephor cut him off sharply, accepting a beaker of tea from an attendant. ‘As you are well aware, I have but recently returned myself; let us enjoy this brief respite together, then take our sixth hours before commencing any talks.’

The Captain sat back, rebuffed. In an effort to salvage the mood, Indil turned to him and said, ‘Perhaps your journey across Laurinairë was uneventful, yet what of Umbar? Surely you cannot suggest things remain unchanged in the Havens – not with such unusual guests in your midst! How is it these lords came to the Sutherlands?’

‘It was a misunderstanding,’ Undómírë interjected, giving both her father and Aragorn a significant look.

‘Indeed,’ said the latter, understanding the Princess’ intentions at once; discussing Umbar’s attack on Gondor would only cause the Ephor to question the reasoning for such actions, leading them to the topic of Umbar’s malcontent with Harad. Given the Ephor’s disinclination to discuss politics, this was best avoided. ‘Yet I am thankful for the opportunity to truly explore the Haradwaith that this misunderstanding has brought me.’

‘And what are your impressions thus far?’ asked Indil, playing perfect host in contrast to her father’s sullen silence.

And so the company set upon their tea, engaging in agreeable yet insubstantial pleasantries. But Éomer had scarcely begun narrating Aragorn’s initial messy encounter with the kamel Deve when the Ephor downed all his tea in a single, long draught. He then stood and stretched, the muscles of his arms rippling beneath the sheer white silk of his tunic sleeves.

‘I am tired,’ he declared. ‘I go to my sixth hours. When you are done here, my attendants shall escort you to the baths, then to your quarters to rest your fill.’

With that, the Ephor swept through a door leading deeper into the palace. Castamir scrambled to his feet and rushed after him. After glancing back and forth between the door and Undómírë several times, expression conflicted, Tharbadír followed after his Captain, leaving a rather bemused gathering in his wake.

Indil cleared her throat. ‘My father is always rather short when weary,’ she explained apologetically, ‘and his recent travels have not been easy. Our relations with the city of Fuinuros upon our borderlands are increasingly fraught with tension these last few years; disagreeances were temporarily set aside during the War, only to resume with redoubled vigour upon its conclusion. You must forgive him.’

‘It does not fall upon one so good as you to make apologies for the Ephor,’ said Éomer kindly, causing Indil to duck her head and blush.

‘Come,’ she said, taking the still half-full cup of tea from the horselord’s hand. ‘The caravanserai’s common baths are reputedly horrid, and not even the Óasi’s pure waters can compare to the spas of Herumoros – though your company smells as though you have not taken advantage of any such resource.’

‘Forgive us our tresspasses, milady, for we are but humble northmen, and it has been a long and strenuous journey,’ laughed Maeron.

With all hope of talks now vanished, the Forodrim rose and followed the two Southron princesses back through the throne room without complaint. When the party emerged onto the courtyard once more, however, Indil paused.

‘There are separate baths for your servicemen – though they are no less luxurious,’ she said, motioning for Maeron and the Gondorian guards to follow a pair of palace attendants. ‘But if it pleases you, my lords, I shall guide you to those reserved for the royal family.’

Aragorn and Éomer were led in the opposite direction of their guards, along winding paths back through the garden and around the palace’s western wing, until they came upon a lattice screen. Beyond lay an azure pool fed by the clear, cascading waters of a waterfall, with cobalt and white tiles encircling its edge. Vegetation grew thick behind the lattice, creating a second screen. An attendant, startled by their sudden appearance, hastily laid swaths of cotton fabric and robes of muslin upon a stool before scurrying away.

‘You need merely ring the bell when you would like to be shown to your rooms,’ Undómírë explained, demonstrating a tiny bronze bell’s melodious tinkle. Aragorn and Éomer had scarcely thanked the princesses before they melted into the garden, their blithe voices audible long after they were gone from sight. The northern kings were left staring at each other.

‘They are so very nice,’ Éomer began. ‘Though the Ephor—’

Aragorn shook his head slightly, nearly imperceptibly, cutting Éomer off. Perhaps he was being overly cautious, yet in spite of the Haradrim’s generosity, nothing of their situation was changed; north and south were still lands at odds with one another. Who knew what ears lurked in the dense brush? Far in the distance, the sound of an oud struck up, and the faint laughter of Undómírë and Indil drifted on the air.

Aragorn and Éomer washed swiftly and in silence before donning the robes laid out by the attendant, thoughtfully coloured in the tinctures of Gondor and the Mark. No sooner had Aragorn smoothed the silver-gilded sable muslin across his breast than Éomer gave the bell a chime and the same attendant reappeared. He wordlessly escorted the Kings along the portico of the palace’s western wing, stopping briefly before an empty room with doors ajar.

‘Your servicemen are still indulging in their baths,’ said he. ‘When they have concluded, I shall show them to this room, which adjoins yours.’

He led them to the neighbouring doorway, which opened onto small yet ostentatious accommodations. Spread across the tiled floor, nearly from wall to wall, was a thin rug depicting the charge of oliphaunts across the desert. Upon the far wall, the lattice of an oriel window projected out over a steep hill, covered in foliage and falling steeply to the palace’s inner wall. The attendant rushed to arrange cooling pots of water in the window’s wide bay.

In the afternoon heat, only an occasional gust of stifling wind came through the latticework, drowning Aragorn in a languorous mood. All his mind could focus on was the pair of divans arranged on the floor, cushions propped against the wall. He fell upon one, allowing his long limbs to splay across its patterned upholstery. The oud’s gentle melody still drifted upon the languid air, and sweltering afternoon sleep soon washed over him.

Aragorn bolted upright at the sound of a gong. Casting about in uncharacteristic confusion, he found nothing amiss. Darkness had fallen beyond the latticework of lilies and serpents, and lanterns had been lit as he slumbered – otherwise, all was as he remembered.

Éomer likewise sat up on his divan, rubbing his eyes. ‘I have not slept so well since Edoras, I don’t think!’ he exclaimed.

Aragorn rose silently and padded into the portico beyond, moving swiftly next door to peer into the guards’ room. All were present, though they slumbered so soundly they had not awoken even at the gong. As Aagorn moved about the room, gently rousing each, an attendant appeared in the doorway.

‘The Ephor Herufoth summons you for the evening meal,’ he declared.

‘Summons, hm?’ Éomer remarked quietly to Aragorn, but the Gondorian guards expressed great delight in the notion of dinner.

‘I do believe I’ve made myself hungry with all that sleeping!’ Maeron exclaimed.

The attendant returned the northerners to the courtyard and a door just beside that of the throne room, which opened onto an expansive dining theatre. Every inch was draped in tapestries or curtains, copper lanterns casting dappled light upon a sea of cushions. Already the Ephor was seated before a low table, the Captain and Ploíarkos at his side, in addition to a number of advisors. They chatted amongst one another, though all conversation ceased the instant Aragorn and company entered.

‘And how did you find your sixth hours?’ inquired the Ephor amicably enough.

‘Perhaps a bit too enjoyable, thus they became seventh and eight hours,’ Maeron remarked, generating laughter amongst the Haradrim.

‘So it often is with us, too,’ spoke one advisor, his full beard greying and the silken wrap upon his head of a bold pattern. ‘It is said a man lives longer the more often he indulges in sixth hours, and I intend to live a very long time indeed.’

‘My Yüzbashı, Nubol,’ said the Ephor by way of introduction. ‘Yüzbashı is a somewhat similar rank to that of Umbar’s Ploíarkos.’

Perfunctory greetings were exchanged as the Forodrim took seats at the table. In a brief moment of reflection, Aragorn swore to himself not to test the truth in the Yüzbashı’s words overly much; he had no desire to outlive Truva by even a day.

As attendants presented the guests with bowls of water with which to wash their hands, the door slid open once more to reveal Indil and Undómírë.

‘Ah, my beautiful daughters of the sun!’ exclaimed the Ephor. ‘Come sit and regale us with your charms. Your father claims there are no developments in Umbar, dear Undómírë, yet I would hear your perceptive thoughts.’

‘He speaks the truth; there is little to tell,’ the Princess replied. ‘Though perhaps our guests’ perspective might prove more insightful? They are far less familiar with these lands.’

‘Yes – though it is not the King of Gondor’s first venture into the Sutherlands, is it?’ Castamir said archly. It was not subtle which incident the Captain’s words invoked, but Aragorn’s self-possession did not falter, and he was soon rescued from any discomfort by the Ephor.

‘There is none here unaware of your father’s killing, Captain,’ he chided in a manner most blunt, never taking his eyes from Aragorn before addressing him. ‘My Lord, you have found yourself in Umbar on at least two occasions, but what of Harad? Have you travelled in this realm before?’

‘Never have I come into any of your admirable cities,’ said Aragorn, ‘yet I have ventured ever so slightly into the northern region, where the Haradwaith meets the lands of South Gondor.’

‘The lands of contested South Gondor,’ insisted Nubol the Yüzbashı.

‘Our negotiations upon the War’s conclusion stipulated the region between Poros and Harnen belongs explicitly to Gondor,’ said Aragorn, fixing the Ephor’s second-in-command with a steady gaze.

Herufoth hemmed quietly in disagreement, but did not pursue the matter further. ‘And what did you find in those northern lands?’ he asked instead. ‘Were they to your liking?’

‘I found the people to be most hospitable and welcoming, and their agricultural methods inventive; more than one discovery – such as the use of food scraps and ash to create dark, nutrient-rich earth – I took back to my own lands, and have subsequently been rewarded with unprecedented crop yields.’

‘And has your current excursion proven equally informative?’ asked Nubol. ‘Though perhaps on a more militaristic bend? Have you seen behind our battlements, sussed out our weaknesses, assessed our strength?’

The atmosphere of the room grew suffocating. Whilst some members of the party sought to test the thinning veneer of diplomacy, others strove to maintain it; all were manoeuvring for position.

Aragorn pursed his lips in unspoken frustration. The Yüzbashı was preoccupied with his suspicion for the north, but had Harad any knowledge of the tremendous navy Umbar amassed? Or perhaps it held no concern for the Sunlands, landlocked as the region was; what care had they for an assault by sea?

‘Ever since we sailed into the Havens with a white sheet upon the Alcarindur’s prow, our purpose has been one of peace,’ said Éomer, breaking the tense silence. ‘We come with palms empty, swords sheathed – to establish more amicable relations between each of our nations; for there is none a cessation of aggressions would not benefit.’

‘Yet the resources of Umbar benefit others more than is returned to us,’ scowled the Captain.

His words were a miscalculated overstep. Herufoth rounded on him at once.

‘You would start bargaining before we have so much as begun our meal?’ he exclaimed. ‘And to open with accusations in bad faith! Let us show a little more hospitality to our guests.’

The Ephor gestured to an attendant standing by the door. Within moments, a stream of dishes was paraded before the diners: lamb meat in flaky pastry shells, mounds of grained flour piled high with roasted vegetables, fruits carved into delicate flowers, various kinds of flatbreads – the flow of attendants was unceasing. But especial care was given to a bronze dish so large it had to be carried by five men, and which bore a hill of yellow rice (a sight unfamiliar to the northmen in and of itself) and steamed meat. Upon the very crest sat the immaculate skull of a creature even Aragorn failed to recognize. This dish was laid with aplomb in the very centre of the table.

Herufoth rose to spread his arms wide. ‘This is how I treat honoured visitors to my realm: with the meat of a whole kamel, seeped for a full two days in spices found only upon the western foothills of the Ered Enaid, then steamed for another day further. And – as demonstration of my esteem – it is to you I offer the first bite.’

A glance passed between Aragorn and Éomer, yet the latter indicated deference. Aragorn looked upon the dish with trepidation – not for any hesitancy to eat that which he had never eaten before, but for his unsurety in how to eat it. There were no utensils, but the northern Haradrim had eaten with their hands; perhaps the practice was consistent throughout the region. Aragorn tore off a small corner of the flatbread, then stretched out his hand and took a section of kamel flesh in his fingers. Piling it with rice upon the bread, he drew the morsel towards his mouth, all under the watchful eye of the Ephor.

The food had nearly reached his tongue when Herufoth suddenly held his hand up and cried, ‘Stop!’

Aragorn froze as the Ephor beckoned another attendant forward. This young man knelt before Aragorn and took the very bite of food he held in his hands, placing it instead in his own mouth.

‘Men of our station cannot be too careful,’ said the Ephor, an unsettling gleam in his eye. ‘In the gardens of the palace itself grow plants that harbour the ability to incapacitate – or to kill. Now let us be silent, for these might be the last moments of this brave taster’s life, and we owe him our respect.’

Wordlessly, the guests stared at the attendant as he chewed and swallowed. Several minutes passed as he knelt, unmoving, suspense tangible upon the air. The dining theatre was so quiet that the sounds of a rather asthmatic advisor attempting to mask his breathing could be heard, until at last the Ephor clapped his hands with evident glee.

‘Of course, it is all a pointless formality,’ he remarked, waving his hands dismissively. ‘There are poisons that require a great deal more time to take effect – days, even. Some might be delivered over multiple meals! Yet do not allow such knowledge to temper your enthusiasm; there are none in all of Luxumarto who would dare jeopardise the welfare of their Ephor or his guests.’

Breathing a halfhearted sigh of relief, the northerners fell upon the feast in an effort to diffuse tensions. At a motion from the Ephor, a small ensemble tucked in one corner struck up a cheery tune. Conversation welled as advisors rose to serve each other and their guests palm-wine, only to be returned sorghum beer and offered a new seat. All were careful to avoid any hint of politic, and talked instead of crops or livestock or the way in which the sturdy rammed earth buildings of Herumoros were constructed.

As the evening wore on and apprehensions eased, Éomer was pulled away from his seat beside Aragorn by a particularly insistent (and rather inebriated) advisor, though the space soon became occupied again: by Undómírë. She filled Aragorn’s untouched cup even fuller.

‘Do you find the drink of Harad as distasteful as its food, milord?’ she asked, one brow curved teasingly. ‘You hesitated to eat the kamel earlier, and now you refuse to drink.’

‘Neither such food nor such drink do I find distasteful,’ said Aragorn, hesitant to jest about these matters at all – let alone in the presence of the Ephor and all his men.

‘Come now, do not be so inflexible!’ Undómírë smiled and gave a surreptitious nod towards Herufoth. ‘Look at the man; he can scarcely tell an ox from a sheep in his state.’

Indeed, the Ephor swayed from side to side even when seated. Each time he leaned too far and the honey liquor in his mazer spilled, pitiable attendants swooped in to mop up every drop from the woven rug. Undómírë lowered her voice further. ‘There will be no talks tonight.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Aragorn. ‘Yet it is not in my habit to drink amongst those with whom I am unfamiliar.’

‘You find me unfamiliar still?’ If the hurt was not apparent in Undómírë’s voice, it was unmistakable in her expression.

‘I have known you but a few brief weeks,’ Aragorn explained, but there was no recovering. Undómírë took his cup into her hands and drank deeply. No sooner had she set it down than she picked it up once more and drank it to the very dregs.

‘Will you not indulge me in one favour?’ she asked, her grey, unblinking eyes gazing into Aragorn’s own, daring him to refuse her.

‘What favour would that be?’

‘A walk, nothing more. I desire to wander amongst the garden beneath the night sky. The stars are strange to you, and – unless I am much mistaken – I do believe they are a point of curiosity; I will show you the way in which we Corsairs draw upon these beacons for our navigations.’

Aragorn considered her words carefully. Such a proposition would ordinarily cause him great concern, as the Princess’ intentions were still obscure to him. But there were several strains of thought that urged him to accept, namely that he could equally use this opportunity to his own purposes – not only to learn of the Haradwaith stars, but also to discern the Corsairs’ position more fulsomely.

In the end, Undómírë’s request proved irresistible. Aragorn rose and offered a hand to the Princess, helping her to her feet. As they made for the door, he exchanged a glance and nod of reassurance with Éomer, who had become entangled in conversation with the Ephor’s daughter, again at the advisor’s exhortation.

Aragorn and Undómírë slipped out into the courtyard otherwise unobserved. The heat of midday had abated, and though the garden air was still warm, it was no longer unpleasantly so. As the duo wandered aimlessly along the maze of footpaths, Aragorn paused before each variety of grass and shrub and tree, committing its properties to memory, and thus their pace was quite leisurely.

Along a track near the baths, one plant with thick leaves of dark green caught Aragorn’s attention. He knelt for some time, inspecting its tiny umbel blossoms which effused a sweet scent before turning to Undómírë. ‘Do you perhaps know of what variety this is?’ he asked.

‘I believe it is some form of wax plant,’ said the Princess. ‘A hardy bush from distant shores; though it flourishes only because the gardeners lavish it with water, I have heard. Beside it is the bird of paradise, which is native to these lands.’

‘And this one?’ Aragorn pointed to the spade fronds of another plant.

‘I’m afraid I do not know,’ Undómírë admitted. ‘There are too many varieties with a similar leaf.’

Aragorn nodded and rose from his crouch. They continued for a short ways in silence, descending along a series of switchbacks down the steep hill towards the citadel’s battlements. As Aragorn craned his neck to gaze up at the lush fronds of a tree which bore strange, cylindrical yellow fruit, Undómírë began to fidget with the hem of her robes, revealing some perturbation of mind.

‘You must think me a most unpleasant walking companion,’ she blurted quite suddenly. ‘I have lived these many years, and yet how little knowledge have I to sate your curiosity!’

‘Not at all, milady,’ Aragorn reassured her, turning his attention away from the garden and fully upon the princess. ‘I imagine my years greatly outnumber your own, and while it is not often I am afforded the joy of encountering the unfamiliar, the matters of which I am ignorant are undeniably more vast. I find it reassuring, rather – to know I shall live the full length of my life, and still have not discovered the entirety of the world’s mysteries.’

‘I must confess, aesthetic botany never held any particular interest to me,’ Undómírë conceded, ducking her head. ‘I could see in it no quantifiable trade value, nor did it offer any influence in negotiations, or potential to feed my people. Ask of me the Sutherlands’ diverse grains, and I shall be able to identify each by any part of the plant at any stage of the growing and harvesting process – yet my knowledge does not extend beyond the practical.’

‘It is a formidable strength you afford your people,’ said Aragorn. ‘You will serve Umbar well in these talks with Harad. I see now what you are up against, and comprehend better your decision to accompany us to these lands.’

‘The Ephor does not respect my father, and in truth I cannot entirely blame him. I suspect the Havens’ current plight is due not entirely to Harad’s exploitation, but also in large part to the Captain’s incompetence and mismanagement. I cannot allow either to go unrectified.’

Before Aragorn could reply, they emerged into a clearing at the base of a watchtower along Luxumarto’s eastern wall. Undómírë did not hesitate to cross and mount the spindly ladder, beckoning Aragorn to follow. The uppermost nest was open to the elements, protected only by a conical roof, though even this was ornately painted; the Ephor was a military man, and was a frequent visitor to the towers.

Undómírë dismissed the watch with a wave, and the guards disappeared back down the ladder at once. She turned to Aragorn with a self-satisfied smile.

‘Corsairs wield equal power as the Haradrim in these lands,’ she said, crossing to the parapet and leaning upon its wooden beams. ‘Whether it is out of respect, or simply because they do not consider us a threat, the effect is still the same.’

Aragorn joined her, gazing out across the expanse beyond the walls of Herumoros. Beneath the wan moonlight, Sîr Talath coursed from the foothills of Ered Enaid to trace a black ribbon across the landscape. Had it been day, far more would have been visible: green and gold farms fanning from the river’s banks, and the land’s gradual transition back to ruddy, cracked earth, and three large oval tracks nestled to the south of the city.

When Aragorn turned his eyes to the sky and the mystifying map it now seemed to him, Undómírë sighed gently before drawing ever so slightly nearer, saying, ‘I do not think it shall surprise you, but it was not botanical classifications I wished to speak with you about this evening.’

Aragorn did not respond, or even look away from the stars; he sensed the princess would speak without further prompting.

‘These past several weeks, I have conveyed to you nearly all I know of the Havens, and indeed a great deal of myself, as well,’ she continued. ‘Yet still I know so little of you and the lands you call home. It is an unusual position I find myself in, for typically I do not like to be so uninformed of people – particularly people upon whom my negotiations rely so heavily.’

Aragorn looked then upon her, disbelieving. Over the course of his time in the Sutherlands, he had in fact shared a great deal more than he ever intended. ‘What is it you wish to know?’

A relieved smile spread across Undómírë’s face to hear his welcoming response. ‘I have heard many tales of the beauty that lies upon the White City, and that not even Sîr Talath can outshine the tremendous Anduin. My brethren who returned from the Northern War said the Forodrim wear strange clothes, and do not eat with their hands, and sleep on straw like barn animals.’

‘Barn animals?’ Aragorn questioned, but then laughed gently when realisation dawned on him. ‘I do believe I can explain that final observation. It is true we do not sleep upon mattresses laid on the floor, in the manner of the southern lands, yet nor do we ordinarily sleep on haystacks.’

‘Ah, I knew it!’ the princess exclaimed. ‘Nubol was always prone to exaggeration.’

‘On the contrary, he was quite right. At the conclusion of the Battle of Minas Tirith, accommodations within the city were limited, and thus we housed captive warriors such as your brethren in the only space available: great halls strewn with hay. It was not meant as any slight, for many of our own soldiers were similarly situated – though conditions have since improved.’

‘I imagine an august king such as yourself would go to great lengths to rebuild his realm, following war’s destruction,’ she remarked. ‘I heard also that an Elf lingers within your walls to aid in the process. Have not a great many of his kind set sail for the Undying Lands?’

Even seemingly innocent statements bore hints of purpose when spoken from Undómírë’s lips. Perhaps she wished to suss out the strength of Gondor’s allies beyond Rohan – in which case, inquiring after the Elves was a miscalculation. The loss of Galadriel and her ilk would be tremendous, yet nearly all others who had a hand in striking Sauron down would linger yet a while longer in Middle-earth. Those that would leave had already made their decision long before the War.

‘It is true,’ he said, choosing to be forthright. ‘Many of the Eldar are gone now from these lands, never to return, and more are sure to follow.’

‘Were you not raised among them?’ Undómírë whispered. ‘Surely there are many upon the departing swanships with whom you hold a special bond.’

It was not the princess’ question, rather the fact that it did not disturb him which gave Aragorn pause. He most certainly felt acute sorrow for the loss of all those he had come to consider kin during his years in Imladris and beyond, and though such pains could never be eliminated, Truva’s arrival had undeniably eased them in a way he could never have expected; in the very moment when one light was dimmed, another, brighter one took its place.

Undómírë pressed further when Aragorn did not answer. ‘You were betrothed to an Elven maiden, were you not? Her departure is surely a great loss for Gondor.’

Aragorn inhaled sharply. He could not fathom by what means Undómírë had obtained this information, and while he sensed she had shown her hand at last, he did not quite trust the underlying intent he had parsed out.

‘The choice to sail to the Undying Lands was Awen’s alone to make,’ said he, ‘and I do not grudge her it. Gondor shall persevere as ever, guided by those who wish to see the lands revived and its people prosper.’

‘I did not wish to imply otherwise,’ said Undómírë, her smile now one of genuine warmth.

Silence fell between the two then, and they passed a short while playing audience to the symphony of cicadas before returning to the palace, where the feast’s exuberance had not slackened whatsoever.

Chapter Text

Dawn had not broken before Truva slipped from her chambers the following morning. Legolas sat before the fire as though he had not moved from it all night, and perhaps he had not – though Truva suspected the waybread and full waterskin arrayed upon the table were his doing.

‘What of Gimli?’ she whispered in the early morning stillness as she added these supplies to her pack.

‘Still abed,’ Legolas replied, not fully turning from the fire.

‘Convey to him my heartfelt farewell, and to Thorin King as well.’

‘Will you not greet the King yourself?’

‘I think it best to take him at his word,’ Truva said, shouldering her pack. ‘He said he wished me gone from his presence, and I shudder to think how irreparably I might damage any chance of building any alliance between the Riddermark and Erebor should I disregard his command.’

Legolas faced her squarely then, his typically impassive face speaking volumes in a language she did not understand. Yet all he said was, ‘Go safely, shieldmaiden.’

With a final nod, Truva exited into the corridor beyond and descended through the lifts. Only the earliest of risers bumbled about in the dim lamplight: bakers and farmers, watchmen and Guards of the Gate. None regarded Truva with any hint of geniality; they glowered at her as she made her way through the atrium, emerged from the tremendous entryway of Erebor, and descended to its docks.

Stowadores and fishermen alike eyed her with disfavour as they organised tack and folded nets beneath the grey haze of early dawn. Truva strove to ignore their whispers as she unmoored the Raft-elves’ canoe and cast off, thankful that the current was strong at the head of River Running; it bore her swiftly hence from the Dwarves’ domain and the disappointment she had suffered in the Halls of Thorin King.

By the time she came upon Dale, the light of dawn tinged the battlements’ stone pinks and purples, and the city had begun to hum gently with morning activity. But its residents were sleepy still; there were no shouts as before, and certainly no envoy to greet Truva – although those few citizens who recognized her waved lethargically in quiet greeting. Otherwise, it was guards alone who marked her passage.

Once beyond the city, Truva dug her paddle into the current, and relished in the invigorating cool air as it passed through her chest. Soon she found herself at the mouth of Celduin, the far shores of Long Lake beyond sight in spite of the clear weather. There would be no reaching the river’s southern continuation that day, it seemed, though she would in all likelihood gain Lake-town well before dark.

In spite of her desire to place as much distance between herself and Thorin King’s fury as possible, the small settlement of pile dwellings seemed a fair place to pass the night. Perhaps she would succeed in Esgaroth where she had failed in Erebor, and establish rapport with the Lake-men; it would not do to have two major realms of the north at odds with the Riddermark, as it was.

With this destination in mind, Truva struck out in earnest, though it took her somewhat longer than expected to traverse the northern reaches of Long Lake. The gloam of evening was beginning to descend when Esgaroth rose up before her. Walls running the full length and breadth of the town had been constructed in recent days; where once the Lake-men had passed freely between the settlement’s crisscross of byways and the lake itself, sturdy portcullises now spanned all entrances – save that facing westward, where the bridge connected Esgaroth to the shore.

But it was the northern entrance’s defences where a large contingent of guards now converged, having spied an unanticipated vessel bearing an unfamiliar passenger. They observed Truva’s approach with ambivalence, preparing to lower the portcullis at the slightest hint of conflict, before one cried suddenly to his companions, ‘Oi, ain’t that the lass what went north with Gimli and the Elf?’

‘Oh, aye,’ said another. ‘But where are the other two?’

‘They linger still amongst the Dwarves beneath the Lonely Mountain,’ Truva called in response, though the guards clearly talked amongst themselves and did not address her. ‘But I have other business, and journey now to the south. Would you be so kind as to grant a weary traveller lodging and a simple meal?’

‘You do not look so weary to me,’ grumbled the first guard, waving Truva through the gateway. When she drew alongside the wharf and made as if to disembark, however, the second guard immediately raised his hand to stop her.

‘No, milady, orders are to escort you to the Great Hall,’ he said. ‘The Master and Council expressed a desire to speak with any of your party, should you happen to pass through Lake-town.’

Already another guard had materialised in his own dinghy to guide Truva. Beyond the gate, houses of all shapes and sizes perched precariously upon wooden legs, or floated on the water itself, tethered to the piles with great iron bands, rising and falling with the lake’s gentle swell. A few residences sported narrow docks, yet most were a simple flat facade, their boats moored to poles jutting from kitchen windows or door sills.

When her guide paddled around a corner, the height of buildings grew more uniform, and an arch connected the roofs overhead to create a tunnel above the waterway. They travelled along this until the channel opened onto an immense circular pool. Long low boats drifted about the circumference, bearing all manner of produce and wares: a veritable floating market. Yet even now the greengrocers and poulterers and tradesmen spread cloths over their goods and guided their skiffs into lantern-illuminated byways, for already the sky threatened full night.

Upon the eastern side of the market, lake waves lapped at the wide pier of a magnificent building. Tall pillars protruded from below to support a balcony high above the waterline, where a sweeping staircase led to a series of arched doorways. Wrapped about the entirety of the second floor was a balcony and its iron-wrought balustrade, and elegant cupolas protruded from the hall’s steep, sloping thatch roof.

When Truva and her guide drew near, a heavy guard contingent snapped to attention and saluted with a fist to their breast, as one.

‘The Great Hall,’ explained the guide, stepping onto the dock. But before Truva could so much as make the motions to moor her own canoe, he leapt forward and seized the rope. ‘Please, allow me. I would not keep the Council waiting.’

Truva stepped onto the walkway and, flanked by two guards, ascended the steps to the hall doors. Their heavy ash was reinforced with mithril lattice, and an ornate carving of a dragon slunk a curving path from corner to corner, its eyes glittering ruby.

The guards threw aside each half of the double doors as though Truva were some dignitary far beyond her true station. The hum of conversation within cut off sharply as a score of figures, all seated about a semicircle of dining tables, turned to stare. Then, from her place at the head of the centremost table, a wizened figure rose. Her back was bent with age, hair an even balance of black and white, yet her presence was assured and commanding. Nestled amidst the thick furs of her robe was a silver medallion, emblazoned with the same dragon as upon the Hall doors: the symbol of Lake-town’s Master.

‘So you have come,’ said the old woman. Her voice creaked as she spoke, and yet it carried across the hall to strike Truva with unexpected power. ‘I feared you would pass us by and not grant us the pleasure of your company, or the opportunity to learn of your ventures in the south.’

‘Master,’ said Truva, bowing deeply. ‘It would speak ill of my manners – and the gratitude of my King and people – if I were to bypass those who defended these northern lands from the threats of Rohan’s enemies. Please accept my humble greeting, and freely ask all that you would like to know of my homeland and the events that occurred there.’

‘I have every intention of doing so,’ said the Master with a glisten in her eyes. ‘But seeing the hour, I imagine you have not yet eaten. Come, let us save such talk for after you have had your fill. Sit at my table, and sup upon my food – I would not see a guest of Lake-town want, if it could be avoided.’

The Master gestured for Truva to take a place beside her, where already another figure of immense significance sat: the King of Dale.

‘So we meet again, Marshal,’ said he, standing at once to hold Truva’s chair for her.

‘Thank you,’ she replied, though she sat down rather gingerly, unaccustomed to such excessive politeness.

‘Bard was brought here on business regarding a dispute between the Raft-elves over fishing waters,’ the Master explained as a soup of burbot and shellfish appeared in front of all those gathered.

‘However unwittingly, it is my good fortune to find myself in your presence once more,’ said the King, an affable smile upon his lips and sharp features pleasantly balanced with his gentleness of voice. ‘I would have been tremendously disappointed had you slipped by Dale unnoticed and without greeting.’

‘We are all so terribly curious about events on the southern front during the War,’ said the Master. ‘Is it true a shieldmaiden of Rohan slayed the Witch-King?’

‘And a fellbeast, in addition,’ Truva said, yet even as she spoke, the Master’s attention was drawn away by a particularly insistent counsellor who was more concerned about fishing grounds than bygone military campaigns. ‘Though it would not do to dismiss the heroic contributions of one very small but brave Halfling,’ Truva murmured to herself.

‘You don’t say!’ exclaimed the King, his attention wholly upon Truva. ‘A Hobbit! It is said one passed through these parts in the days of my grandfather’s father – and though he brought great terrors down upon us, he also brought prosperity.’

‘They are fickle creatures, it is true.’

‘How did this Hobbit come amongst your number? And what of the rest of your army? In what manner is it structured?’ asked the King, showering Truva with a cascade of questions. She answered each in turn – thoroughly when she could, and vaguely when she felt it wise to be circumspect. Any mention of her origin or the conflict with the Dwarves she was most careful to avoid, for she knew not where the King of Dale’s alliances lay, nor how aware he was of the issue.

Every answer of Truva’s was soon followed by another question, and then another, but when the King noted Truva had not eaten much of her meal – busy as she was with sating his curiosity – he considerately altered course, and spoke instead of his own realm and its rapid development, or the Easterlings’ assault upon the city of Dale, or the legends surrounding the dragon Smaug that had once terrorised the area.

As the conversation swayed between Truva and the King, other councillors lent an ear on occasion, though none were so interested or intent as he; they had had their fill of war, and cared little for distant lands they determined could not possibly have any impact on their own dealings. Thus the Lake-men swiftly turned their attention elsewhere, or pulled pipes from pouches, or retired to their residences.

When the night grew deep, no others save the Master and her advisor – still locked in mild-mannered debate – lingered in the Hall. The fire crackled cheerily in the hearth, and the gentle lap of waves against pilings could be heard in the quietude. Then the Master rose quite suddenly.

‘You must think me unforgivably rude for not having devoted my attentions to so significant a guest,’ she said to Truva. ‘But unfortunately, some conflicts cannot be set aside. Will you not stay a while yet, that I might be granted the opportunity to demonstrate Esgaroth’s hospitality myself?’

‘As deeply as I desire to accept your offer, I’m afraid I must depart in the morning,’ replied Truva. Thorin King’s fury still smouldered in the back of her mind, and her urgency to begone from the region was acute.

‘Ah, well, in fairness I do not believe this matter of fishing grounds will be resolved so soon, and I am called upon to visit the Elves myself,’ sighed the Master. ‘I shall have to rely on Bard to convey all that he has learned to me.’

‘He has been a most excellent host,’ said Truva, and both Master and King smiled at these words.

‘Do not let it be long ere you return to our humble town,’ said the Master. ‘But for now, I must retire; I am not so young anymore, and my bones ache in this unshakable spring chill. I regret to say we have no fine accommodations prepared for so notable a guest, but the inn is never lacking in comfort or cheer. I will show you the way.’

‘Please, allow me,’ said the King, stepping forward. ‘Go to your rest, for it is well-deserved. I will escort the Marshal.’

‘Thank you kindly, Bard,’ said the Master, gratefully patting his shoulder. ‘Who am I to argue with a King, when he speaks words I wish to hear?’ She then crossed the hall and threw the heavy doors aside with surprising strength for one so wizened and complaining of aching joints. ‘Good night, Marshal.’

‘Good night,’ Truva replied.

She and King Bard descended the front steps of the Great Hall to the pier, where the Master leapt sprightly onto a raft which lay in wait, and paddled off on her own. The echoes of her guards’ protestations could still be heard as Truva stepped towards her own vessel, only to find the King’s hand on her arm. He very quickly retracted it.

‘Perhaps we might go the long way?’ he suggested quietly. ‘There is a great deal more of Esgaroth to be seen than is visible from its watery byways.’

‘I would very much like that,’ said Truva, genuinely intrigued by the town and its peculiar structure.

Turning from the pier, King Bard circled around to the side of the Great Hall, where a graceful bridge arced to a neighbouring building. Truva peered from house to house in awe, for each of the surrounding structures was successively more ornate, their eaves boasting winged corners and elaborate carvings, their walls plated with precious metals from the mines of Erebor.

In spite of his earlier loquacity, the King now seemed reluctant to speak. Silence bound the pair as they passed along boardwalks and over bridges, winding between residences, shops, and guilds. The extravagant residences of Lake-town’s councillors were gradually replaced with more ordinary buildings; thatching became more prevalent than metal roof tiles, walls had been whitewashed less recently, fewer windows gleamed in the lamplight.

After a while, they emerged upon the eastern edge of Esgaroth, where the defensive wall had not yet been fully reconstructed. Here, the promenade looked out onto the calm water and distant shores of Long Lake unobstructed. The King continued to walk a short distance before stopping quite abruptly. When he turned and leaned his elbows upon the railing, Truva joined him, breathing in the invigorating night air and gazing off towards the tiny lights of settlements in the distance, like fireflies aligned upon the water’s surface.

‘I must have terrified you earlier with my unending questions,’ said the King quite suddenly. He gave a short laugh and ducked his head, and Truva saw then how boyish and young he was; he could not have been more than a score and ten summers. A gentle wind rustled silken, sable locks unfettered by the crown he did not wear.

‘I was likewise unstinting in my curiosity,’ she reassured him. ‘There is no need for apology.’

The King heaved a deep sigh. His eyes lingered upon a cluster of old pilings that still protruded from the lake, waves gently lifting the vegetation that clung to the wood with every swell.

‘If I might be honest with you, Marshal,’ said he, ‘it is not long since Dale came under the guidance of any King at all, and not even a year has elapsed since my own coronation. My father – a wise and beloved leader – fell defending Dale, and thus the knowledge he would have otherwise imparted to me over the years was also cut down. I am determined to learn all that I might from external sources, so that my people do not suffer at my hand.’

‘Your highness—’

‘Bard, please,’ insisted the King, his voice low, turning suddenly to fix her with a soft gaze. ‘One of your station need not resort to such honorifics.’

‘No Man can rule alone,’ said Truva, her failure to address him by his name intentional. ‘Even the greatest of kings surround themselves with those more knowledgeable in every area – agriculture, military, or otherwise. Seek the advice of those around you, and the desire for your realm to prosper will not go unrealized.’

‘Do you perhaps include the Dwarves in such a circle?’ he asked. When Truva turned to stare, he continued, ‘I have heard the stories of your origin, brought to me by my captains upon journeying to Minas Tirith and bearing witness to King Aragorn’s ascendance. In truth, I had hoped you might see fit to help us in this matter.’

‘And what matter is that?’ Truva asked, her tone hedged. Erebor was Dale’s direct neighbour; it was only natural they would be allied. Had King Bard sought her out at Thorin’s behest, with the hope of persuading her to abandon her pursuit of the Iron Hill Dwarves? Was he the water to Thorin’s fire? Did she face further banishment?

‘Even before you came amidst the Rohirrim, you hailed from the Hidden Lands, did you not?’ said the King. ‘Rumour suggests you were one of the children stolen from your homeland to fight in that bleak realm.’

All evening Truva had avoided this very same topic, and yet the King now broached it unprompted. He stood before her, peering into her face and awaiting her answer, yet all Truva could think of was how ill-fated this venture had become – how she desperately wished to be back in Edoras or Aldburg, with no greater problem than the training of new recruits or the preparation for spring harvest on her mind.

‘Yes,’ she answered eventually, exhaling sharply. ‘It was long before my own memory, but that was the history I was told, and often witnessed myself in the following years.’

‘And you believe it to be the work of the Dwarves of the Iron Hills.’

Truva’s eyes bored into the King. His expression was impassive, failing to reveal a single inclination as to his thoughts.

‘I know it to be so,’ she stated at last.

The King took in a deep breath then exhaled slowly, tension etching pain upon his face, his shoulders slumping. ‘And so is it within Dale.’

Truva scrutinised this transformation of expression and posture in fascination. His purpose in questioning her became clearer now – a purpose in line, perhaps, with her own. ‘You yourself have experience of such things?’ she whispered, near breathless.

‘It was not so often as to be noticeable or predictable, and the frequency has diminished in recent years,’ Bard explained, ‘but I know it to be true that children of Dale have been snatched from their homes or when at play and taken Westward. My grandfather, Bain, brought it to the attention of Dáin Ironfoot, who was King under the Mountain in those days, and a terrible quarrel arose between them.

‘For years, relations between our two lands chilled – although they were never outright unfriendly – yet Bain feared for the prosperity of Dale without the Dwarves’ support, and so allowed the matter to pass further unremarked. I had hoped that with the passing of Dáin, and the addition of your own influence, we might prompt King Thorin to at last see reason.’

‘I must convey unfortunate news in that regard,’ said Truva, suppressing a heavy frown. ‘It was due to broaching that very topic that I was expelled from the Dwarven kingdom only yesterday eve. Thorin King will not hear an ill word spoken against his kin; not even the witness of the Wood-elves, nor the Beornings’ investigations, nor my own experiences could convince him that he lords over those who commit misdeeds.’

‘Is it so hopeless?’ sighed the King.

‘It would seem so,’ said Truva, joining him with her own sigh. ‘Yet I travel south even now, to see what might be discovered of my parentage. Perhaps what I find will bring success where all else has failed.’

Bard pursed his lips. His eyes were still upon her, but they held a distant look, as though he did not truly see her. ‘Have you so great a need to leave?’ he said, his voice scarcely a murmur.

‘Beg pardon?’

‘Will you not stay in Dale?’ he pressed. ‘As you see, I cannot turn to the Dwarves, and while the Master of Lake-town is wise, her experience is limited to the social governance of a small municipality. I have no brothers or sisters, and many of my father’s advisors fell at his side, defending our city during the War. Will you not remain as my councillor? Your knowledge surely surpasses that of any in my Halls.’

‘You wish to steal me away from Éomer King!’ said Truva with an incredulous laugh, yet Bard’s expression only grew more resolute.

‘The lands of Dale are flourishing, and I can provide you with nearly anything you desire,’ he said. While such words would sound boastful from any other man, there was nothing save desperation emanating from the young king. ‘To be quite frank, I have never met a more remarkable woman – or indeed, a more remarkable person of any birth. You would make a magnificent commander of the Barding army; together, we could ensure Dale does not fall prey to my inexperience, or the evildoings of our enemies.’

‘Military campaigns are in no way comparable to the governing of a nation, milord—’

‘Bard.’

‘—and while I have entirely no knowledge of the latter, my experience is limited even with regard to the former,’ said Truva. ‘Éomer King is likewise young, thrust into his duties by the death of his father in the War; I cannot abandon him now. I will do all within my power to bring about a resolution to the conflict between the northern realms and the Iron Hill Dwarves, but I cannot promise anything more.’

Bard’s eyes fell to the boardwalk beneath their feet, though a smile still played upon his lips. ‘It is as I suspected: you are far too loyal and good to abandon your duties. I am left with no option but to admire your steadfastness, and envy your dedication to King Éomer.’

‘Dale and its hardships will linger in my mind,’ Truva conceded. ‘I will not cast the thought of you entirely aside in favour of my own personal objectives. I know not when, but I will return to these lands, Bard, even if I do not come bearing happy news.’

Just as her failure to use the King’s name earlier had not been unintentional, Truva’s use of his name now was an explicit choice. Bard’s eyes snapped up to meet hers, and between them passed a promise – to meet again, to share burdens, to bring their lands together in harmony, if nothing else.

‘I thank you for your heartwarming words.’

Bard raised his arm up as if to clasp Truva upon the shoulder, and she did likewise, yet suddenly she found herself in his embrace, the scent of lilac wafting from his dark locks. Her arms hung in midair for a moment, hesitant, until at last she wrapped them loosely about his stout back. In his greatest hour of need, the man had lost his closest of kin and all those he relied on most heavily to guide him. Sympathy was the smallest comfort she could afford him.

At long last Bard drew away, but only slightly, and for a fleeting moment he was but a hair's breadth away, the light brown of his eyes boring into Truva’s heart. Yet he pulled further back and linked Truva’s arm in his own.

‘We have arrived at your destination,’ he said, turning her about.

Behind them stood an unassuming building with a façade that was entirely blank save a single, simple door at its corner. Towards this Bard moved, opening it quietly and slipping inside. The door led to a wooden hallway, off of which the sounds of bustle and clang indicated another led to a kitchen. Bard passed this second door by and emerged into a well-lit common room with tables and overstuffed chairs all about, and a roaring fire in the hearth. There was an innkeeper’s counter also, which the pair strangely found themselves behind, rather than in front of.

‘Hullo, Bard!’ came a cry. A tall, skinny man garbed in a filthy apron emerged from around a corner. ‘What is it that brings you to the inn – and through the back door, no less?’

‘See, even the innkeeper calls me by my name,’ Bard whispered to Truva. Before she could reply, he stepped towards the innkeeper and said, ‘The Marshal of the East-mark of Rohan, come all the way from the lands of the horse-lords, begs lodging at the Flying Fish.’

‘A room?’ said the innkeeper, and something in his tone gave Truva pause. ‘On this night when news of an Elf entering the Lonely Mountain extends to the furthest reaches of the kingdom? I’m terribly sorry, milord, but we are full to capacity, and I cannot rightfully turn out paying customers – not even in favour of the King’s guests.’

‘As it should be, as it should be,’ said the King, a strange smile playing upon his features. ‘How very proper of you. Now, might you direct us to an inn with vacancies?’

‘I am afraid there are none, milord,’ said the innkeeper. ‘Not since Master Gimli’s first return after the War have I seen such activity in Lake-town. If you desire a meal, I would be more than happy to provide it; but if it is accommodation you seek, I cannot help you.’

‘We have supped already, thank you,’ said Bard, then mused to himself: ‘I suppose there is no alternative.’

‘Alternative?’ Truva questioned, but already the King was stalking out the front door and along a series of boardwalks.

At first they traced back the way they had come – Truva hastening her steps to keep up with Bard’s long strides – and soon they arrived before the Great Hall again. But Bard did not stop, and continued walking until they came upon the northern sector of Lake-town, where stood a resplendent palace. It was not mithril that adorned its balustrades and balcony, but gold and gems; roof and walls and windows all glimmered even in the wan moonlight. But the King ascended the staircase without so much as a glance, as though he had no consideration for such opulence. When Truva lingered upon the wharf, he paused on the penultimate step and turned.

‘These are the personal accommodations of the King of Dale,’ he said. ‘They are exceedingly lavish, even for my tastes, yet I will see to it that you find appropriate lodging this night, even if it be my own.’

‘To sleep in a canoe is not so uncomfortable,’ Truva suggested, eyeing the opulent building and its flank of guards with trepidation. ‘It rocks one to sleep like a baby upon the waves. Or I can cross to the shore and pitch a shelter.’

‘Sleep in a canoe, in the very midst of a village!’ Bard gave a short laugh. ‘I will not hear of it!’

He returned back down the steps and extended his hand to her. After a final moment of reluctance, Truva accepted. Step by step, they ascended to the palace’s balcony and entered through its doors. Already a fire had been lit in anticipation of the King’s arrival; sliced fruit as well as a decanter of wine lay upon a low table before the hearth.

‘A nightcap, perhaps?’ Bard suggested.

Truva hesitated, her eyes flickering between the King, the food, and the soft furs that lined the floor about the table. She was terribly exhausted, having travelled far that day, but was loath to risk offending an ally she most desperately needed.

‘Very well,’ she said at last.

And so the King and Marshal took seats on opposing sides of the table. Truva reached at once for the decanter to fill Bard’s goblet, though he did not drink, and rather turned once more to matters of politic:

‘So tell me of these Hidlands, and what might have become of babes snatched from the lands of Dale,’ he said, filling Truva’s own goblet. ‘I wish to know everything – especially that which might convince King Thorin to see reason.’

Freed of her concern for Bard’s association with the Dwarves, Truva at last felt comfortable narrating her experiences in more detail, and spoke at length about her early life, and what she had come to learn since. Though he was more like to make inquiries than statements, Bard in turn revealed a great deal about himself and all that had come to pass in Dale. Thus both wine and fruit proved to be little more than something to busy their hands with as they conversed into the wee hours of the morning.

Truva knew not how it came to be, but she awoke to the grey light of early dawn filtering through the high, narrow windows of the palace. She lay before the hearth, thick furs wrapped about her, yet King Bard sat upon the opposite side of the room, having propped himself up in a chair. His breathing was slow and steady – still in the clutches of sleep; the awkward turn of his neck sent his long hair cascading across pale cheekbones like the Gûlduin across white marble rocks.

As Truva observed him, his sable eyelashes fluttered, hinting at wakefulness. Moving with especial care so as not to disturb him, she rose, slipped out through the palace doors, and strode along the boardwalk in the direction of the market. Already a small number of merchants had gathered in preparation for the day’s activities, throwing off the covers of their wares or chatting with their neighbours, though Truva’s only concern lay with the Raft-Elves’ canoe.

She found it berthed precisely where she had disembarked the previous evening. But even as she made to cast off, the mooring rope was caught by long, spindly fingers. King Bard gazed down upon her from the dock.

‘You would leave without so much as a goodbye?’ he accused.

‘You were asleep,’ Truva answered with all the pragmatism she could muster.

‘It is true I have not slept so soundly in quite some time,’ said Bard, releasing the mooring rope as a ripple of melancholy purled across his face. ‘But even so, I am not blessed with undisturbed repose.’

‘I hope the coming days bring you more restful nights.’

The King then crouched low upon the dock, his eyes even with hers. ‘I am certain they would, were you by my side.’

Truva’s breath caught painfully in her chest at the King’s renewed request. It would not be right to call him a pitiable figure – he was too proud and resolute. And yet his plight engendered sympathy in her, for had he not lost those he most dearly loved in the War, as she had? Just like she, did King Bard not struggle now to assume the weighty burden of responsibility? But where Truva was blessed with the guidance of many about her, Bard was alone.

‘I think it shall be quite some time ere any of us find ourselves sleeping peacefully from dusk until dawn,’ she murmured.

‘Perhaps.’ Bard ducked his head in resignation. ‘I hope you do not resent me for wishing my rest came sooner rather than later.’

‘If reassurance that the Riddermark allies itself with the Kingdom of Dale brings you any peace, you may return to your bed even now,’ said Truva, casting off. ‘Know this also: that should all else fail, I will return, and aid you in resolving the conflict with the Iron Hills Dwarves.’

‘The thought of confronting King Thorin and his kin brings me no joy, but my displeasure is tempered by the notion of your coming again into these lands.’

Truva trained her eyes on the paddle in her hand, the tiny statues lining the spine of the Great Hall’s roof, a woman arranging beetroots in her floating stall – anywhere save upon the King. ‘I will strive to hasten that day. In the meantime, please convey my regards to the Master.’

‘As a matter of course,’ said the King. ‘Fare thee well, fair Marshal of the Mark. May you find what you seek.’

With that, Truva drifted out across the market and bore down upon the canal opposite of that by which she had come, slipping past approaching tradesmen. She glanced back but once, only to discover Bard was already gone – yet when she emerged from the far end of the tunnel, she understood why: there stood the King, his figure striking amongst the tumult of Lake-men who crowded the city’s southern defences, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famed Marshal of Rohan. He did not wave or cheer as the others did, but gave an assuring nod when Truva drew abreast of the palisade.

Once beyond the main gates of Esgaroth, she struck out across the open expanse of Long Lake, making for the southerly mouth of River Running. Bard’s attentions had only left her more desperate for Aragorn’s embrace, for his stout, reassuring spirit, his unwavering tranquillity and indefatigable dedication. She dug her paddle into the water, propelling herself forward with every ounce of strength so that she might return to him all the sooner.

Chapter Text

Early dawn swiftly transitioned to full daybreak as Truva plied her oar to the waters of Long Lake, and it was deep into morning by the time the shores began to taper together and form the southern mouth of Celduin. A few other vessels also sailed along this wide stretch of river, though they were not nearly so numerous as those ferrying goods from Esgaroth to Dale or the other northern settlements. The reason for this soon made itself apparent, when the current’s pull drew her ever faster towards the crest of Long Falls.

Her rather arduous experience at Hweodriás left Truva feeling ambivalent about navigating a second waterfall, but as the Running River narrowed further she spied a dock along the western shore, where even now a cooper transferred several score barrels from a small flatboat into the bed of a wagon. Beyond the dock lay a well-established portage-way, its dirt path bypassing the Falls via a long, circuitous route.

‘Will ye fair well enough, miss?’ asked the cooper, eying Truva as she drew the canoe abreast of the dock. ‘Ye may have use of me wagon, if ye be needin’ it.’

‘I think I will manage, thank you,’ replied Truva, though the cooper continued to watch her sceptically as she unloaded her supplies and drew the canoe ashore. Her pack was doubly heavy for having been filled so recently, and it took considerable effort to balance upon her back. But the Raft-elves’ canoe was another business entirely; it was not nearly so light as that of Lothlórien, and when Truva hoisted it overhead, the bow swayed and wove. It would have been sent ploughing into the ground had the cooper not caught it.

‘Ye’d best let me aid ye, miss,’ he said, taking the canoe into arm and tossing it into the wagon amidst the barrels as though it weighed nothing. ‘The road to the lower falls isnae arduous, but it’s long, and ye’ll not see the beauty of this land wi’ that boat o’er yer ’ead.’

Resigning herself, Truva agreed readily enough, and so the cooper handed her into the wagon seat. In moments, his two stolid mules set off along the gently sloping track. The cooper seemed disinclined to converse, and took instead to singing brash tunes – though he greeted several passing tradesmen as though they were fast friends; and thus Truva came to learn he went by the name of Öl-ker.

As she and her companion descended further, the smattering of trees at the south end of Long Lake budded into a fully-fledged forest of dense oaks and beeches. Birds rose up from the branches, lilting in chorus with Öl-ker. Then, amidst a dense thicket, the wagon-riders came upon a drover and his flock of sheep, making in the same direction.

‘All right, Rút?’ called the cooper.

‘Oh, aye,’ answered the drover. ‘You wouldnae happen to be on the way to Astrup, would ye?’

‘That I am,’ said Öl-ker. ‘And ye’d care for a ride, would ye?’

‘That I would, thankee kindly,’ said Rút, clambering into the wagon and sandwiching Truva between the two Men of Dale.

Introductions were quickly exchanged, and they resumed the journey – though at a significantly slower pace, for even with the aid of a pair of collies, the sheep were not over-eager to exert themselves, and far preferred to graze in a leisurely manner. It was roundabout noon when the rush of Running River gradually became audible again, and the continuance began to peek through the trees.

‘Ye’re a determined lass, I’ll grant ye that,’ said Öl-ker to Truva as the portage-way drew alongside the river itself. He drew up his mules and hopped out of the wagon to extricate the canoe and slip it into the water. ‘If ye happen to make it so far as Astrup before we, tell ’em it’s me and ol’ Rút what sent ye. They’ll fix ye a meal worth travelin’ down the Falls Path for!’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Truva, loading her pack into the canoe’s rear.

‘Farewell!’ called Rút, then gave a whistle for his collies to resume their drive.

Before following after them, Truva glanced back at the cataract Long Falls, which now lay a great deal further than a stone’s throw to the north. Even at such a distance, it was apparent how the falls had come by their name, for the cascade of water seemed nearly so high as the Lake was long. Its bottom was more mist than fall, and crashed into the pool below with a deafening roar.

Finally looking downstream, Truva launched her canoe into the swift current and soon overtook the wagon and its escort of sheep. Giant oaks dominated the Wood of Greenleaves’ eastern reaches here, soaring up around Truva to cast dappled shade across her path. Throughout the afternoon, the forest was punctuated with ramshackle houses and docks of several Northmen encampments, the residents of which simply stared as Truva paddled by. They were bemused by her unfamiliar livery and strange appearance – and even stranger vessel; for the Raft-elves had no purpose which led them further south than Esgaroth, and so the Northmen knew not what to make of the canoe’s light coloration and delicate carvings.

Come early evening, the Wood gave way to the Dark Mountains, the fir-covered peaks of which reared up directly westward. Just beyond the mountains’ foothills, the Old Forest Road emerged from the treeline to intersect with the Running River, where lay a sprawling village. It appeared as a collection of lights in the descending gloam, the lamps of fishing skiffs darting all along the short stretch of river. One fisherman, wading nearly chest-deep in the water as he tended to his nets, hailed Truva cheerfully.

‘Good eve, fair traveller!’ he called. ‘Where doest ye hail from, and where goest ye this night? There’s no other place to rest yer head for any great distance beyond Astrup.’

‘Astrup, you say?’ replied Truva, directing her canoe towards the fisherman and slowing her speed. Several other Northmen gathered round, drawn by their curiosity. ‘I was told I could find shelter for the night there when I encountered two gentlemen by the name of Öl-ker and Rút at Long Falls.’

‘Oh, are those two clapping cods on the road ’ome?’ exclaimed the fisherman, a man by the name of Út-rothr. ‘This night’ll prove entertaining, indeed! Come stay amongst our people and sup at our tables – perhaps in exchange for a tale or two, for it seems to me ye’ve been to faraway lands and seen many a sight.’

‘Stories I have, although I know not whether they are suitable to be told round the table,’ Truva advised him.

‘Allow us to make the determination as to what is suitable for our tables! I think ye’ll find us amenable to all manner of talk of distant lands.’

Út-rothr took hold of the canoe’s bow and guided it towards the docks, followed by a crowd of onlookers. Once the boat was moored, the congregation made for the village square, which was little more than a wide opening amidst a cluster of wooden structures, bisected by the tail end of the Old Forest Road. Propelling Truva forward, Út-rothr ducked into a narrow hall, where a gathering of villagers sat about long tables enjoying their rest from the day’s labours.

‘Sit, sit!’ Út-rothr urged as a bowl of stew and an entire roast perch was placed before Truva. ‘Still ye’ve not answered my questions from before, but let’s begin with the more intriguing of them: from whence did ye come?’

And so Truva launched into her answer, leaving out what details she thought were best left unshared. How often had she retold such tales in days of late? Unnatural a storyteller as she was, her narration became more skilled with each new telling, drawing bigger gasps from each successive audience – though with her current listeners, their disbelief also grew with each passing word. When she came to the Battle of the Black Gates, her description of the immense Gorgoroth Trolls proved too much for one sceptic.

‘You think us simple folk!’ the man exclaimed. ‘Imagine thinking we would believe such nonsense! Trolls the size of three grown men, with spiked hides? Impossible!’

But all such outbursts were quickly shushed, and Truva forged on. The night grew deeper, and the moon was at its zenith when Öl-ker and Rút appeared in the hall, having come at last into town and settled the drover’s herd. By this time, Truva had narrated nearly all that her audience found interest in, and so their curiosity naturally turned to the future rather than the past.

‘You have told us of where ye come, but where do ye go to?’ asked Út-rothr. ‘We do not often come across travellers seeking lands beyond Astrup.’

‘I go south,’ said Truva simply. She could think of no reason her hosts – however friendly – had any need to know of her reasons for venturing into Rhûn.

‘Oh aye, we figured so much,’ said Öl-ker, who was much more talkative when amongst his brethren. ‘But whereto, and wherefore?’

‘To see what there is to see.’

Unsettled whisperings rippled through the Northmen gathered in the hall. Truva’s words perturbed them, and ignited a spark of fear.

‘If it’s mere curiosity that drives ye, ye’d best turn back,’ said Út-rothr. ‘There is nothing but trouble beyond Astrup.’

‘Trolls!’ said the source of the outburst earlier. ‘Real ones!’

‘There ain’t no trolls in Dale,’ Rút tutted. ‘But that don’t mean it’s safe.’

‘We haven’t traded south for many a generation,’ Öl-ker agreed, ‘and that’s not merely due to Long Lake bein’ a bigger market. The old tales spoke of conflict, and fell creatures – though the details are lost to time.’

‘Perhaps I can rediscover those details,’ Truva suggested.

Though the Northmen were quite unconvinced, they were also eager to discuss any topic save the ominous mysteries they thought she was sure to provoke. Talk turned to their own local dealings, and slowly the wee hours of the night crept into those of predawn, and the gathering settled into the straw-strewn corners of the hall for a few winks of rest before a new day.

Truva slipped out the following morning alongside Út-rothr and the other fishermen, who were generally last to cease work in the evening yet first to rise come dawn. Putting paddle to stream once more, she sped down the River Running, encountering only a small number of additional hamlets along her way. But not even in the evenings did she linger any longer than a hasty greeting, choosing instead to spend her nights camping beneath the open sky.

The further south Truva migrated, the more infrequent the Northmen settlements – if they could be called such, being little more than a few hovels clustered together – became. In the east, the Wood of Greenleaves yielded to endless rolling hills. Farms sprung up on occasion: tiny patches of wheat or barley, herb gardens and apple orchards, occupied by goats and sheep and pigs. All were soon lost around the next bend of the river.

Eventually the Celduin banked eastward, drawing further away from the Wood. All hints of human development disappeared. Truva’s days grew to be a monotonous pattern of early risings, unbroken travel, and late retirings. In an effort to preserve her waybread stores, her meals likewise became an unremarkable repetition of trout or eel, foraged greens and berries. She came to miss Gimli’s stories, and Legolas’ lilting songs, and passed more than a few hours wondering how they fared in the north.

One fortuitous morning, six dawns after her departure from Esgaroth, Truva succeeded in hooking an immense pike upon the line she always left cast throughout the day. Electing to make an impromptu break in routine, she moored the canoe beneath the sweeping branches of a beech and wandered through a copse of broadleaf trees, gathering firewood. Then, just as she bent to pick up a particularly solid branch, she spied out of the corner of her eye a delicacy most unexpected: morels!

Immediately abandoning the firewood, Truva created a makeshift sack from her tunic and began gathering the mushrooms, ascending a slight hill as she did so. The higher she climbed, the more audible a faint sound became, like that of a great river tumbling down its course. At first, Truva attributed it to the Celduin below. Yet when she reached the crest of the hill and the branches of elms and beeches parted slightly, she was granted a vision of boundless plains stretching east, their golden grasses fading gently into pale blue skies. A saker falcon circled the air currents high above, sunlight gleaming upon its mottled feathers.

In the distance, cleaving the land in two on its southward path, ran the Redwater River. It wove gently between hills like a glittering strand of mithril until it converged with the Celduin some distance ahead.

Truva raced back down the hill, precious mushroom cargo still tucked in her tunic. She could scarcely contain her renewed spirits upon finding herself so hard upon such a significant landmark – though the confluence was scarcely past halfway to her ultimate destination. Forgoing the fire, she instead gutted and filleted the pike, stringing the strips of meat up on a makeshift rack erected in the aft of the canoe.

No sooner had Truva stowed the morels beneath the fish flek than she embarked once again, thrusting her paddle into the waters of River Running as if one possessed. She could feel the ripple of muscles in her shoulders and elated in it. So vigorous was her labouring that she camped that very eve upon the arrow of land formed by the two rivers’ convergence, and dined at last upon a portion of the morels she had gathered earlier.

She found it difficult to sleep that night, and rose the following morning far earlier than she was accustomed to – though she was by no means a late riser. Beyond the confluence, the Running River flowed nearly doubly wide and half as swift, for it spread shallow upon the flat plains of the border between Dale and Rhûn. Truva kept to the centre currents where the waters ran deepest, yet still her progress slackened a great deal, and so for several days she pressed on further into night, overcome by some aberrant compulsion.

Late one afternoon, when the sun blazed down ruthlessly overhead, she spied a solitary beast grazing upon the open grasslands. It was similar in appearance to oxen of the Mark, yet it was far larger, and the length of its horns nearly equal to that of its body: a Kine of Araw! Truva had heard tales of such majestic creatures from several Gondorian soldiers, but believed them to be mere fantasies. How glad she was to be wrong!

Yet no sooner had this astonishing sight faded into the distance behind her than Truva found her spirit faltering, and her strength waning. The lengthening days of late spring seemed to bring endless hours of toil under increasingly warmer weather. The River Running’s southward path began to circle around eastward, and though Truva knew this indicated she drew nearer her destination, she could not help but feel as though she was making no progress at all.

Then, on the third day beyond the confluence, she spied the hints of a settlement nestled upon the plains of Rhûn, far to the northeast. A small collection of wooden huts lay a great way off in the distance, fed by a tiny spring from the River Running; but there were no fishermen upon the water, nor did livestock roam the banks. If the hamlet was not abandoned, it certainly invited no visitors. Truva drifted past.

Several similar sights appeared upon both sides of the Celduin throughout the day, yet heeding the Astrup residents’ warnings, Truva did not seek these settlements out for shelter that evening. Instead, she chose to make her camp beneath a low rocky overhang, where an embankment fell sharply to the water’s edge. She lit no fire, dining only on dried pike, and slept fitfully.

When the next dawn came, she wondered whether some unseasonal snow had fallen upon the land, for the world was swaddled in an uncanny stillness; the river’s constant rush was all that could be heard, though even that seemed somehow muffled. There were no calls of bird or beast, nor wind across the plains – only silence.

But there was, of course, no snow. Even so, Truva wrapped her cloak tighter about her shoulders as she rose and set out, warding off inexplicable shivers that flittered along her arms and legs.

The embankment continued down along the river, affording her some modicum of security when she first set out. But as the day progressed, the Running River grew narrower and swifter, and a great deal more tumultuous. Truva was forced to travel the most navigable routes regardless of where they took her. Perhaps other villages passed by, perhaps not – she could not be sure, for they were far too distant and her path allowed for little distractions.

Around noontide, she came suddenly upon the ruins of a tremendous dam. It appeared as if its destruction had followed hard upon its recent construction; both the original rock, as well as its rents and rends, showed the same degree of wear from the elements. Still, there was no movement about its shattered foundations, no signs of habitation, and so Truva pressed on.

The water grew ever choppier. Hour by hour, Truva’s focus was increasingly required to keep the canoe upright as it bucked and kicked beneath her. More than once, she contemplated abandoning the river and simply walking along one bank until the waters calmed, but her desire for swiftness outweighed that of easy passage.

Then, several miles beyond the sundered dam, she caught sight of a flicker of motion upon the southern bank. Or perhaps she imagined it. When she spun to scan the grassy hillocks, there was nothing save the land itself; no sign of livestock, no wildlife – not even a solitary falcon.

In the very next moment, Truva was flung into the river. A wire strung across the width of the Celduin had rushed up and caught her across the chest, even as her head was turned in search of the movement’s source. The canoe was sent tumbling on through the rapids without her.

But this time, Truva was not unprepared; the Running River was less tumultuous than the Táwarnen, and her previous experience eased her mind and lent her calm instead of panic. She floated on her back, spinning so her legs came first against the approaching rocks, and gradually drifted towards the nearest bank: the southern. The flash of motion she had seen earlier was likely the source of this ambush, yet the northern bank was far too distant, and the roiling waters of traitorous rapids lay across the expanse.

Nor was there any indication of hostilities; perhaps the trap was merely a precaution, a deterrent set by those who wished to avoid conflict.

An arrow darting into the river just beside Truva’s head quickly dissipated any such thoughts. Abandoning her cautious progress, she scrambled out of the water and towards a small boulder embedded in the river bank, which offered the best promise of shelter. More arrows pelted down as she crouched behind the rock and dug into the coarse river sand, fingers raw from hidden shards.

When she solidified her position, she peeked from behind the boulder, only to quickly retract as another arrow sped by where her face had been but an instant earlier. Removing the Elven bow from about her chest, Truva judged her opponents’ location as best she could – for by the strength of their attack she was certain there was far more than one assailant – and released her own shaft blindly. She received an arrowhead slice across her knuckles for her effort.

Then, over the sound of the river, she heard their movements, skidding down the embankment and approaching from both sides. She strained her ears to determine the attackers’ distance, silently drawing Fréodhel. Her hands wrung the leather grip.

They fell upon her in a flash; the rush of Running River had distorted the sound of their approach and caused her to misjudge. The first adversary leapt directly over the boulder and came down directly overhead. Truva raised her sword only just in time.

Orcs!

They wore armour of no nation she knew, yet their grisly, distorted features were immediately identifiable. Truva cursed herself for being so surprised; the Astrup residents’ warnings should have recalled to her mind how a great many Orcish regiments in the War originated from the East, then subsequently fled back to whence they came at that conflict’s conclusion.

It seemed they had established themselves quite solidly in the lands of Rhûn – sufficient enough to ensnare a wayward Marshal of the Mark, anyway.

Four now came at Truva, their movements seamlessly interwoven as they pinned her against the boulder and attacked simultaneously, never in each other’s way. No sooner would Truva fend off one assault than another two would regroup and strike together – like a well-notched watermill, unceasing and propelled by momentum. One Orc even succeeded in knocking Truva to her back with a well-placed thrust with his spear, though she swept his own feet out from beneath him even as she fell. Plucking a black-fletched arrow from the riverbank, she drove it deep into the eye-slot of his helm.

But the loss of their brethren only served to drive the remaining Orcs to a greater frenzy, and they leapt upon Truva with wild abandon. The situation was untenable; she was wholly overpowered.

In a space between the hail of arrows – which had lightened considerably, for the few Orcs that remained up on the embankment feared striking their own kind – Truva dodged awkwardly and succeeded in driving through a gap between two adversaries. Retreating back across the riverbank, she dove into the River Running, risking the rapids’ treachery over her certain fate at the hands of the Orcs.

The deluge of arrows resumed as the Orcish archers tracked her progress, but the very same thing that endangered her life made their task all the more difficult; Truva was tossed about by the current as it swept amidst the maze of rocks, and so the Orcs’ shafts clattered uselessly around her, or disappeared into the water.

Aside from minor scrapes and soon-to-be bruises, Truva emerged unscathed onto the northern riverbank. She immediately ascended the steep scarp and bolted. The Orcs gave no sign of pursuit, but she was not willing to risk another miscalculation, and so she struck inland a short distance before turning east to follow the Running River along its course. There was no hope of rediscovering the canoe, but the distant villages and hamlets she had spied earlier were not far from her mind. Who was to say what kind of peoples occupied such settlements, or whether they be friend or foe? It was best to avoid them.

Not once did Truva slacken her pace. Even as late afternoon dragged on into early evening and the breath grew ragged in her chest, she drove ever further. The way was fairly even, but littered with streams and brooks, many of them terribly deep and disguised by thick tufts of feathergrass. In fording these tributaries, Truva’s drying clothes became soaked yet again, and the cold water set a chill upon her skin in spite of her exertion.

When the sun began to settle at her back – a clean titian orb in an umber sky – she discerned the grey haze of a village directly ahead, right at the very edge of River Running. Determining to give the settlement a wide berth, Truva tacked diagonally towards the outskirts and pressed on, wondering whether she ought not attempt to pilfer fresh water and perhaps a bite of food. In drawing nearer, however, the settlement revealed itself to not be a village at all, but a veritable city – tall buildings towering across the expanse, looming up along both banks of the river.

Truva weighed the risks. It was a sufficiently large metropolis; perhaps she would be able to procure supplies whilst still evading notice. Coming to a decision, she altered course and began to make for the city proper, yet no sooner had she done so than the rumble of horses’ hooves fast approached from the rear. Truva dropped immediately to the ground and took cover beneath what little screen the grasses afforded – for there was not so much as a tree or thicket to aid in her concealment – then turned to find the source of the sound.

Some ways away, threescore riders made with all haste towards the city, though the distance made it appear as though they were bound directly for her own position. When they drew nearer, Truva could see these were no Orcs; they were Men – of what origin she could not be certain. They appeared to be Easterling, but wore no colours or livery with which she was familiar. Their helm bore the insignia of a silver sturgeon.

They did not deviate in their path, but continued on until it became clear they had spied her.

Truva contemplated running – but to where? There was no safe haven within sight, and the Men would swiftly overcome her on their horses. She stood instead with arms raised, palms open. They surrounded her in moments.

The foremost rider urged his mount forward. When he spoke, it was in a language Truva recognized as one of the Rhûnic dialects, though she could make neither heads nor tails of his meaning. She therefore did not answer, and so he spoke again – rougher, but different in tone; a question, perhaps. When again Truva was unable to answer, the man sighed and gave a sharp whistle. From the rear came a magnificent chestnut and white pinto steed.

The man then made a gesture with the unmistakable expectation for Truva to mount. She sensed the company’s sceptical eyes upon her as she moved slowly towards the horse with hand extended, heard their amused chuckles as the steed skittered away and bucked, felt the silence as she stepped forward on the diagonal once more.

Then, hesitantly, the horse assailed her curled fingers with a few short sniffs, whiskers tickling her palm. Truva rubbed her hand gently from the beast’s nostrils up to his forehead, studying his ears as they twitched forward and back separate of each other. She gave his forelock a brief ruffle, then continued down his neck, running one hand through his mane and the other along the muscles rippling beneath his sleek fur. He was small – smaller than either Bron or Roheryn – but stocky, and far more fiery than they. Still, he seemed willing, and did not so much as shift when she thrust her boot into the stirrup.

No sooner was Truva in the saddle than the leader spurred his own mount on. As the other riders followed after, two fell in beside Truva and another at her rear. With this guard in place, the company made towards the city at a furious pace, soon coming upon a wide dirt road devoid of all other travellers. This they raced along until stone towers rose up like symbols either of Truva’s doom or her salvation – though which, she knew not.

Chapter Text

Long before the company waded through the outskirts of straw huts and gained the outer wall, utter chaos rose up. The city’s guardhouse was wholly abandoned, its heavy gate smashed inwards and hanging upon its hinges. As the riders passed over the moat and through the damaged archway, shouts and other sounds of battle washed over the scene, but Truva’s companions did not appear perturbed; they merely continued on, grim-faced.

They sped along flagstone streets, ascending a gentle rise towards where the tallest towers were clustered at the crest of a low hill in the very centre of the city – though these stone buildings were slight in comparison to those of Minas Tirith, and even Pelargir and Dol Amroth. Small fires flared here and there along the wide thoroughfare, yet went largely ignored as Easterling warriors raced about, regrouping and trying to quell the conflict where it still raged on along the side streets.

Between narrow lanes flanked by buildings of wood or wattle and daub, the crash of weapon on shield and the flash of armour revealed where the fighting was thickest. As the small company of riders continued to ascend, the leader gave a series of shrill whistles, and each time a small contingent would separate and turn along the next byway. One such whistle spurred Truva’s own guard to divert suddenly down a side street between a smithy and cobbler. She had no choice but to follow; those around her rode so tight as not to leave a single inch of freedom.

Within moments, they found themselves confronted by a horde of Orcs, who had solidified their position within a butcher’s shop and now threatened with gleaming knives and cleavers any who dare approach. At a barked order from the rear guard, all three of Truva’s companions dismounted, then turned as one to stare at her. Even without a single word spoken in any language, their meaning was clear: join us.

Perhaps these Easterlings were once her enemy, having stood opposite her at the Battle of Mundburg or Morannon – yet on this very day, Truva had been viciously attacked by Orcs, whereas the Easterlings at least afforded her the opportunity to live on; they did not even disarm her. It was apparent where her best hope of survival lay.

Truva swiftly slipped from the saddle and drew her blade.

Under a smattering of arrows, the motley quartet of Men dodged into the residence across from the butcher’s shop, causing a great disturbance amongst the inhabitants within. Disregarding their shouts of distress, the guard called out what were most certainly orders; yet ignorant of their language as she was, Truva could not follow them. She darted to the window and cleared it of glass with the pommel of her sword – which must have been the very orders the Easterling had commanded, for at once the others did likewise. Then, drawing their bows, they trained four arrows upon the butchery and leased.

Three Orcs fell. But before the others could redraw, Truva extricated a black-fletched arrow from where it had become lodged in the daub-wall behind and nocked it to her bow. A fourth Orc fell.

Truva’s companions turned to look upon her with growing consternation, but she paid them little mind. Abandoning all pretence of long-range combat, she raced up the dwelling’s stairs and clambered onto its roof, taking shelter behind its ridge. From there, it was no more than a short jump to the neighbouring building, then the next, and the next.

As soon as she was out of sight of the melee, Truva snuck into the mercer’s shop beneath the roof she occupied. But even as she descended the stairway, an Orc thudded up it – though he could not raise his sword in time to prevent the front kick that sent him tumbling head over heels back down. Not even the sound of clanking armour could disguise the sickening snap that left the Orc motionless at the bottom of the stair.

Leaping over his still form, Truva moved into the main shop, weaving between bolts of linen and worktables. To her immense fortune, the Orc had been alone; even the alley beyond was abandoned when she peered out the windows. Bracing herself momentarily, she darted across the narrow street and into the weaver’s shop opposite unaccosted, mounting the stairs once more. Then she crept, roof by roof, back to the site of the conflict, keeping always to the rear, away from the street.

In the butchery’s upper floor, the attention of three scouting Orcs was directed ahead; they had eyes only for the Easterlings, who continued to assail the shop from a now gently-smouldering residence. With secrecy on her side, Truva made quick work of these scouts before circumventing two more that awaited on the stairs by slipping over the railing and down to the lower steps. Four Orcs were dead at her hands before the remainder were even made aware of her presence by the strangled cries of a fifth.

Then Truva suddenly found herself the focus of nearly two dozen Orcs, who all turned to stare at this intruder – yet in that very moment, the trio of Easterlings burst in through the front entrance, having taken advantage of the distraction she provided. In the ensuing chaos, Truva snatched a bonesaw from its hook upon the wall and snared the arm of the nearest adversary within the loop; capitalising on his forward momentum, she folded the Orc’s limb against his chest before dragging the saw’s serrated edge across his neck.

When a second Orc swung at her, she trapped his sword also and, in one circular movement, removed his head with her own blade.

Extricating herself from the tangle of bodies, Truva turned to defend against the next onslaught. But the only sight she faced was that of the Easterlings and a single Orc they had strung from the ceiling beam, upon which meat was typically displayed. Even as she watched, the Easterling leader scavenged a crossbow from the hands of a slayed Orc and, taking great care and consideration, fixed a bolt. He levelled the crossbow at his victim’s midsection with evident glee and loosed the arrow. The Orc went slack against the ropes that bound him.

But their work was not concluded. With Truva in tow, the Easterlings ducked back out into the byway and gathered their horses, who lingered exactly where they had been left. Rather than leap back in the saddle, however, the party continued their ascent towards the central district on foot, lending strength where pockets of conflict still raged, or joining water brigades to finally extinguish the fires, or assisting residents to right their homes along the way.

Slowly the pandemonium ebbed around Truva and her companions, and they eventually found themselves upon the crest of the central hill. There stood a wide, cobbled square, surrounded by merchant shops and elegant homes. Silk curtains fluttered in windows which opened onto circular balconies, each crowded with opulently-garbed onlookers peering down onto the milling crowds below: a teeming throng of soldiers and less prosperous villagers alike, all desperate to glean what little information was to be had.

Faced with this impassable multitude, the Easterling leader hitched his mount to a post just beyond the entrance of the square and gave yet another deafening whistle. The villagers turned to discover its source before immediately parting to make way for him. Through this cleared path he strode as both Truva and the other Easterlings scrambled to tie their horses and follow.

Upon the eastern side of the square rose a terraced dais, with a throne of golden filigree and blue velvet placed on the very topmost tier – yet it was unoccupied. Only on the penultimate step did the Easterling leader who had first confronted Truva stand, his posture stark and unmoving. He had removed his helm to reveal sharp features and long, unbound dark hair – though a single streak of white cascaded down one side.

Below him, a dozen riders had gathered, clustered a short distance from the dais’ base. Truva’s party joined this congregation, and were soon followed by the remaining riders, demarcated by blue doublets covered in armour bearing embellishments of a golden colour. A great many other foot soldiers proceeded to amass about them, distinct from the riders by the unadorned silver armour they wore.

Despite the unceasing chatter of ordinary citizens and the continuing sounds of recovery emanating from the streets beyond, the soldiers remained silent and immobile. Tension seemed as if to radiate from their bodies, forming a stormcloud that threatened to thunder down upon them. Still, even as their numbers swelled, they did not look about or speak amongst each other.

Loath as she was to draw attention to herself, Truva was equally curious about her surroundings. With as little movement as possible, she cast her eyes across the shopfronts – tinkers and coffer-makers, drapers and bakers – and the wealthy residents that crowded balconies above. All the ladies were dressed in short linen jackets and colourful, ornate skirts of silk flowing from chest to toe-tip, jewels glittering upon necks and woven into braided hair.

As Truva’s eyes travelled about the square, they turned southward, where the clear line of a secondary street revealed a vista which caused the breath to catch in her chest:

The great Sea of Rhûn! Its seemingly endless expanse was bathed in the fading periwinkle light of sunset, a beauty rivalling that of her first glimpse of the Bay of Belfalas.

The sight recalled to her mind the feel of Aragorn’s arms about her, his whisper against her ear as he revealed they had come at last upon the sea – how long ago it seemed! How very different her situation! In that moment, Truva could not help but wonder what circumstances he now found himself in, and hoped desperately they were more optimistic than her own, laying as she did at the mercy of these Easterlings and whatever their obscure purpose was.

Her ruminations were shattered by the sounding of a trumpet. All at once, the mood of the gathering shifted; the chatter grew louder and notably more cheerful, and the crowd’s press abated as many residents began to depart the square, drifting back into shops and along side streets. The soldiers maintained their position and silence, yet an ease overtook their posture; shoulders sagged slightly and stances were relaxed.

Then the leader stepped forward and beckoned towards Truva’s company. The ranks of soldiers parted sharply and the three Easterlings stepped forth, two before her and the third shoving roughly at her back. When they gained the dais, one knocked at Truva’s calves with the butt of his spear, forcing her to kneel upon the bottom tier, though still they did not bind her hands or force her to bow.

The sharp marble edge bit painfully into Truva’s shins as she stared blankly up at the empty throne. The leader’s tone was sharp and acerbic as he addressed her companions, voice loud enough to carry across the entire gathering of soldiers and those few citizens who lingered, drawn in by the promise of a show.

The first Easterling responded with equal volume, and when he had concluded, the second added a few brief words.

The leader then turned his piercing gaze upon Truva. After a time he spoke at her, asking what she could only assume was a question based upon his inflection. But of course Truva could not answer what she did not understand.

‘Deepest apologies,’ she said in Westron, ‘but I am unfamiliar with any dialect of Easterling. Do you perhaps speak the Common Language?’

There followed a tremendous gasp, then utter silence. All eyes bored into her, filled with a mix of fear and fascination, hatred and curiosity. The leader descended several steps until he stood just before Truva.

‘The Common Tongue?’ he said incredulously, drawing his scimitar ever so slightly from its sheath. Frenetic whisperings rippled throughout the crowd. ‘What business does an Easterling have with such a vulgar tongue?’

‘You see by my armour I am no Easterling,’ Truva replied.

The leader’s head inclined slightly, as in disbelief of what his eyes and ears told him. ‘You merely wear a fine suit stolen from our gaol on your escape!’ he asserted. ‘Deserters are shown little mercy in these lands, as you are well aware; yet Óddîr and Yestîl report a fine demonstration of duty upon your Second Breath – would you throw away the opportunity of a commutation for such unabashed lies?’

‘I speak no lies, milord—’

‘Noyon,’ interrupted the leader.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘My title is Noyon, and you will use it at all times when you address me. You feign ignorance convincingly, traitor.’

‘It is not feigned, Noyon, and I am no traitor,’ Truva insisted. ‘I come from a distant land called the Riddermark – perhaps you know of it as Rohan, whose people you stood in opposition to during the War of the Ring—’

‘Cease your prattle!’ the Noyon cried suddenly with a swing of his scimitar. ‘Never have we marched against the West! Your words grow more treasonous by the minute!’

Yet even as he spoke, a messenger pushed his way through the throngs and mounted the stairs of the dais. The Noyon bent his ear to hear the soldier’s whisperings, then straightened with a nod. A peculiar expression passed across his face.

‘A strange boat has washed upon our shores,’ he said. His tone was even and he spoke softer than before, yet in some way he felt more threatening for his composure. ‘If you can describe to me this boat in detail, I shall consider allowing you to live a single day more – perhaps to explain yourself and your presence here.’

Truva’s mind burst into furious activity; surely it could be no other! Words cascaded from her mouth uncontrollably: ‘Is it not hewn from a single trunk of an ash tree, bearing the markings both of Dwarf and Elf? For its origin is that of the Woodland Realm and of Dale, by which path I came. Its prow bears the likeness of a mountain prominent in that region.’

The Noyon stared at her for a great length of time, the crowd hanging upon the very silence itself. At long last, he sheathed his blade and cried out a command in Easterling. Óddîr – or perhaps it was Yestîl – leapt forward and bound Truva’s hands behind her back in a way she had never experienced since her days in the Hidlands. She fought down the rising panic; she was in no position to defend herself.

The two then marched her around the dais, followed by a dozen additional soldiers. They made for the eastern side of the square, where the streets were moderately wider and boasted increasingly ostentatious shops and residences. Soon, these gave way to expansive compounds, the walls of which extended the length of three ordinary houses, then five. Through latticed gates Truva caught glimpses of lush gardens and life-sized statues, though the guards were swift to face her forward again.

When the company rounded a tight bend, the low wall of a compound – larger than any they had passed – rose up directly before them. Four guards flanked the ornamental gate, two of whom stepped forth to salute Truva’s escort as they drew near. The parties exchanged a brief greeting before the gate was opened from within.

As Truva was marched through, the remaining soldiers peeled off and proceeded along the northward branch of the street, leaving only three to enter the compound. They were not alone, however; guards stood at regular intervals all about the inner stone wall, or upon pedestals along a gravel path lined with stepping stones. Even in the gloam of late twilight, they could be spied betwixt carefully maintained branches of azalea and black pines, hosta and hydrangea. They were posted at the entrance and each corner of a single-storied wooden hall, which was raised slightly from the ground upon stout blocks.

Truva nearly tripped as she stared up at the palace’s green lattice walls and scarlet pillars, floral and geometric paintings adorning its curving eaves and narrow veranda. Vines of wisteria, boasting faint purple blossoms, tangled along the rooftop and twined down its columns to droop over low stone steps, carved with the likes of Smaug and his ilk.

Latticework doors slid aside at their approach, admitting the small company. Within, they were greeted by a veritable army of servants, all dressed in the same loose silks Truva had spied earlier. Their faces fell immediately, disheartened to find it was a mere suspected traitor who had come, and not the Noyon himself. They all dispersed swiftly, save the youngest, who led the three down a central corridor until they came to a door on the left. The servant boy slid this open to reveal a modest hall beyond.

‘Sit,’ said Yestîl (or, at least, the soldier who had not bound her before), thrusting her towards a low table. There were thin square cushions on the wooden floor. Seeing no alternative, Truva took a seat upon one. When she was settled her two escorts assumed positions amongst a series of other guards standing around the room, and spoke no more.

Taking advantage of the sudden quietude, Truva allowed her eyes to roam the hall. She looked admiringly upon the intricate pearl inlay of camellia and swans splayed across the table before her, the delicate golden embroidery of the silk cushions, the murals of mountains and waterfalls in all four seasons upon the walls. Every detail spoke of an extravagance she had only ever witnessed in the greatest cities of Gondor.

Her inspection complete yet still alone at the table, Truva strove to slow both her breathing and mind. Minutes lapsed into an hour, then a further quarter before the doors to the hall slid open again. Truva glanced up in anticipation, much like the servants that had greeted her, but it was not the Noyon now, either. Instead, a stream of servants carried in tray upon tray of tiny ceramic bowls. These they arrayed upon the table in a honeycomb pattern, more than thirty in all: various kinds of soup, braised beef with quail egg, steamed bream upon a bed of clear noodles, marinated crab, smoked pheasant and – most peculiarly – morels sauteed in a fragrant oil, and dried pike.

Delectable smells wafted up along tendrils of steam, tantalising Truva’s starved belly. She turned her thoughts back to nothingness in an attempt to stifle the urge to consume each bowl in one mouthful. Yet it was not long before her composure was interrupted again, for at long last the Noyon burst through the door and threw himself upon the floor opposite Truva.

‘So,’ he said, drawing back the billowing violet sleeves of the gown he had exchanged for his armour and washing his hands in a bowl of water offered by the young servant boy. He then reached immediately for the bream and, using only his fingers, took several flakes and placed them atop a bowl of rice. ‘You claim to come from the West.’

‘That is correct – though it is no mere claim,’ said Truva. She did not so much as glance at the food; she knew to precede an invitation could prove disastrous, and the Noyon did not appear tempted to grant one.

‘I suppose that explains why you are so handy with horses.’ He piled seasoned spinach on top of the fish and proceeded to take a delicate bite. ‘Óddîr thought it would be quite clever to give unto a deserter our most temperamental mount – imagine our surprise when Zaĭsan became like a lamb beneath your touch!’

‘It is a skill learned to me by the Riders of Rohan.’

‘Still, it is mystifying how one so similar in appearance to us would come from that golden-haired people.’

Occupied as he was in rending a crab’s leg from its body, the Noyon could not have noticed how entirely still Truva became. A great many things became clear to her then: that her appearance was the reason she had been mistaken for a deserter, and perhaps the reason she even came under the Orcs’ attack in the first place. What marked her as different in Edoras – the dark hair and its white streak, the sharp cheekbones, the short yet pointed nose – made her unremarkable within the borders of Rhûn. Only full battle-armour and insignia had prevented similar mishaps during the War.

The Noyon continued on, oblivious to Truva’s consternation as he poured a milky white liquid into two bronze bowls. ‘What other proof of your proclaimed identity do you have to show? These are yet words any learned Man might offer.’

Truva cast her eyes across the table, and from a sudden urge spoke in Eorling: ‘I know that the morels and pike you dine upon were discovered alongside the canoe – though how they survived the rapids I cannot say.’

The Noyon’s gaze followed her hand as she pointed out the mentioned dishes, then fixed intently upon her. ‘What is your name?’

‘I am called Truva, Second Marshal of the Mark.’ She could not help but allow the warmth of pride tinge her voice as she spoke these words, reverting once again to Westron.

The Noyon merely continued his scrutiny of her, the deep brown of his eyes a reflection of Truva’s own.

‘I have only heard this language once before,’ he said after a time, ‘and did not expect to hear it again so soon – or at all. Yet it is distinct enough for even my untrained ears to recognise it as that of the horse-lords.’ He then handed her one of the bronze bowls and said, ‘Drink, and eat. The mushrooms are particularly good.’

Ravenous as she was, Truva did not await a second invitation. She mimicked the Noyon in each of his movements, first washing her hands then delving dish by dish into the delicacies presented before her. Even as she ate, the Noyon turned to Óddîr and Yestîl and spoke at length with them in Easterling.

‘Why is it that you chose to fight alongside the Easterlings in our city of Agdî today?’ he asked of Truva during a lull in the conversation with his men. ‘If, as you claimed earlier, you believe us to have been your enemy during the War?’

‘It was not the Easterlings alone we fought against; we were at odds also with the Orcs, who continue to harass the borders of many Western kingdoms even now,’ Truva explained. ‘And significantly, I found myself the target of the Orcs’ ire before I ever encountered you.’

‘Thine enemy’s enemy,’ the Noyon murmured. ‘But what is your purpose here? You are no statesman; Óddîr claims you fight with the skills of a masterful warrior – climbing in from the butcher’s roof and slaying at least half a dozen Orcs by your own hand before his men could aid you.’

‘A warrior becomes a statesman with every sweep of his blade,’ said Truva, ‘though he regrettably speaks louder in times of war than in times of peace.’

The Noyon pursed his lips. ‘That is no answer.’

‘I seek my past,’ Truva revealed at last. Overcome by sudden emotion, she sought to hide her discomfort by bringing the bronze bowl of milk to her lips. The Noyon rushed to raise his own in synchrony, and they both drank deeply – though Truva was left spluttering and choking.

‘What is this?’ she cried, peering into her cup.

‘It is wine made from our purest silk rice,’ smiled the Noyon. ‘Is it not to your taste?’

Truva took a second, more circumspect sip. ‘On the contrary, it is like nothing I have ever tasted – yet not unsatisfactory.’

Dubious, the Noyon made a gesture to the servant boy, who slipped out and returned immediately with two pitchers, one steaming and the other bearing condensation on its side. The Noyon poured the first into a tiny cup, and the second into a bowl similar to that of the wine.

‘Do not cease your story,’ he commanded.

Contemplating how best to proceed, Truva delayed further by sipping from the first, tiny cup. She recognised its contents as tea – though far more pleasant than any of the medicinal varieties that had been forced upon her in the Mark – and so took another sip.

‘You were correct in noting that my bloodline is not that of the Eorlingas,’ she finally answered, allowing the hot tea to soothe her throat, ragged from battle. ‘I heard rumour that perhaps I might find answers out East, and so to Rhûn I came – only to be mistaken as one of your own from the very start.’

As the Noyon mulled over this information, Truva reached for the second bowl of liquid, finding it very similar in appearance to the rice wine.

‘It is a sweet rice beverage – not spirits,’ said the Noyon, observing her. Truva took a cautious sip, but as he said, it was wholly dissimilar to the wine and quite refreshing.

‘Perhaps this is an issue to bring before Morinehtar,’ the Noyon murmured.

‘Beg pardon?’ Truva questioned, still rather distracted by the spread before her, selecting next a whelk dish.

‘Our preeminent leader,’ he explained. ‘Perhaps you made note of the throne remaining empty during our congress in the market square this evening. This is because Morinehtar often resides beyond the walls of Agdî, in a palace of his own making. He has a great many duties to oversee, and thus only comes amongst us when times are most desperate.’

‘They were not desperate today?’

The Noyon threw back his head and laughed heartily. ‘I daresay not!’ he scoffed. ‘The conflict between Easterlings and Orcs regarding the waters of Ulāngól is long-standing; we had no need of guidance or oversight for such a cursory spat.’

Truva grew introspective a moment before asking, ‘As I have answered your questions, perhaps you might answer mine?’

The Noyon studied her for a good long while, as if weighing a thousand different variables in his mind – not least of which was whether or not to grant her the opportunity to question him.

‘If you wish to ask of our role in the War, or the nature of our conflict with the Orcs, I think perhaps it is best you wait to speak with Morinehtar – for he knows of these things far better than I,’ said he. ‘As for your bloodline, I can offer you no perspective; your best hope lies, again, with Morinehtar.’

It seemed the variables had not fallen in Truva’s favour.

‘And where might I find this Morinehtar?’ she asked.

‘East,’ said the Noyon, rising from the table. ‘Far to the East, to the furthest shores of Zünuur, where lies the fortress Karkürem. But you are not rested, and it is late. Let us retire and discuss such things in the morning.’

‘But what of the food?’ asked Truva. ‘It is a terrible waste to leave so much uneaten.’

‘My mouth is short; I eat lightly, to leave all the more for those who come after.’

As he escorted Truva from the hall, Óddîr, Yestîl, and the other guards descended upon the tiny dishes. When Truva glanced back to spy the young servant boy scrambling for the dried pike, she felt tremendous guilt for having consumed so much.

Chapter Text

Following her supper with the Noyon, Truva was escorted by the guard Yestîl to a smaller residence within the compound, about which the ubiquitous guards were stationed. There were a small number of side rooms, though she was led to that which lay at the furthest end of the short hall: a modest bedchamber spread with neatly-woven reed mats. There was no bed save padding upon the floor, yet it looked far more inviting than many a camp Truva had made.

There, tucked within the far corner, sat her rucksack. It looked none the worse for wear.

Yestîl did not say a single word, merely opened a door upon the right to reveal a small washroom, then made the motions of washing up. He then slid the main lattice door closed behind him, feet padding off down the corridor.

Truva raced first to her belongings, which she found astoundingly dry. There was not an inch of rope or leaf of athelas missing (it seemed only the dried pike and morels had been pilfered, if even the Easterlings had known they were hers); nor had Truva once been deprived of her weapons. It was as though this Easterling community had at once accepted her as one of their own, questioned her as one of their own, forgiven her as one of their own. A peculiar warmth burgeoned in her breast – a tenderness she had not felt since her first few months in the Mark.

In the cramped washroom, there was only a tiny, high-walled tub, so small Truva was unsure as to whether she was expected to fully immerse herself in the steaming water or simply rinse off. Opting for the latter, she used a cloth to wipe away the spray of river and the sweat of exertion. When she was finished, the water was tinged pink with the traces battle had left upon her.

Emerging again into the bedchamber, Truva spied thin linen undergarments folded and placed thoughtfully upon a stool. These she gratefully donned, though the lavender and seafoam silk outer garments she laid beside the mattress so they did not wrinkle. In diving between the bedding’s blankets and padding, she felt certain that not even Mundburg’s most opulent accommodations were so comfortable – judgement perhaps altered by her lassitude. Still, she slept briefly and lightly, as was her habit.

Come morning, she was struggling to tie the unwieldy bolts of silk when a hand rapped at her door. Before she could so much as reply, the guard she had determined was Óddîr stepped into the bedchamber. His impassive face swiftly transitioned to one of exasperation.

‘No, no, no,’ he tutted, unravelling the convoluted hunting knot Truva had tied, then rolling his eyes at the mess below. ‘Backwards.’

He gestured for her to turn the skirt around and tie it at the front, muttering in Easterling all the while. Once the lavender skirt was affixed to his satisfaction, he pointed to the short jacket that accompanied it.

‘Čamča,’ he demanded. Truva threaded her arms through the jacket sleeves and attempted to secure it herself with its long ribbons, but Óddîr swatted her hands away. ‘Wrong!’

‘You speak the Common Tongue,’ Truva remarked, observing carefully as he wove the ribbons into a one-sided bow.

‘Yes,’ said Óddîr. ‘A little. All warriors do. Halt! Name! Surrender! Snake-eater! Coward! These words all warriors must know.’

‘Snake-eater?’ questioned Truva.

‘South Men eat snakes. The name is a joke. Sometimes it is not.’

‘And the Noyon? He speaks as one native to the West.’

‘He is the Noyon. He learned from Morinehtar,’ said Óddîr, dismissing her question with a wave then stepping back to admire his own handiwork. The knots and bows appeared simple to Truva, yet it seemed they were dictated by guidelines indiscernible to her. When Óddîr glanced briefly at her Rohirric braids, however, he quite clearly abandoned all hope, and pointed instead to her pack.

‘Bring.’

He gave Truva only the briefest of moments to gather her belongings (though she took the opportunity to surreptitiously pin Aragorn’s Star beneath her skirt when he turned to speak with the servant boy) before leading her back through the hall of painted paper and wooden lattice.

They emerged onto the garden, which blossomed with the faint warmth of morning. To the hall’s northern side, a vast pond spanned to the compound wall, waters rippling in the sunlight. Irises clung to its loamy edges, purple heads nodding in the gentle breeze as a slow current drifted past and cascaded over a minute waterfall into a second pool below.

Within an open gazebo jutting out over the pond sat the Noyon, absorbed in reading. Curtains of gauze billowed about him, lending an aura of serenity to the intimidating leader – though this illusion was abruptly shattered when he turned at the sound of Truva and Óddîr’s approach.

‘An envoy goes to Karkürem tomorrow,’ he stated, sparing no breath for greeting. ‘I have informed the captain that you will be accompanying them, as will Óddîr.’

‘Tiĭm, Noyon,’ said the soldier. He bowed his head and assumed a post just outside the gazebo.

‘I should like to go today, if at all possible,’ said Truva, sitting upon a cushion opposite the Noyon. A handful of servants appeared immediately – one taking Truva’s pack away, the others placing bowls of steaming rice porridge upon the table. The earthy scent of mushrooms wafted up; surely that was the last of her morel harvest.

The Noyon poured tea for both himself and Truva.

‘Perhaps it is as you have demonstrated thus far – that you come in peace, with no ulterior purpose beyond the discovery of your origin,’ he mused. ‘Or perhaps not; I am not so naïve as to allow a stranger to roam freely across my lands. You will go with the envoy, or not at all.’

Truva glanced at his expression as she took the dainty tea cup into her hands. The Noyon’s stern brow spoke as clearly as his words did: there would be no argument.

‘Today,’ he continued, ‘if it so pleases you, I shall show you our glorious city of Agdî and its surrounding lands, and teach you a great many things any spy of the West would be ecstatic to learn.’

‘I would be truly appreciative of such an opportunity.’

‘As I thought,’ said the Noyon with a soft harrumph. ‘Now tell me of your own people, and of this “Riddermark”; I desire to confirm all I have heard.’

And so, as they ate, Truva spoke extensively of Edoras and Dunharrow, Aldburg and the Wold, of Entwood and Mundburg – avoiding sensitive topics all the while; there was no need for the Noyon to hear of the harsh winter the Mark had just endured, or the Eorlingas’ precarious truce with their neighbours, the Dunlendings. She avoided also any mention of the War – for she sensed there was some peculiar situation, the nature of which she could not quite grasp, regarding these Easterlings and their role in that conflict.

Porridge soon gone and their meal concluded, still Truva was in the midst of explaining the Mearas and the role they played in Eorling culture. The Noyon rose from the table, though he indicated for her not to stop, and so Truva continued to detail the finer points of daily life as he strode off along a garden path.

Óddîr and half a dozen guards fell into formation as the Noyon exited through a side gate into the street beyond, taking an immediate left and continuing along the compound wall. Opposite were the numerous facilities necessary to the running of a palace: kitchens, laundry, servants’ quarters, guard house, dovecote, apothecary – each accessed via its own alley, rather than the main street.

Even before the Noyon slid open the doors to a long, low building, the rumble of horses’ nickering revealed their destination. Truva breathed in the comforting smell of haylage; these Easterling stables were nondescript but dry and warm – passable enough. When he recognised the scent of his rider from the previous day, Zaĭsan stuck his piebald nose into the aisle, whiskers quivering.

‘He is the colt of one of Morinehtar’s own herd,’ said the Noyon, ‘brought westward to see if he might be broken upon the wide open lands of the river plains. Instead, he merely taunts us, and defies all attempts to train the wild out of him.’

‘There are some horses from whom the wild cannot be separated,’ Truva acknowledged, still cautious in her approach of Zaĭsan despite the rapport she had built with the pony. ‘In the Mark, the most crucial knowledge is understanding when to change the horse, and when to admit it is we who must change.’

The Noyon sniffed at these words, but said nothing as he leapt into the saddle of his own strawberry roan mare. His silk robes billowed about the beast, and in that moment Truva understood why the undergarments she had been provided were trouser-like, rather than any sort of smock. She spared a moment to ensure her pack was fastened properly before following Noyon’s lead.

Followed by a mounted guard led by Óddîr, the Noyon descended towards the docks, where the small company wove through a maze of market streets. Truva delighted in the way the Easterling throngs paid her little mind. Rumours of a warrior from distant lands but bearing Rhûnic features must have circulated, for whispers followed wherever she went; yet most passersby were content to dismiss her as one of the Noyon’s company, no more or less remarkable than the leader himself.

After coming upon the quay itself, the Noyon turned eastward, his passage eased by the guards’ parting of the multitude. Eventually, the city’s eastern wall became visible through the patchwork of stall canopies. Cutters and sloops glided this way and that about a substantial breakwater, attesting to the activity of a great many docks beyond the walls as well.

Unlike the northern gate of the city, which had borne the brunt of the Orcs’ attack, the eastern entrance’s narrow archway was still intact. When the company drew near, rank upon rank of guardsmen stood at immaculate attention, flanking the gate. They held their blades aloft in salute, without a single tremble of fatigue; it seemed they dared not even breathe in the presence of the Noyon. Not until he had passed through to the outskirts beyond did they turn in sharp formation and resume their posts.

The bustle of activity outside the battlements was more boisterous even than the market within; indeed, the docks appeared to stretch endlessly, a forest of white sails beside a veritable second city – albeit a far less prosperous one. If Truva had believed the northern outskirts to be expansive, she now saw far more Easterlings had opted to construct their provisional homes upon the shores of Zünuur, rather than in lands more susceptible to the attack of Orcs.

The company’s progress grew slower, for not only were the outskirts’ paths narrower, but the guards also struggled to part the press of villagers. At a sharp command from Óddîr, a barrier was created about the Noyon, restraining the masses who cried out to their leader. Though Truva could not understand the Easterlings’ clamouring tongue, she could discern a few enthusiastic greetings, but dissent also; and the pleading expressions upon man, woman, and child alike required no translation.

Truva glanced towards the Noyon, who did not answer the villagers’ shouts. He stared straight ahead, turning neither right nor left; the muscles of his jaw twitched and the veins of his hand stood out as he clutched the reins in a vise-like grip. Though his pace did not increase, his discomfit was apparent; even the guards cast questioning looks over their shoulders.

But the dwellings gradually petered out, as did the teeming throngs when they saw the Noyon would not deign to offer them a response. Beyond the outskirts, only rolling plains lay before the company – save a single rocky outcrop some distance to the southeast. It was substantial in size, but nothing like the soaring, snow-capped peaks Truva was accustomed to; it was not quite tall enough to be considered a mountain, but nor was it a mere hill. Upon its crest stood a solitary watchtower.

In making for this outcrop, the company broke into a canter, revelling in the whip of wind as the ground flew by beneath their horses’ hooves. These lands were not so lush as those of the Mark; the greens were faded, the grasses short, and the trees scraggly and few in number; overcast skies washed the scene in desolate greys and blues, exaggerating the bleak appearance of featureless plains sloping sharply into the dull Sea. But still there was a desolate beauty to the sight, a subdued strength that demanded respect Truva was more than willing to give.

The company gained the outcrop’s western foot come early afternoon. The grumbling of Óddîr’s stomach was audible to all, and yet they did not break for lunch, instead ascending the pathless hillside, their horses plodding sure-footed around rocks and through patches of sagebrush. As the small party neared the crest, they were not greeted by militant walls or regimented soldiers – indeed, there was little more than a circular hut and a high wooden platform atop the hill.

Upon hearing the Noyon’s approach, a pair of drably-clad watchmen peered from over the watchtower’s parapet. The first called out a greeting in Easterling, and with a sharp whistle from the second, four more watchmen stumbled from the hut. They all bowed and scraped before their leader, still adjusting tunics and jackets as the Noyon gestured towards Truva, which elicited even more bowing.

Dismissing the watchmen with a wave of his hand, the Noyon then mounted the watchtower ladder, beckoning for Truva to follow. From the elevated platform, even the furthest corners of all the lands of Rhûn seemed to reveal themselves. The River Running cut westward from the grey haze, splitting the land like a crack between two pottery shards, then tumbled into the Sea – and truly it was a sea, for even from such a height, its furthest shores could not be discerned. Upon the distant eastern reaches of Zünuur, however, the verdant shadow of a forest unfurled across faded hills.

Just to the west, Agdî and its harbour sprawled in an array of neat, grid-like cobbled streets, surrounded by an indistinct cloud of bustling outskirts. But this was not what drew Truva’s breath from her chest: directly opposite the expansive mouth of River Running sat a second walled city, dark and foreboding.

When she had first stumbled upon Agdî the previous day, Truva assumed the settlement on the river’s western bank was a mere extension of that very same city, in the manner of Osgiliath, Pelargir, or Dale – or indeed nearly any township spanning a narrow waterway. But she could see now that in place of inland ports, both cities boasted heavy fortifications along the Running River – fortifications which extended far into the waters of Zünuur.

‘The city of Uzdígh,’ the Noyon said, standing at Truva’s shoulder.

She turned to stare at him. ‘Is that not an Orcish name?’

‘It is,’ he replied. His laugh was no more than a gentle huff, which was swiftly replaced by the same grim expression he had worn earlier as they rode through the city outskirts. ‘We maintain a faltering truce – though in truth it is violated more frequently than it is abided by, as you yourself discovered. Look to the north.’

Truva followed his outstretched finger, observing a vast patchwork of furlongs there: swaths of corn, wheat, barley, potatoes, and a great many pastures for livestock. An occasional creek – like those she had stumbled through whilst fleeing from the Orcs – wend its way from farm to farm, yet far outnumbering these were the scars that marred the plains: barren remnants of water sources long dry.

‘We till land far from Ulāngól’s fertile riverbanks, for fear of attack,’ the Noyon continued. ‘But this was not always the case. It is said that long ago, we lived in relative peace alongside the residents of Uzdígh—’

‘Live in peace with Orcs?’ Truva exclaimed, incredulous. ‘It is not possible!’

‘I likewise find such tales bordering on the absurd, myself; antagonism between our two peoples has been unceasing since my youngest days, and since those of my father, and of my father’s father. Yet so it is spoken; the history conveyed from generation to generation relays that the people of Agdî grew so numerous, and our farmlands so vast, that the smaller waterways became insufficient. And so we sought to divert water from Ulāngól to feed our crops and our livestock.

‘The Orcs of Uzdígh interpreted this as an act of hostility, however; they feared we would deplete the river’s boundless resource, and therefore set out to destroy our irrigation systems – only to construct their own in turn. We retaliated, naturally, and there has been no peace between Agdî and Uzdígh ever since.’

‘The dam,’ Truva murmured, recalling the ruins she had encountered along her journey.

‘Yes,’ said the Noyon. ‘That was one of Morinehtar’s more recent conceptions, designed to supply both our peoples in equal measure, thus ending the conflict definitively. Alas, it was not to be.’

‘What of the Sea? Can you not draw water from Zünuur?’

‘The discrepancy in elevation is too great to allow the successful installation of a distribution system of any complexity. Those with land in close proximity to the Sea can, of course, draw water by hand and transport it to their furloughs – but the produce of such fields alone is insufficient to meet the burdensome demand of Agdî.’

A long pause extended between the two. A breeze sprang up and whisked their fine silks about, carrying the chatter of Óddîr and the other guards up from below. Truva shrugged her modest jacket closer and broke the silence.

‘Why do you show me this, sharing the weaknesses of your land?’ she asked. ‘Have you determined I am not a spy?’

A chilling grin spread across the Noyon’s face then. His dark hair – so very similar to Truva’s own – caught on a draught and fluttered like black flames.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I have determined that I care naught for whether you are a spy, because in revealing Agdî’s weaknesses to you, I demonstrate also our strengths; that even after centuries of enduring Uzdígh’s pernicious forces, we persist. East Rhûn cannot be subdued, shall not be broken, will always emerge with ever greater power. I show you all our lands and resources, content in the knowledge that not with the combined might of Gondor and Rohan could you best us.’

It was Truva’s turn to smile, though hers was more cynical.

‘You have little to fear from the West; not since the days of Narmacil I has Gondor’s reach extended beyond Dagorlad,’ she said, foregoing any mention of Minalcar being sent forth only in response to news of Easterlings marching within the lands of Rhovanion during the early Third Age. She sensed the Noyon was a prideful man, and did not wish to risk the tenuous accord between them.

‘These ancient histories are lost to us,’ said the Noyon with an enigmatic look. ‘Our knowledge does not extend beyond the defence of our people here and now.’ He pondered some unspoken thought a moment, then turned sharply and descended the watchtower.

‘I return now to Agdî,’ he called over the rising whistle of wind as Truva clambered down after him. ‘You may accompany me if you like, but your path lies due east; should you wish to avoid doubling back, I suggest you pass the night here. I will hasten the envoy’s departure from the city, so that you might proceed on your journey at dawn.’

‘That is agreeable to me,’ said Truva, understanding now why Óddîr had ordered her to gather her pack.

‘It was most unusual to make your acquaintance, Truva Marshal of the Mark,’ said the Noyon. ‘If perchance your path returns you to these lands, I beg of you to grace our halls once more.’

‘Your hospitality was all the more gracious in having been unlooked for,’ Truva replied. ‘When my steps once again fall under my own jurisdiction, they will surely lead me back to Agdî.’

With a graceful bow, the Noyon mounted his horse and galloped off, followed by the entirety of his guard. Only Óddîr remained behind with the original watchmen, two of whom ascended the platform to resume their duties. The others shuffled about awkwardly, attempting to mask their curious glances at Truva. Óddîr quickly stepped forward and indicated each of the remaining guardsmen in turn.

‘Oböç, Bocür, Yostu, Kurıl,’ he said, then pointed up towards the platform. ‘Ólun, Gölfiç.’

Truva caught on at once, and spoke her own name with a hand upon her breast. The guards nodded in understanding; indeed, Óddîr had already introduced her long ago. The gathering immediately lapsed back into silence, but after a brief lull, Yostu clapped his hands and raced into the hut. He emerged with a handful of knucklebones.

‘Shagaĭ!’ he shouted enthusiastically. His intent was apparent, and the company swiftly clustered about him. Óddîr attempted to convey the rules to Truva in his limited Westron, but for the most part, she and the Easterlings conversed in the language of gestures and facial expressions. They spent the better part of the afternoon in childish revelry, cycling through several renditions of knucklebone games as day shifted to evening.

Then came the hour for changing watch. Even as Oböç and Kurıl took to the tower ladder, however, a heavy patter became audible in the distance. The company turned as one to observe a curtain of rain advancing across the Sea. In a flash, Óddîr led both Zaĭsan and his own horse beneath the shelter of the watchtower, where makeshift stables had been constructed. The others raced about, collecting tools from a small garden or snatching garments from a clothesline. They all ducked into the hut just as the first drops of rain struck its roof.

The watchmen stored their gardening tools just inside the entrance, next to an array of saddles and weapons, and shook off their jackets. Low cots were positioned about a central stove, interspersed with trunks and blankets, racks of drying meat and vegetables, and all manner of supplies necessary for an extensive stay.

‘Gér,’ said Óddîr, indicating the hut in general. ‘Ancient home of my people.’

The other Easterlings seemed to take encouragement from this. They began looking about, pointing at certain objects and stating the term in their native tongue. Truva struggled to take in the word for ‘bed’ and ‘sword’ and ‘fire’ and ‘horse,’ basic greetings, and – when she rushed to assist in dinner preparations – those for ‘bowl’ and ‘knife’ and (most importantly) ‘hungry’.

Then, just as the company sat down to its dinner of boiled boar meat, Yostu leapt up with a sudden cry and dashed outside. He could be heard climbing the low gér walls, and when he reappeared, he bore a small oval object.

‘Qurút,’ he said, slicing the soft cheese into cubes and adding it to their bowls one by one. The Easterlings dug in heartily, evidencing their enjoyment with wordless exclamations of delight.

‘Tonight is good food,’ Óddîr said to Truva. ‘The Noyon brought meat from Agdî.’

‘How long are soldiers stationed at this outpost?’ she asked.

‘One month, sometimes two,’ he replied. ‘Supplies must last. No time to hunt – only watch.’

Yostu interrupted them, handing Truva a ceramic bowl of the milky beverage the Noyon had offered her the previous night. ‘Makŏlli,’ he said, knocking his own bowl against Truva’s and taking a deep draught. Encouraged by the friendly atmosphere (in stark contrast to the Noyon’s stern, unnerving presence), Truva took a deeper sip than before.

Heated discussion then sprang up amongst the group of Easterlings, although it was jocular in nature and had not a hint of aggression. Following this brief debate, Bocür rose and collected an instrument from one corner of the gér. It had a trapezoidal body, roughly the size of a fiddle – though its long neck had but two strings, and its head was whittled to resemble that of a horse.

‘Destü,’ explained Óddîr, pointing to the head. ‘Steed of Bór the Faithful.’

The significance of such histories was lost on Truva, but that mattered little. As Bocür wielded his horsehair bow, the fingers of his left hand flitting over and under the strings in a pattern too swift to be followed, she could feel the music’s soulful mourning within her breast, comprehend the loss of ages past, hear the trials of generations within its wavering notes.

But then came an uplifting melody, the kind that spoke of fragrant autumn winds off the grasslands and of honeysuckle blossoming in summer, of love requited and of bountiful lambing seasons. Truva felt compelled to clap her hands in time with the music – or at least try – and the Easterlings rose up to dance, skipping about the enclosed space of the gér and nearly colliding with each other on more than one occasion in their inebriation.

But when Yostu and Bocür stepped outside to relieve Oböç and Kurıl at their watch, the remaining Easterlings prepared for the night, putting away the fiddle and tidying up after their meal. Two spare cots, outfitted with a nest of blankets, were pulled from a corner and set up with especial care for Truva and Óddîr, right next to the central brazier. Yet even as the company lay tucked in their beds, several of the Easterlings continued to banter and chatter deep into the late hours. It was well past midnight by the time Truva drifted off to sleep.

Her repose would not last long. Quite some time before dawn, she was awoken by Yostu’s face looming in the darkness overhead. Even as she sheathed the knife she had half-consciously drawn beneath the blanket, he gave her shoulder another prod, then whispered something in Easterling before disappearing beyond the flap of deer hide that covered the front door.

‘The Captain comes,’ Óddîr murmured to Truva in explanation, for he was already awake and straightening his cot.

They emerged from the gér, still rubbing sleep from their eyes, and mounted the watchtower to observe the Captain’s approach. Óddîr passed two mugs of black tea and milk to Yostu and Bocür as the four of them gazed out into murky darkness. The previous evening’s rain had lifted slightly, but still a light drizzle trickled down and obscured their vision of any great distance.

The sounds of a company ascending the outcrop was eventually heard below, and half a dozen Easterlings slowly appeared through the mist. Óddîr beckoned for Truva to descend the watchtower, and they had just finished tacking up their mounts when the riders gained the outcrop peak. One man leapt down from his horse and stepped forward to address Óddîr, his bearing proud and unforgiving. Óddîr returned his greeting in kind, and the man then turned to Truva.

‘Yicî,’ he said with a slight bow.

‘He is the Captain,’ Óddîr explained.

‘Saǐm ou?’ Truva said in Eastering, repeating the greeting Yostu had taught her the previous evening. Yicî Captain immediately stiffened and a frown split his face.

‘Saǐm,’ he replied coldly, his gaze sliding back to Óddîr. They exchanged a few additional words, then Yicî was back in the saddle and riding out with his company down the eastern side of the outcrop before either Óddîr or Truva could react. The two bade hasty gestures of farewell to Yostu and Bocür, then mounted up and followed after the Captain, their pace slowed by the escarpment’s steep incline.

When at last they gained more even terrain, they raced after the company, eventually coming amongst the Captain’s men. Yet not even when Truva had first fallen under the protection of Éomer Marshal and his Eorling Riders had she felt so out of place. Yicî and his men did not hide their displeasure at being ordered to take on the transport of an outsider; they turned from Truva and did not address her, nor did they make any attempt to communicate, and all took on a stormy mien – Yicî especially.

As she rode, Truva drew nearer Óddîr and quietly asked, ‘Did I misspeak? It appears the Captain has taken a hasty disliking to me.’

‘Yes, but you did not know,’ he explained. ‘“Saǐm ou” is used with friends. You are Yostu’s friend, but you are not Captain Yicî’s friend. To him, you must say, “Saǐm baǐn ou”.’

Shame roiled in Truva’s stomach. ‘I see,’ she said. Perhaps it was best to reserve linguistic experimentation for less consequential situations.

‘Also, the captain does not like rising early,’ Óddîr added with the wisp of a smile and the hint of a wink.

‘Is that so?’ said Truva, allowing the guard’s faint strain of humour to lighten her spirits.

The grey cast of rain did not lift all day. The company bore down across the waterlogged plains of East Rhûn as if pursued by Orcs, for none wished to linger in such miserable weather. They made camp that night beneath a paltry copse of larches, and forwent their evening meal out of convenience, sleeping in fitful, damp bursts.

In the dim hours of pre-dawn the following morning, the company set out in a disheartened and sodden repetition of the previous day. Rain fell even thicker, no longer an inconvenient trickle but a veritable deluge. As their path carried them further and further eastward, however, this curtain of grey was disturbed by a swath of green across the horizon: the woodland Truva had spied from the watchtower. Pines and cedar, spruce and birch – all reared skyward to create a barrier, dark and foreboding, between the riders and their destination.

Still the company pressed on, foregoing any rest in their determination to gain shelter all the sooner, and so came under the forest’s eaves a few hours after noon. To the riders’ immense relief, the rain immediately slackened, and a faint path emerged from the chaos of trunks and bramble. This path came in stuttering starts and stops, and sometimes disappeared entirely for short distances, yet Yicî guided them ever onward with assurance. It seemed he had made the same journey between Rhûn’s foremost city and the residence of its reclusive lord many a time.

Modest cabins and gér gradually began to appear alongside the pathway. Amongst these residences’ expansive gardens, delineated only vaguely from the surrounding woodland, rhododendron and azalea blossomed with lush richness, throwing bright splashes of yellow and pink and purple against the dull cast of the sky. Yet there appeared to be few occupants; the road was not well-travelled, and the company encountered no other wayfarers along their way.

As they delved further into the wood, the trees grew thicker about them, evergreen needles of pine now shielding them almost entirely from the rain. The loamy forest path hardened beneath their horses’ hooves, allowing them to fly through the cool, shadowy forest all the faster. Gér sprang up with increasing frequency, occasionally forming veritable villages just off the track.

Then, some distance ahead, the unmistakable sounds of a town filtered through the foliage. No sooner could these noises be discerned, however, than a mighty fortress reared up all at once, in the very midst of the forest. Trees grew nearly right up to its towering, moss-covered walls, and tall boles of ash and elm sprouted thickly within the stronghold itself, giving it the impression of having been built first and foremost in deference to the woodland.

The towers were certainly not of Elven construction – most notably because many were stone, in the style of Gondorian Men. Those few wooden structures nestled amongst the forest canopy were simple; they lacked the elegant architecture inherent in the flets of Dwimordene or the halls of Rivendell. Still, there was some echo of the Elves’ affection for nature in the burg’s modest spires and columns – in the way branches rapped gently upon arched windows, requesting entrance, or the way ivy spun lace along every surface.

Truva gazed in wonderment at the beauty, both natural and man-made, before her. Yet the concern that overwhelmed her awe was the ease with which an attacking force could fell the outer trees and scale the fortress walls. Not even a moat had been dug.

‘Are these defences not unsafe?’ she whispered to Óddîr.

‘Morinehtar does not care,’ he shrugged in return. ‘No one dares attack Karkürem.’

The company slowed to a walk and dismounted before approaching the gate. There were no dwellings or markets outside the walls, and not a single guard stood beside the sturdy oak doors, which were left ajar. Yet when Truva and the others entered, it was as though they had wandered into an immense, half-wild garden teeming with life. A tumble of stalls was crammed into every spare inch of space between broad tree trunks. Tiny huts, overgrown with grass and wildflowers, formed meandering pathways, and curtains of wisteria graced the eaves of every house and shop, flowing unbroken from one roof to the next.

Where there always seemed to be an underlying purpose and order to Elven cities, here nature had been allowed to take its own course. Sprawling root systems guided the jumbled array of buildings, and no attempt at paving the thoroughfares had been made, in deference to the trees’ spidery veins. Plants sprouted where they willed – even if that be in the very midst of the central fountain – without threat of being plucked.

The townspeople did not so much as glance up as the company passed through; they went about their business as if the sight of heavily armed guards and a well-dressed companion was unremarkable – and perhaps it was. But when Truva looked upon their linen garments in comparison to her fine silks, discomfort welled within her breast. Karkürem was not the flourishing metropolis of Agdî, with its lavish lords and ladies and sprawling palace compound.

There was, however, a prodigious tower, which Truva had at first assumed to be a tree – and in truth, she couldn’t entirely be convinced that it was not. The walls and windows and turrets of this structure were so intertwined with its bark and branches that she could not begin to suppose where building ended and tree began. Nor could she discern its species, for the columnar trunk and needle-like leaves were wholly unfamiliar to her.

The company followed a twisting path through the city, drawing ever nearer to this natural spire, until they arrived at its base, and the low hedge that encircled it. There, amidst a garden of chrysanthemum and quince, stood a tunnel of woven saplings, its ceiling a sea of purple wisteria undulating gently in the light breeze. To one side, the wings of a dovecote’s residents fluttered beneath an awning sheltering them from the rain.

No sooner had the company come before the entrance than a contingent of six guards emerged from the tunnel’s lavender shadow to greet them at last. These soldiers marched with purpose, the blue-black steel plating of their armour glinting in the overcast light. They halted a short distance away and exchanged a brief greeting with Yicî Captain, two stepping forward to lead Zaĭsan and the others’ mounts away. The remaining guards then turned sharply and marched back through the tunnel. The company followed close behind.

Upon the far side of the garden, saplings simply became one with the massive tree, opening upon an austere entrance hall. The walls within gave every indication of being living wood, and fern moss sprouted up in the gaps between the black marble tiling of the floor. Orbed lamps cast a soft golden glow across the hall as the company crossed towards a staircase leading to the upper floors.

Up this spiral staircase were they marched, first past one floor then the next, and the next as well. Truva grew dizzy as they ascended further and further; through the window, the ground became increasingly distant. When they reached the forest’s lower canopy, the company was forced to duck around branches from nearby trees that protruded through open windows, though none save Truva appeared surprised by this.

At last the guards paused before heavy double doors, carved with the same insignia of sturgeon as the Noyon’s helm, and knocked.

‘Orj,’ said a voice within.

Two guards shouldered aside the doors to reveal a cosy study. All manner of books lined the wall, and opposite the entryway stood open a very round window, through which jutted a leafy beech bough. Several birds flittered about its smaller twigs, or upon the desk strewn messily with papers before it.

In the very middle of the room stood a wizened old man, still tall despite a back bent by many years, and bearing a tremendously long beard. He was garbed in magnificent, midnight blue robes and a grey, wide-brimmed hat.

Chapter Text

Though Undómírë’s inquiries had taken an unexpected tack when she and Aragorn stood high upon the guard tower, there were others amongst the company in Herumoros less inclined to deviate from their single-minded purpose. Having been so thoroughly rebuffed by Ephor Herufoth during their initial encounter – and several times since – Castamir’s patience swiftly grew short.

Three days following the feast at Luxumarto (when even the most indulgent advisor’s head had recovered), the leaders lounged about the low tables of the sitting room, enjoying a leisurely post-breakfast tea. Aragorn and Éomer were the lone representatives of the north, as Maeron and the other Gondorian guards had established a certain understanding amongst their Haradrim counterparts, and stationed themselves as a sort of coalition just outside. Undómírë and Indil were likewise absent, having preferred to take a stroll in the garden, and so it was without their mitigating cheer that their fathers and various advisors sat across from their northern guests.

The mood within the sitting-room was collected, if not pleasant, as they sampled dates and other sweets.

‘Still,’ Éomer was saying to the Yüzbashı, ‘it is quite astounding, the breadth of tongues you command. I had believed the Southrons to speak no other language save that of the harsh commands we heard upon the Pelennor Fields, or before the Black Gates.’

‘Have not the horse-lords their own grating language?’ Nubol replied, an amused smile upon his lips. ‘And so it is with Harad. Though there are certain benefits to speaking a tongue unknown to your enemies in battle, when sitting about the peace table, accurate communication must prevail. We are isolated from the north, yet we are by no means an unlearned land.’

‘Our tribes – each with their own dialect – are many, and they have long been splintered,’ Herufoth deigned to add. ‘It is an Ephor’s duty to speak to his people with his own words, not that of another mouth.’

‘Indeed, an Ephor must be educated in all the languages of both north and south from his earliest years,’ said Nubol. ‘It is the way of our people, back to our ancestors who established these cities.’

‘The Corsairs, on the other hand, are a maritime folk,’ said the Ploíarkos. ‘It has always behoved even the humblest of sailors to speak the Common Language, at the very least.’

‘We have often been subject to northern rule, in addition,’ said Castamir. He had grown impatient; his fingers drummed upon the table in increasingly irritated patterns.

‘What of Far Harad?’ Aragorn asked, attempting to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters. He was perhaps as eager as the Captain to embark upon negotiations, but it would not do to begin on contentious ground. ‘Beyond the Ered Enaid?’

‘Khand,’ the Ephor muttered, taking a few moments to muse to himself. ‘They are a people apart.’

‘There were quite a few misunderstandings between us during the War,’ Nubol admitted. ‘In truth, I do not think even the most elevated commanders of our forces were capable of exerting any sort of control over the warriors of Far Harad.’

‘Following the War, they returned back over the mountains, and have been seen in these lands no more,’ said Tharbadír.

A brief lull followed as several teacups were refilled and memories were compared to this new information. It was then that the Captain seized his opening.

‘It is truly remarkable that we find ourselves amicably seated in the same room, though the strife between our lands predates each of us,’ he remarked. Castamir was not nearly the statesman his daughter was, yet he was not oblivious; he had made note of Aragorn’s hasty comment earlier, and discerned the intentions behind it.

But nor was the Ephor himself blind to others’ machinations. ‘What is it you wish to say?’ he demanded. ‘Speak candidly.’

Castamir pursed his lips; Herufoth’s attitude was not inviting, yet it was the most receptive response he had given since the travellers’ arrival three days prior. The Captain decided to capitalise on this opportunity, no matter how small.

‘I believe the conditions under which we made our most recent agreements have shifted,’ he said. ‘The Dark Lord’s promises proved false – and perhaps would have done so even had we reigned victorious in the War. Moreover, I believe King Aragorn’s presence here evidences the notion that Gondor no longer poses a direct threat to the Sutherlands.’

‘I do not comprehend your thread of logic,’ said the Ephor obstinately. Whether or not he discerned Castamir’s meaning, he would most certainly not admit to it; he would force the Southrons to delineate their precise intentions, weaving themselves into their own trap.

‘For many years, your deputies have exacted taxing payment from our coffers in return for protection from outside perils,’ said Tharbadír. ‘Now that those perils no longer exist, we wish to renegotiate such arrangements.’

The Ephor laughed brazenly then, the rich tones of his voice reverberating off the tiled walls. ‘You wish to negotiate! With what leverage do you make such suggestions? What new advantage can you boast of?’

‘The strength of Gondor,’ Aragorn interjected.

The Ephor’s eyes fell upon him then, full of surprise and perhaps a hint of anger, yet this did not deter him. ‘I come amongst you as King of the Reunited Realm to advocate for more equal accord between Umbar and Harad.’

‘And the strength of Rohan,’ added Éomer. ‘The northern kingdoms are allied in these negotiations, as they are in all things.’

‘What business is it of the Forodrim the agreements that exist between Sutherland lords?’ asked the Yüzbashı.

‘A great deal, when my seaports of Lebennin and Belfalas find themselves under the assault of a nation driven to desperation,’ said Aragorn.

The Ephor’s glare bored into Aragorn before fixing upon Castamir. ‘And what solution would you suggest?’ he said, jaw clenched. ‘What stipulations do you request?’

‘Immediate cessation of levy collection,’ the Captain said at once. ‘With the understanding, of course, that this would result in the cessation of protections.’

‘Harad’s commitment to defence of the Havens is not merely for the Corsairs’ benefit,’ said Herufoth. ‘I should not care to think what troubles would plague us all, were the port to fall once more into the hands of those unfriendly to the south.’

‘If the security of Umbar is so crucial to Harad, then the financial remuneration the Corsairs pay is excessive,’ Éomer argued. ‘As of the current arrangement, you benefit doubly: both from the Haven’s solidified position, then again from their coin. Is it not indeed in your own interest that you seek to bolster defences along the coast? Yet if this is not so, and the Corsairs wish to be rid of Harad’s overreaching arm, why not abandon them to their chosen fate?’

‘The Captain’s lack of concern is a façade,’ exclaimed the Ephor. ‘He is fearful as ever, yet believes that in affecting nonchalance, he can simultaneously retain protection whilst being free of its financial burden. It is not inexpensive to maintain an army, as you well know, my lords; the funds must come from somewhere.’

‘Perhaps said funds ought to come from the gem mines you press my workers into slavery for,’ snipped the Captain.

Herufoth leapt to his feet at this accusation, shoulders trembling and brows thrust together in rage. ‘I refuse to be spoken to in such a manner!’ he cried. ‘None within my borders are slaves; indeed, your workers come into my lands thankful they shall not lead lives shortened by drinking in the noxious fumes of your cupellation methods! Do not perpetuate such misconceptions out of a desire to press your advantage with the Forodrim.

‘And you!’ he continued, pointing an accusatory finger first at Aragorn and then Éomer. ‘You thieved our Oliphaunts from us, claiming they were likewise pressed into servitude – but it is not so! They are no different than the horses you donkey-wallopers ride into battle. But you northmen are ever saying one thing, only to do another. You are little better than the Captain.’

Castamir made as if to respond, yet Aragorn laid a gentle hand upon his arm; to argue these points would only cause the Ephor to defend himself all the more vehemently, and bring about no resolution.

‘Let us not go in search of each other’s faults, for they are many,’ said Aragorn, ‘and instead consider the ways in which we might come to an arrangement that benefits all parties equally.’

Herufoth gave a huff and took a seat once more. ‘So you say, yet offer no solutions,’ said he. ‘Such an arrangement already exists: that by which we have lived until now, where the strong defend the weak, and the weak support the strong as best they can.’

The argument devolved rapidly into sullen silence. Éomer gave a frustrated sigh, and the two Sutherland lords returned to their tea, pointedly ignoring each other. The wheels of Aragorn’s mind turned, yet he allowed the quiet to linger, for it was clear they would get no further that day.

Nor apparently the next, or the next – for each time any member of the company broached the topic of negotiations, another was sure to raise immediate objections. Never had Aragorn encountered such a political impasse as the Captain and Ephor presented. Several weeks passed in this manner, yet still they appeared no more nearer an accordance than when the travellers had first arrived.

As they had in the Havens, the Forodrim took the opportunity to rove about the city and its surrounding lands, guided by Indil and Undómírë. In exploring an array of ceramic workshops, which were the source of Herumoros’ immaculate tiles, and the dovecotes that played counterpart to those of Umbar, they were never unaccompanied by the Yüzbashı, who showed far greater caution than Tharbadír ever had.

After touring the city itself, the company emerged beyond the city walls. Forging some distance up the Sîr Talath, they inspected the multitude of farms there, or toured wineries that took sap from date palms and distilled it into alcohol, or simply allowed it to ferment into vinegar. They visited also the many textile compounds, where threads of diverse colours were woven into traditional patterns of the south, creating the tapestries and carpets that adorned the walls throughout Herumoros.

But no experience was met with such wide-eyed fascination as that which was begun when Indil burst into the dining theatre one morning, followed closely by Undómírë, just as the company sat down to their breakfast of lamb and rice.

‘Father!’ Indil exclaimed. ‘What are you doing? Have you forgotten? You are not to eat breakfast this day!’

‘Ah,’ said the Ephor, rather less than enthusiastically. ‘I’ve business yet to conduct with the Captain; the guards shall escort you and our guests, for both Nubol and the Ploíarkos are away on business. And please do not lose me any great coin, as last time.’

‘Yes, father,’ Indil agreed, cheeks red and head bowed.

‘Come, come,’ Undómírë urged the northerners, who rose in confusion and allowed her to herd them out into the courtyard, leaving their meals untouched. Both the Haradrim and Gondorian guards fell in behind as the company scurried through the garden towards the gates of Luxumarto, but they would not depart so swiftly. No sooner had they gained the outer wall of the citadel than a sentry leapt forward with a deep bow.

‘Milady, we have anticipated your coming,’ said he. ‘Your father has ordered that your appearance be made in accordance with tradition.’

‘Ah, but it is so terribly inconvenient!’ Indil complained as a quartet of warriors emerged from the gatehouse bearing a white and gold brocade canopy of state. Its long crimson curtains of organza fluttered to the ground, and was only so large as to fit the two princesses alone.

‘An unaccompanied Haradrim princess must at all times be shielded from the public’s eye during public functions,’ Undómírë murmured by way of explanation to Aragorn as she slipped between the concealing curtains after Indil.

The guards arrayed themselves about the baldaquin, indicating for Aragorn and the others to follow behind, and with a final greeting to those on sentry, the company emerged into the city itself.

They joined an ever-swelling crowd of Southrons who made their way down, down to the main entrance of Herumoros, sending up raucous cheers and a cacophony of musical instruments and other noisemakers. The northerners, having been spied with some frequency about the city, were greeted with far less suspicion than they had been upon their arrival, and some Haradrim even extended greetings in Westron. Others attempted to draw near their princess, for they knew her to be hidden behind the canopy’s screen, but were swiftly rebuffed by the encircling guards.

When the press of people neared the main gates, this differentiation became even more apparent as ordinary citizens bumbled about in an attempt to form inspection lines, whereas those in the canopy retinue simply strode onwards. Just before the battlements, the sentries snapped to attention and ushered the party through without a moment of delay.

Once beyond the immense gates, they turned south upon the great road which ran perpendicular to that of the caravanserai and the Havens beyond. Already a great clamour could be heard just ahead. As the company rounded the walls of the city, an immense grandstand came into view, littered with fluttering banners and awnings. Throngs of spectators stretched as far as the eye could see in the hazy desert morning air, shouting and jeering at some unseen spectacle.

‘It is yet the preliminary races – we have not missed much,’ came Indril’s voice from within the canopy. ‘Let us hurry.’

The crowds parted more easily here, for each individual was preoccupied by and rushed about on his own business. Guided by the canopy, Aragorn and the others proceeded a short distance along the road before coming to the stands’ entrance, its sandstone façade and high arch a swirl of floral motifs. When the company ducked into the vestibule beyond, they were greeted by the welcome respite of shade, tiled flooring cool beneath their feet.

They did not pause long, however, and swiftly ascended a series of staircases, white rendered walls smooth beneath their hands. Passing spectators leapt aside in deference, only to scurry away when the crowd’s roar swelled.

At the top of the third stair, a quartet of guardsmen stood before an archway. ‘Welcome, milady,’ said one, pulling the privacy curtain aside.

Indil and Undómírë stepped directly from the canopy into the area beyond. Only once the awkward bundle of poles and fabric was stored did the remainder of the party enter – all save the Haradrim warriors, who took up positions beside their compatriots. The northerners emerged to find themselves on a small platform, shielded from the morning sun by a calico awning, and from the view of neighbouring spectators by wide curtains. Directly below, the crowds milled about in excitement, packed shoulder to shoulder in the stands.

But that was not what drew Aragorn’s eye. In the narrow strip of land between Harad Road and the glimmering Sîr Talath stretched a series of three eccentric tracks, the largest of which must surely have measured at least two leagues in circumference, but all coming to pass directly before the gallery.

Even as the company looked on, nearly a score of kamels were aligned on the stretch of track nearest the grandstands. Each creature was adorned with its own unique saddle blanket, and seated upon their backs were tiny jockeys – no more than children. The kamels’ feet stomped and their necks strained behind a strip of fabric stretched across the track at head-height, stilled against the faint breeze by a wooden framework. One creature nipped at another, and was subsequently led to a position on the outside of the track.

Then a horn sounded. The starting gate shot upwards and the kamels careened forward, their knock-kneed limbs splaying wide as they bumped and jostled for position along the sandy track. The crowd’s roar was deafening, and soon picked up by those beyond the gallery, who stood at the fence along the track edge, all about the entire circumference. Nearly every citizen of Herumoros and its surrounding villages had gathered to watch the races.

‘That’s me out already,’ Indil sighed, flopping into a chair so heavily padded and ornamented it might very well have been a throne. She motioned for a servant to step forward and waft her in the gentle breeze of an immense fan. ‘Old Sığırtmac’s kamels ought to automatically start on the outside – they are always so mean!’

‘“Always”?’ questioned Éomer. ‘Are such races a common occurrence, then?’

‘Have you not heard the horns?’ said Undómírë, motioning for the northerners to take their own seats. Through a few subtle movements, she ensured Aragorn sat between Éomer and herself. ‘They are near constant.’

‘Though most races are not nearly so grand in scale,’ Indil added. ‘My father arranged these especially, and in the name of the Forodrim kings, with the hope that they would endear you in the minds of our people.’

‘I suppose that is why we were greeted with such exceptional cheer this morning,’ Maeron remarked.

‘The Haradrim are ever thankful for an excuse to indulge in the races – and today they will surely get them!’ said Indil. ‘It is said there are to be so many that the championship race shall take place after sunset, illuminated by torches. So please be at ease; if you are hungry or thirsty, you need merely say so. Otherwise, enjoy the entertainment put forth in your honour.’

Aragorn settled into his seat and accepted a cup of mint tea from a servant, then squinted off across the distance to where the tiny specks of kamels turned onto the stretch along the track’s far side, scarcely visible. Down below, vendors stalked up and down the fence or shoved through the narrow gallery walkways, calling out offerings of olives or stuffed flatbreads or the ever-popular skewered meat.

Scarcely a quarter hour passed before the kamels came hurtling back around the track, their massive lips flapping wildly with each stride. The crowds grew riotous as the first few creatures crossed the line and stumbled to a gangly stop. A scuffle subsequently broke out, contesting the results, but no sooner was the decided winner crowned than a new selection of kamels were led out and the process repeated – though these were sent around the smaller of the inner tracks, and returned all the sooner for it.

‘They’re funny creatures, these kamels,’ Éomer remarked to Aragorn in one of the quieter moments, as a parade of servants carried in a veritable feast upon copper platters. ‘They move as though they’re constantly trying to keep from falling over, and yet I never would have expected the beasts we rode from Umbar to move so fast as that. I reckon the Captain spoke true – kamels would outlast a horse in the desert well enough; though I must admit I miss Firefoot dearly.’

‘Gamhelm and the others will see he is well cared for,’ Aragorn said in reassurance, digging into a bowl of stewed lentils.

‘To be sure,’ Éomer agreed. ‘I just can’t help but worry.’

It was not a sentiment unshared. There were a host of concerns that had crowded Aragorn’s mind from the outset of their journey, not least of which were the affairs of his kingdom that went unaddressed while he was away – but most of which was undeniably a certain shieldmaiden who tramped all across the northern realms. It was just the other day he could have sworn he sensed her presence when dining upon a midday meal with the Ephor and others. And thus Aragorn’s thoughts wandered as the sun tracked higher overhead, then shifted towards the rear of the gallery.

Come noon, an especially long break followed the conclusion of one race, which caused Indil to perk up. ‘Excellent!’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. ‘The Masters’ races are to begin – perhaps they will prove more favourable to me.’

Even as she spoke, an entire swarm of kamels was led from the stables along the northern end of the track, then placed in the holding pen beside the stands. Hundreds of beasts and riders formed a colourful sea of blanket, bridle, and robe, feeding the sense of mounting anticipation.

Only a dozen kamels deviated from the others to make for the starting line. During the jostle behind the gate, however, one jockey plummeted from saddle to sand, sending gasps rippling through the spectators.

‘Aiya, already?’ cried Indil. ‘Ah, well, it was his first Masters’ race; perhaps we pushed him too quickly.’

In one fell swoop, the child was swept up by an attendant and carried off the track. Another was led out just as swiftly and placed upon the kamel in his stead. With scarcely a pause, this new heat took off around the middle track.

As the hubbub died down, Undómírë leaned in close to Aragorn and lowered her voice so that not even Éomer could hear – though this was an easy feat, for even in its quieter moments the crowd was exceptionally boisterous.

‘Why so sour an expression, milord?’ she asked, holding out a plate of figs in offering. ‘Do these events held in your honour displease you?’

Aragorn’s gaze lingered on the tent the fallen rider had been ushered into. ‘They are so young,’ he muttered.

‘And where do you think those children come from?’ Undómírë’s eyes glimmered with keen intent when Aragorn turned to fix her with a stare. ‘Though it is not always by force,’ she added. ‘Some Corsairs believe Harad will provide their children better opportunities than anything they would find in the Havens.’

‘There are so many…’

‘Some surely come from Harad’s own lesser tribes,’ the princess laughed bitterly. ‘I do not think all the children of the Havens alone could sate the Haradrim’s greed for kamel riders.’

Aragorn fell into brooding; his thoughts immediately turned to the Hidlands and all that Truva had experienced there. To know her tale was not unique – that others continued to suffer as she had – left him feeling ineffectual, as though all the evils the world sowed could never be plucked before reaping.

‘It is yet one more reason why our negotiations with Harad must not fail,’ Undómírë insisted. ‘But Herufoth denies the practice outright, of course, and thus – with all things involving the Ephor – it must be approached obliquely. I believe I can trust you in this matter, I must trust you in this matter, for you see things as I do.’

She studied Aragorn with a scrutiny so intense he felt as though all his intents and purposes lay stripped bare before her. He gave a nod of understanding; then, with a final significant glance, Undómírë turned back to Indil and resumed their cheery conversation as though nothing had occurred. Contrarily, Aragorn waited until an opportune moment to convey all he had learned to Éomer, who reacted in much the same manner. A dark pallor overtook the events; where once was fascination – if not outright enthusiasm – there was now unease.

It was not long after that the balcony curtain was again thrust aside. The Ephor himself emerged through the archway, accompanied by the Captain, and with a chorus of greetings they took positions of prominence amidst those already present. A stream of dishes followed, for indeed the skies were already taking on the dusky hue of early evening.

‘How goes it, my child?’ the Ephor asked of Indil as he deftly extricated the skeleton from his fillet of perch.

‘It is rather worse than last time, I’m afraid,’ she replied, a charming smile plumping her cheeks. It was easy to see why the Ephor humoured her so thoroughly.

‘You silly girl,’ he said with an amused shake of his head, turning at once to discuss the day’s events with Undómírë. Aragorn leaned ever so slightly past Éomer to catch the Captain’s attention.

‘And the matters you spoke of with the Ephor?’ he asked. ‘Have you any progress to report?’

But Castamir simply shook his head, and a peevish expression passed across his face. Abandoning all talk of business, the company plunged into more pleasurable topics of conversation, though they were briefly interrupted when an audible thrill ran through the crowd. There was yet another pause in the bouts.

‘The champions’ race!’ Indil enthused, drawing her chair nearer the parapet.

Music was struck up somewhere in the stands high above, screened by the canopy. Upon the track, two flame-bearing attendants stepped forward, one on each side of the starting gate, and touched their brands to the poles. At once, torches all about the longest track were lit, illuminating even its most distant stretch. A horn was sounded.

These kamels did not emerge in a disorderly group, as the others had. Twoscore were led one by one, swathed in silks of white and adorned with flower garlands, past the stands and then back again to the starting gate. Here their white covering was stripped away to reveal the colour of their saddle blanket below: bold yellows blocked with sable, stripes of cerulean and orange, crimson snakes upon green fields. The garlands were removed, then placed about the jockeys’ necks as they were lifted into the saddle, then returned once more to the attendants. After a final stroke down the kamels’ nose, the attendants disappeared.

The crowd grew so quiet that the beasts’ stomping and snorting could easily be heard; their chests pushed forward, eager, just barely restrained by their riders.

The starting gate lifted.

Wild shouts broke out at once as the beasts vanished into the darkness – for not even with the torches could any great distance be seen along the track. Once the kamels had passed their section, spectators from the south flocked to the starting line, hoping to catch a glimpse of the final result. They merely wound up trapped in the press of others with the same notion. Those upon the balcony merely concluded the remainder of their meal in varied spirits, waiting for the wave of excitement from the north to alert them of the race’s return.

It came more swiftly than any of the northern party could have anticipated, for these kamels far outpaced their earlier counterparts.

No sooner did the first kamel’s nose become visible than Indil leapt to her feet. ‘Father! Father!’ she cried. ‘Is that not the blanket of purple lilies? For all my losses, I have now made you a little richer this night!’

Sure enough, through the darkness glimmered golden threads of embroidered flowers upon plum-coloured silk, the kamel that bore it in the lead. The finish was not even closely contested – the next creature loped across the finish line three full kamel-lengths later. The crowd’s cheers were deafening.

With a gesture from Herufoth, guards manipulated the balcony’s awning and curtains until they were drawn fully back, revealing the party there. The Ephor rose to his feet. He did not call for silence, but the effect was near-immediate. As those less fortunate racers led their kamels back to the stables, the victorious purple lilies and its owner came to stand before the balcony.

‘Tell me, kamel-master,’ said the Ephor. ‘What is your name, and that of your kamel?’

‘Sığırtmac is my name, milord,’ said the man, wiping spittle and foam from the animal’s mouth. ‘And Domuz my beast.’

‘His kamels are mean, but they are fast,’ Indil whispered to the northerners with a wink.

‘You have a commendable animal there, Sığırtmac.’

‘Thank you, Ephor Herufoth.’

‘And you have made my daughter happy, as well. Bring your beast to Luxumarto on the morrow, and you shall be rewarded handsomely.’

‘Thank you, milord,’ said Sığırtmac, bowing low and leading the panting Domuz after the others.

With that, a sense of finality overtook the gathering. The spectators became a unified entity with the single-minded purpose of returning home. Many strove to consume the remainder of their palm-wine, while others sought out new sources of said palm-wine; but all were in a merry mood, whether they had profited or lost heavily that day. It took a great deal of intervention on the Haradrim guards’ part to keep the boisterous crowds separate from the royal family and their distinguished guests.

It was a long, slow walk back to the main city and up the hill to Luxumarto. When at last the company passed through the citadel gates, Aragorn’s ears rang for the blessed quietude, and he basked in the tranquillity of the palace’s garden. But even as the others made towards the dining theatre for a nightcap, he felt the gentle pull of Undómírë’s hand at his elbow.

‘A word, milord?’ she said quietly.

In truth, Aragorn was grateful for any excuse to linger in the garden, and readily agreed. A glance passed between himself and Éomer; it was all that was needed.

The lilting voices of the others settling in for libations hung upon the air as Aragorn and Undómírë strolled along winding pathways. The racing tracks had been unbearably hot, even with the gust of fans and refreshing mint tea, and so the myrtle trees’ cool depths felt especially pleasant by comparison. Neither Aragorn nor Undómírë was overeager to break the silence after such a raucous day, and so they merely breathed deeply, drinking in the gardens’ revitalising atmosphere.

‘I spoke with my father this afternoon, when the Ephor was preoccupied with Indil,’ Undómírë said at last. ‘Herufoth continues to insist on financial recompense for maintaining Haradrim defences in Umbar, and will not acknowledge the Corsairs’ contributions far exceed what little benefits we receive.’

‘It seems these talks serve only to further sour the relationship between the Sutherland realms, rather than repair it,’ Aragorn sighed.

‘The discord between Harad and Umbar unfortunately preexists the city-state itself. Both my father and the Ephor were born into a world where the two realms did not dwell in harmony, and neither has ever seen the need to rectify that fact.’

‘Gondor has such a need,’ Aragorn insisted. He paused to inspect a newly-blossomed crinum, its white petals curling outward to disperse a sweet scent into the cool night air.

‘A vlei lily,’ Undómírë explained. When Aragorn turned his gaze upon her, she gave a wry smile. ‘It has medicinal uses – primarily for back pain or swelling – and so it is one of the few plants with which I am familiar.’

‘I see.’

There was some peculiar air about Undómírë in that moment, a hesitancy that did not ordinarily haunt the bold princess, an energy which caused her words to tumble out more rapidly and less assuredly than usual – though the change was ever so slight that Aragorn would not have made note of it a mere few weeks ago.

‘Milord, I have a notion that might expedite discussions with the Ephor,’ she said suddenly.

Aragorn studied her closely, seeking to discern what unspoken plans might lie behind those keen grey eyes. ‘Any method by which we might overcome this impasse would be a welcome one, indeed,’ he said at last.

‘Perhaps you should first hear my proposition, and then make your judgments of it, my lord.’

‘Very well, let’s have it.’

Undómírë stepped closer then, taking a short breath as if to speak, but no words came; rather, she continued to draw ever nearer, her lips no more than a hand’s breadth away before Aragorn understood with a jolt what her intentions were. He leapt back, raising both hands between them.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he exclaimed.

‘I—’ Undómírë stammered. ‘Would this not be best for both our realms? Umbar would gain a powerful ally, and Gondor a bulwark between its southern lands and Harad – as well as assured protection from wayward Corsairs, for none would dare so openly defy the Captain, or put at risk his alliances.’

Aragron stood unmoving a moment, caught wholly unawares. His suspicions had been aroused all those weeks ago in the guard tower, when the princess had questioned his relationship with Arwen, and yet he had never once considered her ultimate ambitions to be so bold. He had, perhaps, been so consumed by his existing affections that he failed to see what was plain before him.

‘I must apologise,’ he said flatly. ‘I have no thought of entering into a marriage of convenience; Gondor’s position is not nearly so weak as to require it. On the contrary, I fear such a nuptial arrangement would prove detrimental to my kingship, too swiftly binding me to an ally without full insight into dynamics that continue to shift in the War’s aftermath.’

Uncharacteristic sorrow welled in Undómírë’s eyes, but she would not resign herself so easily – not without further appeal.

‘I do not ask out of mere practicality,’ she murmured. ‘Surely I am not alone in having felt certain emotions develop in recent days? You are a kind and thoughtful man, Lord Aragorn, and have shown me – the daughter of your enemy – grace beyond your role as High King of Gondor. Was my hope misplaced, in thinking you might harbour some tenderness for me?’

‘I feel no such sentiments,’ said Aragorn, his tone somewhat lacking in sympathy.

A single tear tracked down Undómírë’s cheek, taking Aragorn aback, yet he had thoughts of no other save Truva. A furious desire to protect her swelled within his breast; for though their relationship was known to none other save themselves and Gandalf – and Aragorn would therefore have to halt Undómírë’s advances without invoking it – he would not dare betray even the smallest portion of Truva’s trust in him.

‘You are a leader in your own right, Lady Undómírë – bold and intelligent,’ he continued. ‘And I have no doubt accords between Umbar and Harad may be reached without resorting to such a dramatic ruse. Gondor’s commitment shall ever be to harmony amongst nations – whether we are married or no.’

‘What of that night upon the sands of Laurinairë, when you asked why I slept within the litter? Or when we gazed upon the stars together, or when I spoke to you of plants and their origins, and of the artwork that graces the walls of Coronon?’

‘They are the same niceties I would have extended to any Man, regardless of rank or circumstance.’

Undómírë ducked her head, a patter of tears falling to the earthen path. ‘Do you truly feel nothing for me?’ she whispered.

Aragorn suppressed a sigh. ‘Fellowship, nothing more,’ he answered.

Undómírë whirled away at once, dashing through the garden and out of sight, leaving Aragorn to tussle with his bemused thoughts. His intention had never been to hurt the princess; he would have rebuffed her all the sooner had he fully discerned her true emotions, yet the entire situation had come swiftly and unexpectedly into focus. He chastised himself for not having been more perceptive.

Determined to find Éomer and consult with him, Aragorn stalked off in the direction of the dining theatre, only to discover the Ephor laid out upon the pillows fast asleep, his advisors engaged in some unfamiliar strategy game of triangles and stones. Politely declining their offer to join, he made instead for the northerners’ sleeping quarters.

No sooner had he entered the chambers and found them empty than Éomer darted in, looking nearly as frantic as Aragorn himself.

‘You would not believe—! The most absurd—! —just happened!’ the Eorling King huffed, unable to formulate complete thoughts.

With a single glance at his companion’s discomposure, Aragorn immediately determined its source: ‘Indil has proposed a marital arrangement,’ he hazarded.

‘Just so!’ Éomer cried. ‘Though it was a somewhat less dignified affair than such words would suggest. How in Helm’s name—?’

‘I have been the recipient of a similar offer, even now.’

‘Undómírë?’ Éomer speculated. Aragorn nodded in confirmation, causing Éomer to shake his head half in astonishment, half in amusement. ‘Eorl must be laughing! How do you suppose this development might affect negotiations?’

‘Rather poorly in our favour, I would think,’ Aragorn mused. ‘Until now, we relied on the tension between Umbar and Harad to inform our position; if they unify against us for having slighted both their daughters, it shall prove disastrous.’

‘The armada arrayed in the Havens’ bay was beyond our wildest expectations, in and of itself,’ said Éomer. ‘I shudder to think what might become of us, were that force combined with the strength of Harad.’

‘There is something else at play here I cannot quite discern—’ Aragorn began, but at that very moment, Undómírë threw open the chamber doors and stood boldly in the archway. Her appearance was in disarray, yet her face was once more composed, without a trace of its earlier distress.

‘You had best leave,’ she declared. ‘Now.’

‘Would you perhaps care to explain what exactly is going on?’ Éomer demanded.

Undómírë drew up to her full height, smoothing her robes before entering the bedchamber and sliding the door closed behind her. ‘As I imagine you have now determined, your position here is no longer safe,’ she said. ‘Indeed, it was intended that way from the outset; the Sutherlands work together to secure an advantage against the north.

‘Under the guidance of Harad, Umbar sent a limited number of ships to attack Pelargir and the southern coasts of Lebennin and Belfalas, baiting Gondor into an attack. Meanwhile, our combined forces lay in wait within the bay of Umbar; yet when you arrived sailing the white flag of parley, another line of strategy was devised: that of kin alliance.’

‘So the white flag did save us,’ Éomer mumbled to himself.

‘For a time, anyway,’ said Undómírë. ‘The Captain did his utmost to delay your party in Umbar, allowing myself time to grow familiar with King Aragorn. In the meantime, we presented ourselves as being at odds with Harad, enticing you to travel eastward for the purpose of negotiations and thus separating you from your forces. Once in Harad, we again stalled, providing Indil an opportunity to avail herself upon King Éomer.

‘All this was done with the intention that, should you reject our advances, the initial plan would be resumed – with all the greater likelihood of success, for both kings would be far distant from their troops when our attack came. Only an official marriage would prove adequate assurance to the Ephor of the north’s allyship, and doubly so to my father.’

Éomer stood stunned, mouth agape, and even Aragorn only just managed to compose himself enough to ask, ‘Why do you risk their plans to tell us this?’

‘My father’s self-serving and spineless governance has brought tremendous hardship unto my people,’ Undómírë spat. ‘If this venture with Harad were to fail, I would at last convince Tharbadír and the other advisors of Castamir’s incompetence, and gain sufficient support to be instated in his stead. And so, you see, I stood to gain immensely from either outcome: if not the Queenship of Gondor, then the Corsairs’ Captainship.’

‘So it was all a contrivance,’ mused Aragorn.

‘Helm’s name, but did you all play the part well!’ Éomer exclaimed.

‘In truth, the discord between my father and the Ephor simmered as ever beneath the surface,’ said Undómírë. ‘That much was unaffected; yet both were willing to overlook their disagreements if it could prove mutually beneficial, especially at the expense of the Forodrim. And though I can make no guess as to the Ephor’s intentions, I well know that – were my father to secure the singular support of Gondor – he would have betrayed Lord Herufoth without hesitation.’

‘As easily as you would betray him,’ Aragorn remarked.

‘I do not seek your approval, my lord,’ said Undómírë, her manner suddenly cold. ‘I do what is best for my people.’

‘Would Umbar not fare better if Gondor were routed entirely and driven from these lands? Why do you seek to prevent that?’ asked Éomer.

‘In truth, I do not believe the Sutherlands can best the north, even with the advantage of surprise,’ the princess answered simply. ‘And thus it is my aim to avoid any great loss on both sides by giving you forewarning – with the additional hope that my actions endear my cause to you, and we might begin a more congenial alliance once I depose my father.’

‘Such dealings require thorough consideration,’ said Aragorn, ‘yet we’ve not the time – I assume you give us warning now, having first informed the Captain and Ephor of our refusal to plight our troth?’

‘A carrier pigeon was long ago sent to Umbar, bearing the order to attack your ships within the Havens and along the coastline. The Yüzbashı and Ploíarkos’ absence is likewise due to their return to lead the assault. You must go – I have ensured you will not be stopped at the gates; take our fastest kamels and travel northward upon Harad Road, making for the Harlond River.’

‘There lies the settlement of Glâniant, at the intersection of river and road, is it not so?’ said Aragorn. ‘I have been there in my travels; they were not overly friendly upon first approach.’

‘I think you will find you are even less welcoming now,’ said Undómírë. ‘But their defences are not strong; you will be able to procure a boat there, and sail along the southern distributary to Umbar. Even such a circuitous route will be far swifter and less dangerous than traversing back across the desert unguided, beneath stars you do not know.’

Aragorn gave the Princess one last, scrutinising look, then said to Éomer, ‘Let us begone from this disastrous place.’

Even as they brushed past Undómírë, however, she caught Éomer’s arm.

‘My lord!’ she entreated. ‘I beg of you to reconsider Lady Indil’s offer in earnest; of all the suitors presented to her over the years, you were the first to show her any hint of consideration, no matter how unintentional. She genuinely cares for you.’

Éomer paused only momentarily, then shook his arm free and hurried past Aragorn, murmuring, ‘My mind is adrift, and I know not what to trust; perhaps such words are no more than a further contrivance of the Southrons’ deviated minds.’

Aragorn, too, felt disoriented at the swiftness with which their situation had altered. An uncharacteristic tendril of fear unwound in his breast. It was his very love for Truva that now endangered their future together, and for the briefest of moments he glimpsed all generations to come – the very House of Isildur, the proud Line of Elendil – dissipating on the nonexistent wind.

But he pushed all such thoughts aside as he and Éomer raced to the guards’ chambers and pounded on the door. It was opened at once by Maeron. The Captain asked no questions, for he had no need to – the Kings’ expressions spoke fluently enough. Within moments, the remaining guards were roused from their slumber, packs were gathered, and the company crept furtively along the arcade and through the garden.

To their tremendous surprise, Undómírë had spoken truly; not a soul was to be spotted about the guardhouse of Luxumarto. Still anticipating their discovery at every turn, Aragorn and the others slipped through the gate and snuck across the barren expanse towards the main city. The quiet murmur of conversation surrounded them as they passed by countless dwellings in which families settled into the last portion of their evening together – scenes of domesticity in sharp contrast to their desperate straits.

The company arrived at the caravanserai unaccosted, though whether it was due to Undómírë’s influence or sheer luck, Aragorn did not wish to guess. But surely it was not pure happenstance by which six kamels were saddled and supplied with full waterskins, and the Haradrim guards slept drunkenly in one corner.

‘Would it not be better to exit the city first, then relieve the Haradrim of a few of their racing kamels?’ asked Éomer, eyeing the bulky creatures loafing contentedly in their stalls. ‘We are certain to be caught if we ride out on the backs of these beasts.’

‘No,’ murmured Aragorn, stroking the nose of Deve – the loyal mount who had borne him from the Havens. ‘We will not emerge from this city unnoticed; it is best we affect assurance and purpose. And while those kamels that are bred to race are swift, they are unaccustomed to travelling long distances, let alone carrying the weight of a grown man. They will not bear us hence.’

Persuaded by this logic, the company set about assisting each other in mounting the kamels. By the time they turned out of the caravanserai and approached the city gates, riding down the very centre of the lane as though nothing were amiss, it was no more than an hour before midnight.

The hail was loud in the late-night hush of the city. ‘Where do you go at this hour?’ cried the guard.

‘We wish to ride beneath the moon and starlight,’ replied Aragorn, feigning inebriation; perhaps it might engender leniency towards the Forodrim’s ‘peculiar whims’. For further authenticity, he leaned slightly closer to the guard – but not so close the man could smell the lack of spirits on his breath – and added in a low voice, ‘Between you and me, I have heard rumours of an illicit midnight race this very night. My source tells me to place all my coin on the kamel with a saddle blanket of ruby pomegranates.’

The guard’s right eyebrow raised slightly. Aragorn feared he had overplayed his hand, but then the man winked so furtively Aragorn was not sure he had seen it.

‘Ruby pomegranates, you say?’ the guard mused. ‘Why, thank you kindly, Forodrim master! I hope to see you on the stretch in a short while!’

Aragorn returned his own wink and turned northward upon the Harad Road, yet the company had not gone five paces before the guard cried after them: ‘The track is to the south of the city, my lords!’

Aragorn’s breath seized in his chest, yet before he could work out a response, Éomer’s voice called out, ‘It is such a glorious, warm night – you would not begrudge us a circuit about the city, now, would you?’

‘The night is rather chill to us, yet perhaps it is pleasant to these strange Forodrim,’ muttered the guard to himself, but nevertheless waved them onward.

In the darkness, the two Kings’ heads turned towards each other to exchange a glance that could not be seen. Aragorn took the lead, setting an unhurried pace along the road’s hardened earth as Éomer lingered in the rear, assuring none fell behind or veered off course. When they were some distance from the gate – far enough their figures would be no more than indistinct shadows in the night – Aragorn urged Deve into a trot, then a gallop. The others followed close behind.

As they took off into the night, a horn sounded from the heights of Luxumarto.

Chapter Text

Truva and the envoy from Agdî stood at sharp attention before the desk in the tree-fortress’ study. Birdsong punctuated an uncomfortable silence as the old man continued to shuffle through papers, seemingly disinclined to afford the company even the slightest wisp of attention. His glance flickered up momentarily once, twice; then all movement ceased as he fixed Truva with a piercing stare.

Captain Yicî stepped forward and bowed with stiff formality. But when he took a deep breath and began to deliver his report in rapid Easterling, the old man cut him off with a dismissive wave of the hand, pointing instead to Truva.

‘Hén?’

The Captain sputtered into silence. It came Óddîr’s turn to brave the old man’s stony disposition.

‘Morinehtar, this is Truva,’ he said. ‘She does not speak our tongue.’

The old man scrutinised the company a breath longer, then turned to the Easterlings. ‘Yabu,’ he commanded. When Óddîr hesitated for a fraction of a moment, the old man issued a sharp rebuff, sending the Easterling guard scurrying after Captain Yicî and the others. The study doors closed behind them with a soft thud.

Truva knew not what compelled her to speak first (for her recent attempts at greetings had not fared particularly well), yet the old man did not seem inclined to break his pensive silence.

‘You must be Morinehtar,’ she began. ‘I have heard glorious things about you.’

The old man did not respond immediately. Papers still in hand, his eyes narrowed as he examined every detail of Truva, from her loose Eorling braids to the neat hem of her Easterling garb.

‘I am Morinehtar,’ he confirmed at last, ‘though I greatly doubt you have heard any substantial talk of me at all – whether glorious or otherwise; for I have gone to great lengths to ensure against such rumour-mongering.’

Truva willed herself not to show any sign of discomfort, though her throat was parched and her legs ached from a long two days’ ride. She felt certain Morinehtar would observe each and every twitch and interpret such movement as either weakness or dishonesty, which was not a disadvantage she could currently afford – for this man could be none other than he whom she most desperately sought: a Blue Wizard, one of the Ithryn Luin! If it was not the similarity in appearance to Gandalf that gave him away, it was surely the same sense of underlying power, untapped yet ever coursing just beneath the surface.

And then the haze of a memory from long ago gathered in Truva’s mind – faint at first, yet even as it took shape the image retained an insubstantial blur. It was the memory of a dream, one that had arisen when she first arrived in Edoras: that of an unknown figure and his horse, riding away into the night. She had assumed, upon meeting Gandalf years later, that it was no more than the White Wizard himself; yet she recalled now that the old man of her dreams had donned a hat of grey, whereas Gandalf had always worn one of blue.

‘What scarce information I have heard was praise,’ she hedged.

This coaxed a wry chuckle from Morinehtar. ‘And who are you, little Easterling who does not speak any dialect of Easterling, yet knows far more than she ought?’ he demanded.

‘I am Truva, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, come from the Western lands of the Eorlingas – horsemasters who ride with unparalleled swiftness across the central plains.’

Morinehtar studied her once more, as if searching for any mistruth. The intensity of his gaze was palpable.

‘And what is your purpose here, Marshal?’

‘I have come to extend the Eorlingas’ hand of goodwill to all Eastern nations, in hopes of affirming the accords struck between us in the wake of the War.’

The Wizard laughed outright then, in a voice deep and colourful – though his mirth did not extend to his eyes. The sound was quickly absorbed by the study’s wooden walls and cluttered shelves, or flew out through the open window.

‘Gandalf has sent you to investigate whether I was successful in my task, or ultimately allied myself with Sauron!’ he exclaimed. ‘Whether I stayed true to my purpose, or dallied in the tantalising darkness of unbounded power. I see age has not dulled his desire to meddle wherever he might.’

Truva stood immobile, her heart racing. Morinehtar had discerned one underlying purpose of her eastward journey within mere moments. Not even Gandalf found her so transparent, and yet this new Wizard gave no indication of focusing on the actual words she spoke; he seemed more to simply breathe the information in, to absorb it as cloth does spilled water.

Truva weighed the notion of speaking boldly; what purpose was there in treading carefully, when Morinehtar knew all that she was thinking?

‘Well, did you succeed?’ she asked.

‘Did you spy me upon the battlefields of Dale or Osgiliath, Minas Tirith or Morannon?’

Truva understood the implications of Morinehtar’s rhetoric, but did not answer, choosing instead to divert the topic. ‘The Noyon of Agdî claimed there was much for me to learn of Rhûn’s involvement in the War, and that you might illuminate those complexities.’

‘Söldan often makes promises on behalf of others, despite having no means by which to guarantee them,’ Morinehtar replied impassively, though Truva suspected there was the shadow of a frown beneath his inscrutable exterior. ‘Even so, I do not begrudge him this promise, for the political theatre of the East is indeed not as simple as many beyond its borders would believe. Perhaps if Gandalf understood that, he would not be so quick to suspect us of misdeeds.’

The Wizard began to shuffle through papers again, his long narrow beard catching upon the embroidered silver flowers of his robes. There was an indecipherable look in his eyes, the hint of knowledge beyond comprehension, of ages beyond time. Yet Truva wondered whether he might not be so close as Gandalf; already several of his answers had been more forthcoming than those she typically received from the White Wizard. She steeled herself to ask another question:

‘What task was it you were set upon?’ she said. ‘And by whom?’

Morinehtar did not speak at once. Page by page he set his papers down upon the desk, then folded his hands before him and returned the full intensity of his gaze upon Truva.

‘Do not feign as though seeking the answer to such questions is your true purpose here,’ he said.

His voice was soft, and yet it felt to Truva as though he had shouted with the full might of his lungs; his words reverberated within her very bones, rang so loudly in her ears she feared she might go deaf. How had this Wizard, tucked far away in the furthest reaches of Rhûn, come to know information she had shared only with those most crucial to her task? She stared in open-mouthed astoundment.

‘Your hair,’ he continued. ‘Has it always been so, or did it change over time?’

Truva’s hand instinctively flew to her head, where the lock of pure white was scarcely visible, intertwined with darker strands in one of her many plaits. ‘In truth I cannot recall my earliest days,’ she said, ‘yet to my knowledge I was born with this mark.’

‘And your bow? How did you come by it?’

Again, Truva started. Although the Easterlings’ billowing skirts allowed for the easy secreting away of knives – a fact which she had been sure to take advantage of – the narrow-shouldered jackets were not conducive to carrying or wielding larger weapons; Truva’s bow remained with her pack on Zaĭsan’s back.

‘It was gifted to me by an Elven maiden of Rivendell,’ was her simple reply. She suspected Morinehtar already knew this, though he did not seem inclined to confirm her suspicions.

‘You are widely-travelled, Marshal,’ he remarked. He did not elaborate, nor explain the reasoning behind his questions. Perhaps he followed more in the spirit of Gandalf than of Radagast, after all.

Morinehtar then stepped forward quite suddenly, plucked a scroll from off a high shelf, and exited the study in one fell swoop. He lingered on the steps of the spiral staircase for a moment before turning back to Truva, who still stood before the desk, unsure of what was expected of her. There was no sign of any Easterlings, either those of the envoy or Karkürem guards, in the stairway beyond.

‘Well, do not dally!’ said the Wizard, waving his scroll at Truva.

Galvanised into action, Truva hurried after Morinehtar as he ascended further up the tree-tower. He went no further than two flights, however, before diverting up a second, terrifically narrow stairwell – so steep it was nearly a ladder. The pair emerged via the floor into a tiny octagonal room, separate from the main trunk and perched instead upon several of the tree’s mighty branches. Its glass walls and ceiling looked out on all sides to the surrounding forest, though the windows were shut against the rain. Potted plants were arranged so thickly that Truva felt the space was a mere extension of the outdoors.

Amidst a nest of blankets and pillows was a low table, upon which stood a steaming ceramic carafe. Taking a seat before the table, Morinehtar motioned for Truva to join him, pouring a clear liquid from the carafe into two small square wooden boxes as she did so. In accepting the drink, Truva was so focused on not spilling its contents (which were filled to the very brim of the box) that she did not see how the Wizard produced a small dish of assorted delicacies, as well.

‘Tell me of the lands you come from,’ he demanded, handing Truva a warm, moist towel with which to clean her hands. ‘We will not be disturbed here; you may speak freely.’

Of all the varied figures Truva had encountered of late, Morinehtar was the one with whom she felt most hesitant to speak unguardedly; his demeanour was unreadable, and his eyes did not share the same spark of warmth present in those of Gandalf – yet it was Gandalf himself who had sent her in search of the Ithryn Luin. And here was one before her, seemingly having already guessed her purpose, and welcomed her nevertheless.

Still Truva sought to delay the inevitable. She turned her eyes to the food before her: a tiny selection of vegetables, the likes of mushrooms and bean curd, cucumber, and a peculiarly shaped root with many holes. The display felt as equally disjointed as her mind, and yet it all came together in one comprehensive whole – unlike Truva’s thoughts.

The White Wizard was sagacious; she would put her trust in his discernment yet again.

‘Drink,’ said Morinehtar. It was not a request.

Truva brought the wooden box to her lips and sipped, though she almost spat it out upon discovering the temperature was near-scalding. When she swallowed, however, the fiery taste of alcohol helped dispel the chill born of having ridden beneath an unceasing curtain of rain for two long days.

‘Begin from the very beginning,’ the Wizard prompted.

Truva swallowed. ‘Even in my earliest memories, I lived in the Hidden Lands,’ she said at last.

Morinehtar did not waste a single moment in producing with a flourish the scroll he had pulled from his shelf earlier. He spread it wide upon the table: a map, quite bare save only the most significant of geographical features, even in the lands of Rhûn.

‘Show me where.’

Truva indicated the now-familiar point in the northern Firienmist, partway between the Loudwater and Hoarwell rivers. Morinehtar gave a quiet ‘hmm’ as he examined the map for several additional moments. ‘And your parents?’

‘I have none – least, none that I can remember,’ said Truva. At an encouraging wave of the Wizard’s hand, she narrated in full the events of her years in the Hidlands, sparing him the more troubling details. Throughout the telling, his expression did not alter; he maintained a stony-faced countenance and asked but a few clarifying questions.

When Truva paused briefly, having described her escape under Éomer’s guardianship, Morinehtar’s lips pinched together. All he said, however, was, ‘To have been raised in such an environment was a terrible miscarriage of fortune.’

Truva masked her lack of response by sipping upon a clear soup of eggplant and fiddleheads, which had appeared as she spoke. Yet when Morinehtar did not remark further, she felt compelled to fill the silence.

‘Théoden King welcomed me into Edoras as he would any daughter of the Eorlingas; each injustice done unto me was repaid in kindness and warmth from the people I now call kin.’

‘I do not doubt it,’ mused the Wizard. ‘But it ought not to have come to that; you ought to have been afforded privileges befitting your station.’

‘How can a humble slave expect anything more than the basic decencies due all Men?’ Truva asked. ‘I was happy in the Mark, which I consider to be a fate most blessed.’

‘That was not your place,’ Morinehtar half-snarled, his bushy, peppered brows knitting together and the corners of his thin mouth pulling into a deep frown.

Truva sat back, startled by the ferocity with which he spoke. She dared not interrupt as he took several breaths to recompose himself. When his expression was placid once more, a shadowy gloom abated in the small room, and Morinehtar peered into Truva’s eyes with such intensity that she could not help but avert her gaze.

‘Do you not see?’ he pressed.

But Truva did not see – or perhaps, in spite of all the notions that had flittered within her mind throughout her travels, she did not wish to see. Perhaps she had only journeyed forth, secure in the seeming impossibility of her task, and thus deluded herself into believing there was no need to consider what might happen if she were, in fact, to discover her origins.

For what was there to consider? Suffering at the hands of Dregant in the Hidlands, blossoming under the care of Théoden King and all others who had shown her care in the Mark, coming to understand that her past did not preclude her from the love Théodred and Aragorn proffered – these experiences were what formed Truva’s identity, her essential self. How could a place she had no recollection of, people who exerted no influence in her life, bear any significance to her?

What once had been apathy transformed into violent denial in her breast.

Rather than answer, Truva stared at the new dish of thinly sliced orange and white acorn jelly, which appeared suspiciously similar to raw fish. The Wizard did not seem deterred by her silence, however.

‘Perhaps you have heard it was three of my kind who, when placed in Middle-earth, initially journeyed East,’ he said. ‘One – with whom I do not doubt you have some familiarity – established himself as our leader; I believe you know this Istar, or Wizard as you call us, by the name of Saruman.’

When Truva nodded ever so slightly in acknowledgement, Morinehtar continued. ‘The other was Rómestámo, my dear friend – though he was called Pallando then, and I Alatar. We were sent with the purpose of ensuring tranquillity in the Eastern realms, and thus negating Sauron’s influence here.’

Had Truva been inclined to speak, she might have asked Morinehtar to return to the very beginning of his tale and explain who it was that sent the Istari to Middle-earth. But she was not inclined to speak – for however curious she was, a far larger part of her wished to ignore the story entirely. She picked at the immense slabs of grilled mushroom stems now sitting before her (as she was already approaching uncomfortably full) and merely listened.

‘For a time, we argued amongst ourselves as to how best we could accomplish this feat,’ Morinehtar went on. ‘Saruman believed there was no other choice than to gather about us the mightiest of armies, for his mind was, as you know, driven by metal and wheels. But fearful as Rómestámo and I were that Sauron would easily turn such a force against us, we argued in favour of an alternative method – not one of opposing force with force, but of providing that which Sauron could not: security.

‘Rhûn was little more than a disparate patchwork of nomadic tribes at the time. They were herders, with no knowledge of how to till the earth or produce food beyond that which the land provided by chance. Those who were inclined to learn we gathered about the shores of the Sea, and taught them the ways of farming; and though we showed them nothing more than that which they were capable of themselves, the Easterlings considered our knowledge a kind of magic, and thus discerned our true nature. They worshipped us beyond what we deserved.’

‘What of those who were not inclined to learn?’ Truva could not stop herself from asking. Morinehtar once more turned the full strength of his gaze upon her, and Truva once more evaded it by downing an acidic dandelion jelly in a single mouthful.

‘Many had already fallen to Sauron’s will long prior,’ said the Wizard, his voice deep and rumbling. A dark storm clouded his brow. ‘King Khamûl and those further East and to the South lay beyond our influence. Lured by false promises, they swore allegiance to the Dark Lord, who never ceased in urging them to sow chaos and violence in the West.

‘Yet while the splintered nature of Rhûn’s tribes resulted in many opportunities for unification slipping through our fingers, it likewise prevented Sauron from solidifying any sort of entrenched power; disadvantage in turn became advantage. Thus I would like to think we Istari did not fail in our directive, for surely the Dark Lord’s army would have marched with nearly doubled numbers had we not taken the courses of action we did.’

‘How is it that Saruman came to be in the West?’ Truva interrupted again. She became more at ease the longer she interacted with Morinehtar, and glimpsed in him the same hints of rational benevolence she was accustomed to seeing in his kind.

The Wizard mused for several moments, even bringing the still-steaming wooden box of alcohol to his lips before speaking.

‘Saruman returned Westward some centuries ago, for reasons known only to his own mind. It is merely my own conjecture, of course, but I believe he thought Rómestámo and myself too simple, our cause insufficiently bold. For many years before his departure, he chafed at our refusal to form a standing army, and thus chose to seek his own methods by which he might prove effectual.’

But there was a second, more pressing question that seared in Truva’s mind, hotter than the dish of green-skinned squash now simmering before her. ‘What relevance do such annals have to my purpose here?’

‘I have not finished my tale,’ quipped the Wizard. ‘It is not a short one, at your own request.’

Properly chastised, Truva ducked her head as Morinehtar drew the map forward once more and tapped the expansive Sea. ‘Absent Saruman’s dour presence, Rhûn prospered. Many others, inspired by the first tribes’ success, also settled about the shores of Zünuur – though most congregated near the fertile mouth of Celduin. Yet it was not Easterlings alone we drew into our sphere.’

‘Orcs,’ remarked Truva, surprising even herself.

Morinehtar raised a single eyebrow. ‘Precisely,’ he said. ‘Orcs. Many were tribesmen in their own right, fleeing the encroaching shadow in the southeast. Others, once soldiers in Sauron’s armies or labourers in the lands he controlled, grew disillusioned after the failure of numerous military campaigns, and were no longer swayed by the Dark Lord’s fell machinations.

‘I will not say these Orcs were Man-like in nature. But nor were they the vapid, organic instruments of war we had previously believed them to be. Despite their penchant for argument and violence, they were willing to learn our ways, and to make a new life for themselves – in their own manner.

‘Rómestámo took a particular liking to these pathetic beings, and so sheltered them beneath his wing. The Orcs could not be fully integrated into the society we had already established, for not only were they and the Easterlings entirely different in nature and culture, there was no common language between the two. Thus developed the arrangement you see today: Easterlings upon the east bank, Orcs upon the west. For a time, we lived separately yet peaceably.’

Truva still failed to comprehend the relevance of Morinehtar’s story, yet her ears pricked up to hear him describe circumstances resembling those she had witnessed in Agdî; it seemed the tale was nearing its end. When she stuffed fried sweet potatoes and beans into her mouth, it was now to prevent herself from asking questions, rather than to avoid speaking.

‘Over time, however, the Orcs’ inherent rapacious nature took hold. Sporadic conflicts over resources sprang up. Fishermen sailing both upon the River and across the Sea were the most frequent culprits, though the collection of river mud ignited occasional spats, as did hunting game. One particularly bloody incident involved a deer swimming across Celduin.’

Morinehtar closed his eyes as if still affected by this last memory.

‘Did these conflicts extend to the waters of the River Running itself?’ Truva asked, recalling what little history the Noyon had conveyed to her.

‘Naturally,’ said Morinehtar, reaching to refill her square cup. When he withdrew, a tiny bowl of savoury egg custard stood beside it, still steaming. ‘As I suspect you have heard, we of East Rhûn sought to divert a small portion of Ulāngól to sustain our ever-expanding farmlands. The devolution of that conflict was swift and irreversible.’

‘What of Rómestámo?’

‘Ah, therein lies the crux of the issue.’ Morinehtar paused for quite some time then, genuine sorrow writ upon his brow. His sigh, ever so faint, bore the weight of a hundred such gestures.

‘The brotherhood betwixt Rómestámo and myself quite naturally persisted throughout these turbulent times,’ he continued at last, ‘for our connection transcends even the most all-consuming conflicts of Men. We knew also the duty of salvaging what little peace could be had between East and West Rhûn was ours to execute.

‘But not even amongst Wizards is such amity eternal. Ultimately, it was Rómestámo himself who betrayed our trust, and thrust us into irreconcilable discord. There was an Easterling chieftain, you see: leader of the tribe foremost amongst all tribes, whom they called King. Ezele was her name, and over the years, through many interactions on behalf of our people, she fell in love with me, and I her.

‘But Rómestámo grew deeply resentful of this; for I believe he, too, coveted Ezele – as well as the power she wielded – and sought to spoil her mind against me. Even when Ezele and I were wed, he continued to exert his nefarious influence, sowing knotweed where we strove to nourish peonies.

‘And then King Ezele bore me a child.’

The Wizard’s narration stopped sharply. Truva froze beneath his searching eyes, a bowl of fermented soybean soup halfway to her lips. So she had not misjudged; her premonitions had been correct. In that moment, all the dishes she had consumed – and they were many – threatened to crawl back up her throat.

‘Some twoscore years ago, Ezele bore me a beautiful baby daughter,’ Morinehtar explained, ‘who even in her infancy boasted a white lock upon her dark brow, like that of her mother and the people of her Shonkhor tribe.’

All semblance of thought fled Truva’s mind. Emotions surged in her breast; yet she was unable to comprehend or disentangle the flashes of anger and betrayal, of hope and despair – curiosity, love, desperation. She sat immobile and suffocating beneath the airy Easterling clothing. The skin of her palms, cheeks, underarms all flamed. Words would not come, even as Morinehtar peered into her face with brown eyes so very similar to her own.

‘Ezele and I adored our infant daughter with the full capacity of our hearts,’ he continued, once it was apparent Truva had no intention of responding, ‘yet Rómestámo’s vile words worked their magic; the King, driven from her wits by lies whispered when her spirit was most vulnerable, feared for the life of her child.

‘And so she ran – ran in the deepest depths of the night, when I was away defending Agdî from attacks Rómestámo had set as distraction. I dispatched the full strength of the Easterling army in search of my beloved Ezele and our daughter, and traversed the wide plains of Rhûn for many years. Not once did I give up hope, yet no trace of them was ever found.’

Morinehtar fell back against a pillow then, exhausted from his tale. Truva could do nothing more than stare at the dishes that had accumulated around her: seasoned rice, pickled carrots and onions, sliced strawberries, tea. The truth of her past was detailed clearly now – not only her appearance, but also Thranduil’s tale of the Easterling woman, and Grimbeorn’s information regarding the Dwarves – but she did not wish for it to be.

‘Please do not tell me your daughter’s name,’ she whispered. ‘Not yet.’

The Wizard rose and stretched his long legs. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will not. In the meantime, you may rest here, for this room is to be your accommodations. You will find bedding beneath the cushions, and there are curtains should you wish to close them – though you are so high up that none may see in. Ring if you require anything.’

He pointed to a bronze chain, fashioned in the style of an ivy vine, before disappearing into the stairway below and closing the hatch behind him without a word further.

Chapter Text

Truva had not moved an inch when a guard opened the greenhouse hatch to slide a tray of tea, rolls and jam into the room the following morning. As the overcast sky outside signalled time’s passage, she sat in a stupor, Aragorn’s Star clutched in her worrying fingertips; not even watery sunlight in the early hours could distract from wild thoughts that bit and snapped at each other in her mind.

The fatigued days of her youth in the Hidlands had never allowed Truva much time to contemplate who her parents might have been – and even when they had, the fanciful images she had concocted were in no way similar to the reality facing her now.

When she turned her thoughts to the Eorlingas, the turmoil in her breast threatened to suffocate her; for although Morinehtar seemed well-meaning enough, Truva considered Théoden King her true father, regardless of lineage. Éomer, Éowyn, Mǽgwine, Éolend, Éothafa – all were her brothers and sisters, her blood, her kin. Any daydreams of lost parents or siblings had ceased the moment she found a home in Edoras.

As for Aragorn (the very thought of whom caused her heart to constrict further), already he had pledged his love to her. He was a man of honour, a man of his word – surely this discovery would change little between them, least of all his affection for her.

The entire journey had been a waste. The Blue Wizards had succeeded – to some small degree – in their mission to oppose Sauron, and posed no threat to the West. Truva’s lineage was a revelation she desired to be ignorant of once again. She ought to be in the south, protecting her homelands, protecting those she loved – not off on some fanciful venture of no import.

Even in her loneliest days of the Hidlands, Truva had never felt more alone.

It was Óddîr who poked his head through the hatch next, sometime around noon. Finding Truva lying on the thin rug, breakfast untouched, the Easterling guard leveraged himself into the room and took a seat on one pillow. He remained silent a long while, weighing his limited Westron.

‘Your breakfast is cold,’ he said at last. Deducing from Truva’s lack of response that she did not intend to eat it, he helped himself to one of the rolls, only to sputter into a coughing fit moments later. Chugging her tea down as well, he spread the remaining half with jam and observed Truva with a contemplative expression as the roll disappeared bite by bite.

Then, without a word, Truva rose suddenly and made for the trap door. Óddîr leapt up at once, scattering crumbs across the floor.

‘Where do you go?’ he asked.

‘Home,’ she replied shortly.

‘Wait!’ Óddîr scrambled after Truva as she descended to the main passageway, feet slipping on the polished wooden staircase. ‘Rhûn is your home,’ he said. ‘Captain Yicî told me so!’

‘I may have been born in Rhûn,’ said Truva, her lips a grim line of determination, ‘but it is not my home.’

‘Wait!’ Óddîr repeated, calling after her retreating back. ‘Morinehtar requests your presence!’

Truva continued to march down the steps as though she had not heard. It was not until she came before the Wizard’s study that she paused and took a deep breath. A final greeting was dictated by manners; the Easterlings had been gracious hosts, after all, and (her own personal misgivings aside) could prove useful allies against both the Iron Hills Dwarves and the troublesome Orcish tribes that still lingered in the far East of Rhûn. Truva’s knuckles scraped against carvings of pine branches and sturgeon as she knocked.

‘Orj,’ came the Wizard’s voice from within.

Truva shoved one heavy door aside and stepped into the study. Morinehtar appeared equally as busy as he had been the previous day, though he was far swifter to set aside his work when he saw it was Truva who entered.

‘Ah, Truva, so kind of you to acquiesce to my summons.’

‘Morinehtar,’ said Truva, bowing.

‘I wish you would call me Alatar – for that is the name by which Ezele and my dearest friends referred to me. I only became Morinehtar following the earliest Easterlings’ insistence upon worshipping something greater than I truly am; I hold no affinity for the title.’

An unsettled feeling came over Truva, for the Wizard’s request harboured implications she was not eager to navigate; she was neither his dearest friend, nor an adorant Easterling. Yet it could not be denied that a connection existed nevertheless. She bowed again. ‘Alatar.’

This seemed to please the Wizard. ‘So, have you come to terms with your lineage?’ he asked. ‘Surely it did not come as any tremendous shock; you so uncannily resemble your mother’s people, and Gandalf’s self-serving intentions were apparent as ever – I do not doubt he knew your search would lead you to me.’

Truva did not respond, for she could not. To speak any words confirming her past felt like an insurmountable feat, one which she had not even the slightest desire to accomplish. Instead, she merely stared at the Wizard, who returned her gaze a moment before beckoning her forward.

‘Come,’ he said, leading her to a pedestal by the window. The rain had grown heavier; droplets pattered down upon panes closed against their assault, and tree branches swept across the glass outside with hushed whispers. Alatar pulled a multicoloured patchwork of silk off the pedestal to reveal a crystal orb beneath, wisps of gold swirling in its pool of murky darkness. Truva gasped in spite of herself.

The Wizard scrutinised her closely. ‘You know what this is,’ he stated.

‘Yes,’ Truva murmured in awe. ‘It is a palantír.’

‘How does one who claims humble origins come to have knowledge of such an object?’

‘I have seen one, many years ago – indeed, it was the very reason I first encountered the Eorlingas, for having heard rumours of its resurfacing in the Hidden Lands, they sought that palantír which was once lost in the Forochel’s depths. Yet Théoden King could not bend it to his will, and thus proffered it to Saruman. Perhaps you know how that tale ends.’

‘The palantíri do not accept all masters,’ said Alatar, shaking his head. ‘Only a rightful King – or those appointed by him to be its surveyor – can wield one with ease. Ezele used this one for many years to keep her allied tribes safe from Sauron’s Easterlings. Even so, there are some who, in their folly, attempt to see through a palantír without proper authority.’

‘Do you suggest Théoden King was not the Eorlingas’ rightful leader?’ Truva’s voice was steely as she fought to keep the heat rising in her breast at bay.

‘Nothing of the sort,’ the Wizard said dismissively. ‘In all likelihood, Théoden was merely ignorant of the palantír’s idiosyncrasies, for the orbs are deceptive and not nearly as simple as they appear. Without guidance, they can be near impossible to wield, even for the most eminent kings of Men.’

Truva did not respond; she was thinking instead of how she had felt when plying her focus to the palantír in Meduseld. The initial jolt of energy, as well as the sheer exhaustion that had plagued her body and mind for the subsequent sennight, were not so easily forgotten. She eyed the object before her warily.

‘Look into the palantír,’ Alatar whispered, motioning towards the crystal.

Still Truva hesitated, for she full well understood what meaning a successful attempt would hold. Yet there was a small mote of hope, also – that this entire situation was some terrible misunderstanding, the product of assumptions too quickly made. Perhaps she would fail to observe anything in the palantír, just as she had in Meduseld.

She stepped forward and extended her hand towards the orb, allowed its swirling contents to grow blurred before her vision, tried to see past it in the way Théoden King had instructed her all those years ago. Much as it had then, the world about her grew dim and faded away; there was a sensation of becoming separated from her corporeal awareness. Truva steeled herself for the same flash of light.

It blinded her, searing her eyes, yet it did not throw her from the illusion as it had before. Colours began to streak past her sight: greens of trees and grasses, blues of skies and lakes, greys of mountains and cities. It felt as though she were on horseback, but with the speed increased a thousandfold. Truva grew disoriented, her knees wavering beneath her.

‘The palantír is oriented southward,’ she heard Alatar’s voice drift into her consciousness. ‘Direct your attention to all that you know in that area.’

Aragorn, thought Truva. She knew not where he might be found – whether he remained in the lands of Umbar, or whether that conflict had been resolved long ago, allowing him to return home to Gondor, and Éomer King to the Mark. Yet surely somewhere southward he lay, and the turmoil Truva had experienced over the course of the past day had engendered in her the most desperate desire to see him again. His eyes alone would convey all the reassurance she yearned for, she knew, she knew. Aragorn, cried her heart.

And then there he was, right before her – though his image was distorted as if she were viewing him through poorly-blown glass. He sat in a room with many other people about – there was Éomer King, too! – and several figures she recognised as Umbarians – and Southrons? – they dined together upon an opulent array of fruit – the room was patterned with curtains and infinite tessellations – and then Aragorn turned – he peered into her eyes—

‘Oh,’ Truva whispered. With the sensation of being extricated from treacherous water just before drowning, the scenery flashed back past her vision. She found herself standing once more in Alatar’s study.

‘Incredible!’ the Wizard exclaimed. ‘In truth, there was still some small seed of doubt in my mind regarding the alignment of our stories, yet now it is undeniable: none save the daughter of King Ezele would be able to use this palantír with such skill – not without extensive tutelage.’

‘Are they… real?’ asked Truva. ‘The things visible in the palantír?’

‘They can be – though sometimes the palantíri show events that have not yet come to pass, and such things are never certain until they do. There are also those powerful enough to distort what others see, and lead them astray. I believe that was a tool Sauron used most proficiently.

‘All this I can teach you,’ he continued, enthusiasm swelling to an intoxicating fervour, the study’s stifling atmosphere humming with energy. ‘I can show you not only how to utilise the palantír, but also how to harness the latent skills of Istari – which you most certainly boast; the bow you wield evidences that. Who knows what else you are capable of, what power you might harbour, unbeknownst even to yourself? For while you are merely Peristar – half-Wizard – I suspect there are few who would be able to rival you, should you blossom under my guidance. Will you not remain in Karkürem, and learn of your potential?’

Truva stood immobile for a beat, convoluted emotions roiling in her breast, then bolted. She careened back out through the study door and raced down around the spiral staircase, slipping on one stair and tumbling head over heels all the way to the landing below it. But no sooner had she picked herself up than she resumed her flight, leaping and vaulting until she gained the entrance hall.

She did not pause even then, instead streaking along the wisteria-strewn colonnade until she came upon the bustling paths of Karkürem. Shielding herself from the rain with nothing but her arms, she asked several times where the stables might be found, only to lose her way again in the maze-like paths of the garden city. At great last, she came upon the wide entrance of a long, low wooden hut.

There were three attendants on duty, all of whom leapt to attention when Truva burst in. Upon discovering it was not a commanding officer who disturbed their loafing, however, they immediately lost interest and turned back to their card game.

Truva longed for Bron’s stolid reassurance. Perhaps more than anyone – more than Aragorn, Théoden or Éomer, Mǽgwine or Chaya – her insouciant equine companion had lent Truva strength in her darkest of hours; though he was incapable of speaking a word, he had known how to comfort her better than any.

But Bron’s tawny rump was not visible amongst the horses of Karkürem. He had passed – to wander the fields of the Mark until Truva joined him. A knot grew in her throat, but she could not cry; all her emotions had been stripped bare.

Instead, she sought out Zaĭsan. Swiftly grooming him then throwing a blanket across his back, Truva had no sooner begun to cinch his saddle than her eyes grew unfocused, her balance unsteady. Complete lassitude overwhelmed her, a wave of enervation lashing at her bones and threatening to submerge her. The strap slipped through her hands as she fell against the wall, sliding to the ground until she sat in a nest of fresh hay.

It felt as though everything and yet nothing had changed. She was adrift, unable to pull her thoughts ashore, floundering beyond the guiding gleam of any lighthouse.

The sky had grown dark when she awoke some time later, having unwittingly fallen asleep. Exhaustion still clung to her limbs, ladening them with an unwieldy stiffness as she rose and contemplated her next move. Nothing would come of hiding in the stables, she knew, and yet she delayed just a short while longer, tidying Zaĭsan’s tack and plaiting his hair in the Eorling style. He was not Bron, nor even Roheryn; he was – in a most reassuring way – just an ordinary horse. But even in their short time together, a spark of fondness had ignited in Truva’s heart for the tricksome beast.

Rain poured down as she made her way back to the tree-tower of Baradorn, losing her way only once before stumbling upon its flowered gateway. When the guards granted her entrance, she nearly collided with Alatar in the main hall beyond. He appeared to be exiting, himself – though whether it was in search of her, or on his own business she could not say. The Wizard wore a cape and hat of tightly woven grass, and several of his guards were dressed similarly.

‘So you did not leave, after all,’ he remarked, as though he were entirely unsurprised. ‘Have you given any consideration to my proposal?’

‘I have,’ said Truva.

‘Wonderful!’ A broad smile pulled at his features. ‘I assume by your presence here—’

‘I have come to no conclusions – only made considerations,’ Truva interrupted him.

‘Ah.’ Alatar’s face fell. ‘In that case, you are free to linger here as long—’

‘Thank you.’

Truva brushed past him and mounted the staircase that led to her greenhouse lodgings. Such behaviour was not exactly becoming of a King’s emissary, yet most in her position were never called upon to question their very understanding of their own identity. Even so, Truva felt rather like a petulant child when she dropped the trap door in place behind her.

The door did not remain closed very long, however, before Óddîr propped it open and slid a tray across the floor.

‘Your dinner, Marshal,’ he said, hopping up as well.

Truva peered at the arrangement of small dishes very similar in nature to those that had mystically appeared in overabundance the previous night. Her stomach turned.

‘Have you eaten?’ she asked the guard.

‘No, Peristar.’

‘Do not call me that!’ Truva cried fiercely, though in seeing Óddîr’s hurt expression, guilt cut immediately into her breast. ‘I am so terribly sorry,’ she rushed to apologise. Such a title is still unfamiliar to me.’

‘I cannot understand,’ said Óddîr. ‘I am just an Easterling guard. But I forgive.’

‘Thank you.’ Truva hesitated but a moment longer before adding, ‘I am not hungry, but I do not wish to see this splendid food go uneaten.’

Óddîr immediately understood her meaning. He wasted no time in bringing the bowl of soup to his lips, allowing Truva to muse in silence awhile. Though there were innumerable questions adrift in her mind, she decided to begin with that which was most innocuous:

‘Why is it that all foods within Karkürem are harvested from plants?’ she asked.

Óddîr halted, several steamed pods of okra clutched in his fingers. ‘Morinehtar makes the plants grow,’ he said. ‘We eat what he provides, and are thankful.’

Truva blinked in confusion. ‘I recall eating several dishes of fish and fowl in the palace of Agdî,’ she remarked.

‘Karkürem is lucky. Plants are enough. Other areas of Rhûn are not so lucky. They must eat what they can.’

‘I see,’ said Truva. She stood and moved towards one bank of windows, gazing beyond the panes down onto the convoluted tumble of streets below. Within the tremendous city walls, a smattering of lanterns glowed with a gentle wash of light, like fireflies dispersed upon tree boughs and between homes – merely hinting at the stories played out beneath those flowered eaves.

‘Do you see?’ Óddîr asked, his voice no more than a whisper. ‘Did you see the farms of Agdî? Did you see the way our people suffer?’

‘I fought alongside you in the Orc attack, did I not?’ Truva asked, turning to fix him with a searching gaze. The guard’s expression was one of earnestness, his thick brows deeply furrowed; Truva could not help but be reminded of the all-consuming apprehension she had grappled with throughout the winter at Aldburg. ‘My people have likewise suffered at our enemies’ hands, and at the cruel hand of nature.’

Óddîr shook his head. ‘You do not understand. In Rhûn, fighting and hunger are endless. The West is sometimes prosperous.’

Truva fell silent then, for she had no response. The Accords of Minas Tirith – and the promise not to take up arms contained within – extended only to those Easterling tribes that had signed them; the settlements of Agdî and Karkürem remained unprotected, susceptible to their neighbours’ whims. But while stability throughout all of Rhûn would surely benefit the West, the potential for further peacekeeping deliberations was not Truva’s to promise.

Óddîr took several deep breaths before speaking again. ‘Morinehtar thinks you will help save Rhûn.’ Tears welled in his eyes, so very richly brown like the earth Alatar cherished.

‘I do truly see,’ Truva insisted. The conflict in Rhûn gave rise to ramifications far surpassing her own shattered sense of identity; it was selfish to think only of her own circumstances. Alatar was, after all, blameless in their separation. Perhaps— perhaps… perhaps there was no need to choose between the person she had been when born, and the person created through a lifetime of experiences.

Óddîr shifted towards the exit, now-empty dinner tray in hand. With only a brief nod, he disappeared into the stairway beyond.

The following morning, Truva arose long before dawn with resolution in her breast. She had tossed and turned throughout the night, yet from the outset knew what was expected of her – not from others, but from her own self. Remaining in Karkürem would not only allow her to discover her past and full potential under Alatar’s knowledgeable guidance, but also lend succour to the Wizard in his quest to bring stability to Rhûn.

She did not wait for breakfast, and instead climbed down from the greenhouse in the dim light of a new day. The rain had not ceased since her arrival in Karkürem; it pattered lightly against the windows, having let up somewhat from the previous day.

As Truva circled down the central staircase of Baradorn, however, slight oddities attracted her attention. Beyond the windows, an orange glow filtered between the trees, lending a strange cast to the morning fog and dark pines. There was a subtle noise coming from outside the tree-tower, too – an amalgamation of sounds that slowly became the distinctive hum of activity, exceeding the expected rustlings of a town such as Karkürem at dawn. But in looking beyond the windows, Truva could not spy the source of either light or noise, and so she continued her descent, determination crowding out curiosity.

There was no need to knock upon the Wizard’s study; the door already lay open. Alatar stood alone, hunched over a map spread across the desk – though he quickly abandoned it upon Truva’s entrance.

‘Impeccable timing!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was certain you were of a mind to abandon me.’

‘What is going on?’ Truva asked. Perhaps she could afford to indulge her curiosity, after all; it would not do to launch into so consequential a subject matter as identity without preamble. She strode towards the study window, which afforded a clearer view of Karkürem’s main gates than the greenhouse on the opposite side of the tower.

Her breath came short to discover an entire company of Easterling soldiers camped along the western reaches of the city, their blazing campfires the source of the strange light. When she peered closer, she could distinguish the Noyon’s figure stalking its way through the streets of Karkürem, making for Baradorn. He was no longer garbed in elegant silk robes, but the full armour of battle once again.

‘Yes, well,’ hemmed Alatar, clearing his throat brusquely. ‘Your timing is most unfortunate, you see – for long have these plans been laid; and once they are set in motion, they cannot easily be stopped. Had I known of your imminent arrival, I would most assuredly have delayed this undertaking until you actualised your full potential – or at least, a greater portion of it.’

‘Do you go to fight the Orcs of West Rhûn? I will go with you; I am a Marshal of the Riddermark, and you will find I do not require the magic of Wizards to prove worthwhile in battle.’

The laugh that burst then from Alatar’s throat chilled Truva more thoroughly than any winter’s night spent without shelter in the wilderness. It was a short, staccato-like laugh, and lasted no more than a brief spell. When the Wizard had exhausted his humour he fell silent, the brooding quietude of his study all-consuming as he observed the map for several additional breaths.

‘No,’ he murmured. ‘I do not go to fight the Orcs. Not this time.’

Truva remained motionless, trapped between the army’s activity outside and the pensive mood radiating from the Wizard. ‘Then whom?’

Alatar moved to join her at the window.

‘You have seen how my people languish in these lands,’ he said, voice still quiet, ‘always bereft of resources and beset upon by their neighbours. And so it has been for countless generations of the short-lived Men of the East. Yet even if we were to wrest power from the Orcs and control the Celduin in its entirety, we would fare little better; it is a harsh existence here, even without the unceasing threat of conflict.’

‘You seek to attack the West, then!’ Truva exclaimed, aghast. She stared at Alatar’s profile in wide-eyed horror as he continued to observe the soldiers – his soldiers – gathered about the walls of Karkürem. The Wizard’s pallid skin took on a fiery hue, as though facing down the balrogs of legends past.

‘Long has Gondor maintained a monopoly over the most fertile lands of Middle-earth,’ he said. ‘I long to thrust my fingers into the rich soil of Anduin’s floodplains, to show my followers what gifts they might produce for themselves – if only they were not hampered by arid dirt and desiccating winters, seeds stripped of their nutrients and wildlife too scarce to depend upon.

‘Too long has the West failed to value fully its many advantages, bought at the price of depriving all others. I will not allow this inequity to endure! A host of the East I will lead into Gondor – for I know their might is greatly weakened by the War – and establish a society in which all Men are granted equal opportunity to provide for themselves and their families.’

‘You will never find victory against the Western alliance with such a paltry muster of fighters,’ said Truva, her voice quickly rising. ‘Even weak as our forces are, Rhûn is splintered – you cannot possibly hope to raise the entire East in favour of such a scheme.’

‘And that is why I enlisted the help of the Haradwaith,’ said the Wizard.

When he turned towards Truva then, there was a knowing glimmer in his eye. ‘It was a far easier task to accomplish following Sauron’s defeat, for my emissaries could travel unopposed through the lands of Mordor, on into Umbar and Harad. The Sutherlands, too, chafe at Gondor’s unrelenting stranglehold, and were more than willing to collaborate towards a common goal: subjugation of the West.’

‘And you thought I might be persuaded to aid in this endeavour?’ said Truva, still struggling to comprehend the situation unfolding before her. ‘To take up my sword against my brethren, my warriors, my King – my family?’

‘I had hoped, but without much conviction,’ Alatar shrugged. ‘As I said, given my druthers, I would have far preferred to delay the commencement of this campaign – to give myself time in which I might show you the consequence of Gondor’s greed, and to explore the full breadth of your powers. Yet the pieces have already begun to move, and I would be a fool to stop them.’

Just then, the Noyon burst into the study. At the very same moment, two thoughts connected in Truva’s mind; if Rhûn had allied itself with the South— ‘Aragorn!’

‘Yes, that is correct,’ said Alatar, motioning for the Noyon to restrain her. ‘It was our intent from the outset to lure him into those lands, dividing Gondor’s already weakened forces even further. And these men you see at my gates, the ones you fought alongside a few days ago – they are but the remnants of a small guard left behind to protect Agdî from the Orcs of Uzdígh. The bulk of my army is already encamped upon the southern shores of Zünuur, awaiting my signal to march West.’

Truva thrashed against the Noyon’s vice-like clutches. Alatar drew in close, a curl at the end of his long, skinny beard nearly brushing her knee.

‘I will grant you one last opportunity to ally yourself with the side that shall be victorious,’ he whispered, the scent of honeyed tea wafting from between his lips. ‘And I do not ask that you join us merely because we shall prevail – no, no; it is because those who fight for Rhûn do so in the name of egalitarianism and justice.’

Truva suppressed the desire to spit in his face. ‘Not with all the time of eternity could you convince me armed conflict against Gondor was justifiable,’ she said, malice cutting with each syllable.

‘As I suspected,’ quipped the Wizard, then spoke no more. With a mere wave of his hand, he dismissed the Noyon, who retreated out of the study with Truva and half a dozen guards in tow.

‘It is a shame you won’t be joining us, Marshal,’ said the Noyon as he frogmarched Truva down the steps. ‘I estimated you to be a reasonable and honourable person, keen to discern the virtuous side of any conflict, as you did in our fight against the Orcs of Uzdígh. A warrior of your capabilities would be worth ten score rank and file soldiers, but I suppose you simply can’t perceive the realities of this particular dispute.’

‘Why do you not simply speak with Aragorn King?’ Truva asked. ‘Send an emissary to Minas Tirith with your grievances, and he will do all within his power to see wrongs righted.’

‘Do all within his power?’ The Noyon laughed incredulously. ‘Send an emissary, so that Gondor might deceive and dismiss us, as it did our counterparts that fought in the War? No, we are not fools; it is folly to seek an audience with the West.’

They came upon the entrance hall then, but the Noyon did not cross it to exit through the main doors. Instead, he skirted the inner wall and entered a second, far smaller door. This opened with a cool rush of air onto another stairwell, descending down, down into the roots and veins of the forest floor. The Noyon brusquely shoved Truva along this new passageway, its steps illuminated by infrequent sconces as they proceeded past a series of larders and cellars off tiny landings before reaching the very last step.

Here lay what was unmistakably a gaol: two rows of cells, built of iron and stone, lining a long hall. Most were empty, save a few occupied by tattered, emaciated figures languishing on straw-strewn flooring. Truva did not see the gaoler rise from his desk and approach the Noyon; she did not hear as they spoke, could not feel anything save gasps clawing at her throat as rough hands clanked the lock of one cell open and, with a shove, sent her sprawling upon mildewed hay. She could not form a single coherent thought as acute panic drew sable blankets of unconsciousness about her mind.

Chapter Text

The company pressed on deep into the night. Aragorn asked of Deve all that she was willing to give, and though their breath came in snorts, the typically cantankerous kamels did not falter. They cycled between gaits – sometimes trotting, sometimes loping along the hard-packed earth of Harad Road – yet as the distance from Herumoros increased, so did their pace. The Southrons were sure to give chase, and a terrible distance still lay between the fugitives and their destination: Glâniant, the crossing of Harnen from Harad into South Gondor.

As a new sun rose and still there was no sign of pursuit, Aragorn slowed Deve to a walk, squinting against the shimmering sands. Signs of a moderately-sized town could just barely be made out a short distance ahead. Far in the rear, Éomer dismounted and ran up to stride beside Deve, leaving his own kamel at the end of the line.

‘Should we not go around?’ he asked. ‘We are sure to be spotted. I can see villagers already about their day’s work.’

‘We haven’t the time,’ Aragorn replied. ‘Let us take the swifter route through this settlement, and hope its residents know nothing of our circumstances.’

‘And those cursed pigeons? What if the Ephor has sent one to these people, and they know of our coming, and ready even now for the attack?’

‘When I travelled in the north of these lands, not a single man was learned of his letters, and our time in Herumoros has similarly demonstrated that none save the most eminent leaders could make use of such a system. No, a message has surely been sent – but I do not think it any nearer than Glâniant itself.’

‘Let us hope your assessment is correct; elsewise we walk directly into the Ephor’s waiting arms,’ said Éomer before allowing the rear to catch up with him and remounting his kamel.

With heads bowed, the company neared the village. They pulled scarves about their faces – not to ward off the chill, as they had done at night, but to conceal their northern features from prying eyes. They wore still the raiment of their hosts, and so their appearance was not otherwise conspicuous – at least, not immediately. Were any Southron to look closer, however, he would see skin lighter than that of the Haradrim, an atypical discomfit with kamels, a notable lack of packs.

With bated breath, Aragorn and the others ventured along the settlement’s main thoroughfare, where villagers milled about residences and market stalls clustered there. Several Haradrim glanced in the travellers’ direction; each seemed to regard these newcomers with suspicion, though it could not be said whether this was truth or some mere trick of the mind. Aragorn caught the gaze of one butcher, whose eyes slid away – perhaps out of disinterest, perhaps out of a desire to mask his observations. How much would he tell those who came in pursuit?

Even after emerging on the far side of the village without incident, still the company’s hearts were not eased. Once beyond sight, they took off again at the fastest speed they dared, slowing only when signs of another caravan appeared. But Harad Road was mercifully uncrowded – or perhaps concerningly so; yet the company was not in a position to be anything other than grateful for the small advantages afforded them. Heads down, they continued to race along the highway as the blazing sun arced overhead.

When dusk settled over the desert’s vast expanse, Deve and the other kamels at last showed signs of wearying, and so the company dismounted and walked beside the creatures, allowing them to set their own pace. Éomer once again sought out Aragorn.

‘You know these lands best of us all,’ said he, voice low. ‘How much further do you suppose the river lies?’

Aragorn scanned the rapidly darkening horizon. ‘At least another day of easy riding,’ he answered. ‘Longer, at this pace – which is the one I fear we must take, for the kamels’ sake.’

‘I am troubled there is no sign of chase.’

‘As am I.’ The muscles in Aragorn’s jaw grew strained. ‘I fear it is because the Southrons believe – and perhaps not erroneously – there is no need; they know we must inevitably make for the Crossing. A formidable force is sure to greet us there.’

‘Those pigeons—!’ Éomer exclaimed. ‘May they join Helm upon the plains of the Mark!’

‘We might yet evade notice, even at Glâniant. Let us forge on through the night.’

‘Very well,’ said Éomer. ‘But first, a moment’s respite.’

A halt was called, and the company took shelter behind an ephedra shrub, though the road was empty as ever and darkness cloaked them well enough. They passed what little water they had between them, and allowed the kamels to feed upon grasses Maeron had pilfered from the last village so surreptitiously not even Aragorn had noticed. But while the northerners’ bodies rested, their minds did not; for there was some unshakable feeling of suspense that ebbed and flowed between them, as though they waited for something but knew not what it was.

When full darkness had fallen and the company taken as long as it dared to recover, they remounted and flew once more along the Road. They did not travel as frantically as they had at first, but still their pace was not lax, and soon the gentle snorts of both beast and rider could be heard in the quiet night.

A gibbous moon rose to cast down its muted light upon them. Even the stoutest of the northerners found themselves struggling to stave off flickers of sleep that threatened to consume their minds as the hours past midnight fell wearily about their shoulders. Wakefulness and slumber blended into one, indistinguishable and equally disorienting.

Thus the fugitives’ ears failed to perceive hoofbeats upon the Road, for they could not differentiate between reality and dream. But when the sound grew ever closer, it became impossible to dismiss, and the northerners were roused from their torpor, hearts racing. Aragorn strained his ears; it was a company of no less than half a dozen horses, all approaching from the north.

He and the others fled the Road, hoping to avoid observance, yet there was no cover in those barren lands, and the moonlight illuminated them clearly. Soon they were able to make out a solo rider hurtling along the highway, accompanied by a small herd of unmounted horses. Rider and horse alike made directly for the northerners’ position.

Aragorn unsheathed his sword, allowing it to glitter as a warning in the faint, silver moonlight. Then a soft call came across the land, in the language of the Rohirrim: ‘Hail Éomer, King of the Riddermark Realm, and Aragorn, High King of the Reunited Kingdom!’

Éomer darted forward. ‘A Rider of the Mark!’ he cried. ‘Identify yourself!’

‘It is I, Gamhelm, whom you left behind in defence of your forces!’ The rider drew close enough then that the moonlight revealed a soldier clad in the livery of Rohan.

‘What good fortune it is that sends you upon our very path at this hour!’ exclaimed Éomer, dismounting at once, for he spied his loyal mount Firefoot amongst the restless horses.

‘It is no good fortune that brings me, milord, I am sorry to say – no fortune, but an attack upon our ships,’ said Gamhelm.

‘An attack!’ exclaimed Éomer. ‘How did this come to be?’

‘When you departed for Harad, we lingered for weeks in unsurety within the Bay of Umbar, for we had no news; the regular reports we received whilst you were in the Havens ceased entirely once you travelled east. Then, two dawns ago, we quite suddenly found ourselves under fire.’

‘Two dawns ago?’ mused Aragorn. Such timing meant the order to attack had surely been conveyed even before Undómírë had so much as spoken to Aragorn. Perhaps the Captain discerned her plans and had sought to mitigate the damage her warnings would have otherwise wrought upon his forces, or perhaps it was one more way in which the princess had attempted to contrive the situation to her own advantage.

‘We made a hasty retreat, milords, and the Alcarindur scarcely escaped the Bay itself,’ said Gamhelm. ‘One by one, we rejoined our ships positioned along the coastline, but were still heavily outnumbered. Even so, we could not abandon our Kings to their fate! Making our stand at the mouth of Harnen, we sailed the Alcarindur as far east along that river as we dared before I alone disembarked, with the intention of making for Harad and discovering the whereabouts of our brethren trapped in the Sutherlands.’

‘You bring horses,’ stated Aragorn.

‘Aye, milord. Several of my brethren entrusted their equine companions to me, for we knew not by which means you had ventured to Harad, or how you might make your getaway. Even now, I do not understand the strange creatures I see before me.’

‘They are kamels,’ said Éomer. ‘Loyal beasts, and more fitting than horses when crossing the shifting sands of the desert. But it is vast stretches of Harad Road that lie now before us, not dunes; the Mearas will surely bear us more swiftly hence. Let us set our kamels free to return homeward, and take to these horses of the Mark.’

Maeron and the Gondorian guards tumbled from their kamels’ backs to approach these new mounts with hands outstretched in offering. The Mearas’ tails flicked, yet they were imperturbable as ever. When Aragorn approached the foremost horse and reached out to stroke its grey coat, however, he sensed a faint glimmer of recognition.

‘Is this not Hasufel?’ he asked.

‘The very stallion, milord,’ said Gamhelm.

Aragorn gave an unexpected smile. ‘We are old friends, you and I,’ he murmured – for it was Hasufel who had borne him from Fangorn to Edoras and Hornburg, then northward as far as the Hidlands and back. Aragorn’s heart swelled at the reunion, and for the reminder of his days riding alongside Truva.

But as he climbed into the ornate Rohirric saddle, Deve refused to leave his side. She lingered even after the other Gondorians sent their kamels wandering off in the vague direction of Herumoros, swaying this way and that. A contemplative expression passed across Aragorn’s face, which did not go unseen by his companions.

‘She won’t be able to keep pace with the Mearas, my friend,’ said Éomer quietly. ‘Not after the distance we’ve already come at the pace we took.’

‘And we haven’t any space on the Alcarindur, milord,’ Gamhelm added.

Aragorn reached out with one hand to rub Deve’s hump one final time. ‘She belongs here, in the arid lands of Harad, as it is,’ he agreed.

And so the company set out yet again, mounted now upon Mearas. They drove hard, pushing the horses to their fullest stride. For a time, Deve followed after, despite the northerners’ discouragements. But as dawn stole across the peaks of Ered Enaid, she began to flag and fall behind, growing ever more distant. Aragorn clutched the reins tight upon hearing her unhappy braying, even after she disappeared from sight.

Eventually, even her crying faded away, and as the day wore on, the company encountered few other signs of life. They passed no other travellers upon the Road, and each Haradric settlement they came upon was abandoned – or perhaps evacuated, for they bore signs of recent occupation, despite the eerie silence that hung over empty livestock pens and still-warm common ovens.

It was not until noontide that Glâniant itself appeared, its low palisades sticking up in land rich off the waters of Harnen. The company pulled up and rested their mounts, observing the city from a great distance. Spiked wooden barricades littered the land – infrequent at first, then growing more numerous nearer the city. From its few towers fluttered sable pennants, bearing no mark or livery.

‘They consider themselves neither Haradrim nor Gondorian,’ said Aragorn.

‘Such things matter little when the Ephor has sufficient riches to persuade them – and the strength to subject them, should they be unconvinced by coin,’ said Éomer. ‘Whatever his chosen method of motivation, they will see fit to stand against us.’

Even as he spoke, a horn sounded. The gates of the city burst open and a haze of dust rose up from the Road as nearly threescore riders – garbed in the black robes of the Haradrim army – bore down upon the northern company with all haste. They had been spied!

‘Let us give them no such opportunity,’ said Gamhelm. ‘The Alcarindur is not far, moored just beyond the city’s furthest watchtowers. We have yet easy hope of gaining it!’

‘Let us speak not of hope, and instead think only of doing,’ said Maeron.

With a determined nod, Gamhelm deviated from the Road and struck out in a northwesterly direction across the dry, cracked earth of scrubland. Even as the company turned, however, the Southron riders turned also and picked up their pace, giving chase.

‘Ride, ride!’ cried Aragorn. ‘We cannot hope to make a stand against so many in such open territory! Ride!’

Once off Harad Road, the Mearas’ hooves sunk into deeper sands – not quite so treacherous as the vast dunes of Laurinairë, yet still perilously slowing their progress. The Southrons, racing along a well-established riverbank towpath, encountered no such difficulty; they gained steadily upon the northerners.

As the company drew nearer the Harnen, however, sand transitioned into the parched, muddy flats of the floodplain, which provided their mounts’ hooves far better purchase. Given free reign, Hasufel and the other Mearas began to fly across the expanse, and soon the glimmering waters of the river itself came into view. Gamhelm banked further westward, away from the city and downstream towards the Alcarindur. Hard upon their tail followed the Southron contingent; each frantic backwards glance revealed them to be ever closer, black robes whipping in the wind.

Then there! The Alcarindur’s sails could be spied fluttering upon the Harnen currents. Éomer raised his horn to his lips and sounded it, alerting the sailors to their approach.

But the Southrons gained closer and closer. Even the stout-hearted Mearas faltered; such a pace had been especially punishing after more than two moons spent confined aboard the Alcarindur. Their breath came in short, wild snorts, and they stumbled upon ill-placed tussocks of halfah grass and dips in the uneven earth. Their riders shouted encouraging words to spur them on the last little distance, but what were words against searing exhaustion?

Aragorn drew his sword. The Alcarindur drew nearer; its lowered gangway became visible – from which the dozen remaining Mearas and their Riders emerged – and the horns blowing in response to Éomer’s sounded in his ears. Yet the Southrons were already falling about the rearmost of the fugitives, were reaching out with ropes and scimitars and menacing hands.

In an instant, Éomer and Gamhelm were backwards in their saddles, facing the Southrons and releasing a first volley even as the other Eorlingas drew near enough to aid in the salvo. One adversary fell from his horse, three arrows protruding from his chest. Several others were struck also, but the remaining Haradrim were not so easily frightened; they pressed on, drawing their own bows against the fleeing company.

As arrows whistled past, a pair of Southrons drew even on Aragorn’s right side. Before he could act, however, Hasufel stretched out his neck and bit down upon the nearest mount’s withers, sending both horse and rider side-stepping into their companion. But the Southrons were swift to recover, and immediately circled back for a second attack. Having no spear, Aragorn thrust his sword at the first rider to approach, attempting to unseat him. This strike the warrior deflected easily with his shield, driving forward with his halberd just as his companion rode up on Aragorn’s other side.

Thus locked in combat, the warring factions unwittingly came within range of the Alcarindur. Archers upon the ship’s deck sent a hail of arrows streaming through the air, scattering the Southrons at once. They darted about, attempting to evade the second volley that followed right after, only to find themselves pursued by the approaching Eorlingas.

With a rough shout from one, the Southrons peeled away and beat a hasty retreat from the onslaught. Threescore against seven were happy odds; threescore against an entire ship were not.

Escorted by the King’s Riders, Aragorn and the others clattered up the Alcarindur’s gangway to rousing cheers from Gondorian and Rohirrim warrior alike. Captain Bardlorn pushed through the ranks even as the company fell from their saddles.

‘My lord!’ he cried. It appeared he might say more, but words ultimately failed the Captain in that moment; he threw his arms about Aragorn’s neck and clung to the King. Aragorn patted him kindly on the back.

‘I hope you did not fear for my sake; I am as well as ever,’ said he. ‘Yet come – let us see what we can make of this situation.’

Aragorn guided Bardlorn towards the ship’s aft, soon followed by Éomer after he extricated himself from a similar position amongst the Riders. Even as they ducked into the navigation room, the gangway was pulled aboard and the Alcarindur cast off, flying swiftly down the Harnen beneath the oars of a full crew.

‘We have heard from Gamhelm of the Corsairs’ initial attack, and your retreat to the mouth of Harnen,’ said Aragorn, drawing a map towards himself. ‘But otherwise, his explanation was necessarily limited. What else must we know know?’

‘Did he not tell you of the secondary fleet that emerged from this very river, to drive past our defences and sweep towards the Anduin?’ asked Bardlorn.

‘Helm protect us,’ muttered Éomer. ‘You mean to say there are more of them?’

‘A great many more – nearly double what we witnessed in the Bay of Umbar. We had not the power to stop them, milord; our full might was occupied by the ships from the Havens, many of which joined this Harnen fleet in sailing northward.’

‘How many of our ships currently defend the river mouth?’ Aragorn asked.

‘All of them – for even with the Southrons’ numbers reduced, we could spare none without being overrun ourselves. A messenger was sent with all haste to Dol Amroth, in the hopes that the Swan Knights might yet head off the Southrons before they gain Lebennin, yet I fear they shall almost certainly be too late.’

‘I share in those fears,’ said Aragorn. ‘Pelargir is weak; she will fall if she is beset upon without aid.’

‘What if it is not Pelargir they aim for?’ Éomer mused.

The three glanced frantically between each other. The thought had crossed each of their minds, but it was a separate horror to hear it spoken aloud: in attempting to halt Umbar’s assault at its source, they had left all of Gondor with no more than the most minimal defences.

‘Lord Faramir remains in Ithilien,’ said Bardlorn. ‘I would trust him more than my own self to defend the north.’

‘It shall be half retreat, half chase once we gain the Bay of Belfalas,’ said Éomer. ‘We must evade the ships of the Havens, yet overtake the Harnen fleet at all costs.’

‘But we must be circumspect,’ said Aragorn. ‘Whether it is Pelargir or the harbour docks of Harlond – I dare not think what might become of us should the Southrons penetrate so deep as Osgiliath – we must make a stand where there are other defences. We cannot allow ourselves to be caught in open waters, nor become trapped in the long, open stretches of Anduin, where we would be utterly alone and unsupported.’

‘Still, I cannot fathom how the Southrons came by so many vessels so hard upon the War’s end,’ said Éomer. ‘Those moored within the Havens far outnumbered our most generous estimates, and still there were yet others sequestered in the north we knew naught of.’

‘And it was no mere schooner or two,’ said Bardlorn. ‘A flotilla of more than a dozen ships it was – tremendous armoured dromunds, the likes of which I’ve never seen.’

‘Therein lies the explanation for no chase being given after our flight from Herumoros, I imagine,’ said Aragorn. ‘I suspect not a single Haradrim or Corsair soldier remains behind – they all man the ships they feel assured will prevail over our forces, whether we lead them or no.’

‘And perhaps they are right,’ said Éomer. ‘Yet I for one shall not bow so easily. Little do I know of the sea and its fickle tides, yet place before me an enemy and I shall strike him down! These false Southrons betrayed our goodwill and trust, and I will not see our lands once more endangered at their foul hand.’

Bardlorn’s lips drew into a thin grimace. ‘Never fear, my lord, you shall have your opportunity before the day’s end,’ said he. ‘Perhaps sooner, if these headwinds abate.’

With little else to be said, the three reemerged onto the main deck. Palm trees and thornbushes flashed past as the Alcarindur made rapid progress along the Harnen’s dusty banks, bringing them ever closer to the river’s mouth. The sailors rowed in short but frequent bursts throughout the day, and were often joined by their leaders. When Aragorn did not have an oar in hand, he was constantly about the ship, confirming supplies and listening to the men’s experiences during his absence.

Even as the skies darkened and dusk obscured the riverbanks, the Alcarindur lit no lanterns and continued stealthily upon its path, oars still churning the water currents. The night grew deeper and the headwinds stronger. The Harnen widened, and the men’s hearts raced to know they were hard upon their destination. Anticipation rippled throughout the crew.

Then a clamour arose in the distance; chaos gradually became discernible in the moonlight. Just south of the river’s mouth, which was only now visible, half a dozen Gondorian dromund ships were configured in a crescent formation, arrayed against a contingent of Corsair vessels. Upon the far end of the Gondorians’ line, two opposing ships were locked together, side by side, as Southrons attempted to board via narrow detachments under a flurry of northern arrows. A great many Corsair vessels were already adrift, their oars having been rent upon the bows of their enemies. Other ships fled, and several more were aflame; the wreckage of at least one Gondorian dromund smouldered upon the waves. Men of all origins flailed in the water, clutching debris as they attempted to gain a friendly deck.

As the Alcarindur drew near, Bardlorn sounded a trumpet, sharp and high in the night. It was answered by a chorus of others from all sides, each signalling their own actions. But even as a flurry of action overtook the scene, Aragorn strode up to the Captain and held out his hand. With a look of confusion, Bardlorn passed the horn to his King, who then leapt upon the Alcarindur’s prow and blew a series of short blasts.

‘They will see you, milord!’ cried Maeron in a panic.

‘That is my intention,’ said Aragorn grimly, sounding the trumpet once again. Quickly discerning his purpose, Éomer joined Aragorn at the prow and raised his own horn to his lips. Their calls were answered by a salvo of Southron arrows.

They quickly dove behind the bulwark. When they looked out once more upon the Bay, more Southrons poured across the detachments onto the Gondorian ship; but the northerners now battled with increased ferocity – for hope sprang within their breast to know their King was returned once more amongst them. With immense effort, the detachments were hewn and the Gondorian dromund drew back, allowing its neighbour to drive towards the offending Corsair vessel.

Whether truly defeated or merely spooked by the appearance of Kings they thought to be ghosts, the Southron navy fell into full retreat, returning back towards the Havens posthaste. Upon finding themselves unassailed, the Gondorian vessels swept about, securing those members of their crew thrown overboard. The abandoned Southrons struck out for shore.

But there was no time to allow relief the opportunity to blunt the Forodrim’s fervour. ‘Northward!’ cried Aragorn. ‘To the north, and Anduin! After the enemy vessels!’

Bardlorn sounded his trumpet once more, and what remained of the Gondorian fleet regrouped and turned towards their homelands. Heart still racing, Aragorn strode to the stern of the Alcarindur and watched the glowing remnants of battle disappear in the ship’s wake. Éomer soon joined him, as did Bardlorn, and the three gazed out across the churning water after the retreating Southron dromunds.

‘Let us hope they go now to reinforce the might of Umbar about the fortress Ka’phos,’ remarked the Captain.

‘I do not dare to hope,’ said Aragorn. ‘Indeed, I suspect they shall be swift to regroup and pursue us, with the intent of protecting the rear of their forward armada.’

‘My fear is not what lays behind, but what we have yet to face,’ said Éomer. ‘It was no more than a small flotilla that beset us here at Harnen. Those ships were but a fraction of what we witnessed upon our arrival in the Havens; if the remainder has sailed northward, Gondor is in grave peril.’

‘Even with the Swan Knights’ aid, the northern forces of Gondor are unaccustomed to naval operations. We cannot possibly hope to equal the Corsairs’ strength upon the seas,’ said Bardlorn.

‘We must make do,’ said Aragorn with grave determination. ‘There is no alternative, no army of oathbreakers to aid us now, no secretive path to victory. This is a conflict of Men, and so by Men must it be ended.’

‘We have but one advantage: our ships are lighter and fleeter than those the Corsairs built to replace them,’ said the Captain.

‘They believed speed would bring them victory during the War of the Ring,’ said Aragorn, casting his eyes upon the sleek dromunds that skimmed across the water about the Alcarindur. ‘Yet now it is through strength they seek to overpower us – whether in the confined bay of Umbar, or the narrow lengths of Anduin.’

‘We must use our swiftness to our advantage,’ said Éomer, ‘and hope our ground forces are prepared to match the Southrons’ redoubled might. My only regret is that the Eorlingas will not be amongst those numbers, ignorant as my brethren are to our plight.’

‘Is there no word from Prince Imrahil?’ Aragorn asked of Bardlorn.

The Captain shook his head. ‘None, my lord – though three suns have not risen since the messengers departed; there is yet time for hope.’

The three fell silent then, for even were fortune to favour them and the ships of Dol Amroth make a timely appearance, still their victory would be far from assured. The fate of Pelargir and all the northern lands beyond relied upon a series of increasingly improbable events.

Their concerns voiced and all courses of thinking exhausted, the commanders turned to the unceasing tasks of a warship at attention. Aragorn made at once for the infirmary, where his healing hands would find their greatest use in tending to those who had been rescued from their foundered ship. Even so – aside from a smattering of bones to be set or a salve prepared for the victims of burns – there was little to be done save see the sailors were made warm and dry.

Reluctant not to be of use, Aragorn proceeded to spend a shift at the oars before replacing one ecstatic sailor on his dreaded middle watch duty. But darkness passed into a new dawn and still he felt no more at ease. He sat down to a breakfast of stale cram, only for Éomer to descend from his sleeping quarters at that very moment and join him, reaching for his own rations. The horselord took a brief sniff of the hardened tack and sneezed in the resulting dust of flour.

‘You will do us no good if you are too tired to fight, my friend,’ he said, feigning offhandedness.

‘I believe any attempt at slumber would have the opposite effect as desired,’ Aragorn replied. ‘It is not dreams that visit me of late.’

Éomer continued to inspect the unappealing victuals, saying only, ‘Will you not think of it as an example for the others? I will wake you if there is any noteworthy change in circumstance.’

Aragorn passed him a mug of weak tea in which he might soak his cram. Éomer accepted it none too enthusiastically. Though neither said anything further, each retired abovedecks when their modest breakfast was concluded – Éomer to his own watch, and Aragorn to his quarters.

The horselord could certainly not be accused of failing to keep his word, for not a half hour passed before he was pounding on the stateroom door, rousing Aragorn from his study of the overhead planks. Aragorn was at the door at once.

‘I’m afraid you were correct,’ said Éomer. ‘They bear down upon us even now.’

The two Kings raced to the aft, where Captain Bardlorn stood with a spyglass to his eye. He handed it wordlessly to Aragorn, who swiftly brought the dozen enemy dromunds into focus.

‘These are not the same we battled at the mouth of Harnen,’ he stated.

‘These are far swifter,’ Bardlorn agreed. ‘A second flotilla designed for pursuit, not as burdened as their armoured counterparts.’

‘I can only hope this means a greater number of vessels remained behind in the Havens than we initially calculated,’ said Éomer. ‘And thus fewer lie ahead.’

‘We might not be granted the good fortune of worrying about what lies ahead if we cannot outpace what approaches from behind,’ said Aragorn, returning the spyglass to Bardlorn. ‘How far out do you estimate them to be?’

‘It is hard to say, milord,’ said the Captain with another glance through the glass. ‘They appeared on the horizon only moments ago. Based upon their current distance – and assuming they departed the Havens hard upon the arrival of those we chased away – I would hazard a day’s distance; no more than a day and a half.’

Aragorn gave no outward indication of the unease that plagued him. ‘Do you suppose we might make the refuge of Anduin before then?’

‘Again, I cannot be certain. Even were we to maintain our current pace, it would be only just. But the men flag at the oars for exhaustion, and whatever breath of wind spurs us on likewise gives aid to the Corsairs.’

The three leaders continued to observe the Corsair fleet for quite some time, the distant black sails’ incremental gain imperceptible to the eye yet evident in their hearts. Then, one by one, they returned to their tasks.

Aragorn found himself once again in his stateroom, but if he had found sleep difficult before, it was impossible now. He rose and paced the ship decks, assuming each and any menial task in an attempt to keep himself occupied. Everywhere he went, whispers spread of the Southrons’ approach, and a constant stream of sailors strained to catch sight of the ominous shadow upon the horizon. Favoured weapons were fetched to be kept close at hand.

Despite the occasional glimpse of the South Gondorian shore to the east throughout the day, there was no sign of Tolfolas nor the Anduin, and as their adversaries’ encroachment grew more pronounced, whispers evolved into full-fledged panic. The knowledge they might be caught in open waters against superior Corsair numbers drove the Gondorian sailors to row with heretofore unknown desperation.

As the purples and greys of late dusk crept up the eastern skies, Aragorn stood once more upon the stern of Alcarindur, gazing southward until the enemy vessels disappeared into the darkness. A swath of chafing gear shuffled between his fingers as he mended the worn canvas, absentmindedly plying needle to fabric.

Yet even as he dropped one sheath onto an already copious pile at his feet, the sound of a soft horn wavered across the waters. At first, Aragorn was certain it had come from one of the other Gondorian ships in the fleet, but a sudden flurry of movement spoke otherwise; there was a rush towards the foredeck and Bardlorn’s own answering horn. When Aragorn turned portside, he spied a tiny white sloop skipping across the water, sails bearing the swan of Dol Amroth.

The ship’s pace slowed momentarily to allow for the lowering of a ladder, and one messenger soon gained the Alcarindur’s deck. Nearby Gondorian sailors drew closer and affected labouring attitudes, hoping to glean some snippet of information from this envoy’s arrival, yet Bardlorn swiftly whisked him away to the navigation cabin, followed hard upon by Aragorn and Éomer.

‘Hail Aragorn King of Renewed Gondor and Éomer King of Rohan!’ cried the messenger, sweeping into a low bow immediately upon the door’s closing. ‘I am Alphtaen, errand-sailor of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, come to convey a report of the surrounding waters!’

‘What news is there?’ Bardlorn demanded.

‘Aside from our own scouts’ observations, which reported the Southrons’ northward push, we have encountered no enemy ships since receiving your call for aid,’ said Alphtaen. ‘Not even upon sailing from port to these very waters did we so much as spy a black sail other than your own. We have scouted also the nearest stretches of Anduin and found no enemy vessels lying in wait.’

‘So they make directly for the heart of Gondor with the full strength of their northern contingent,’ Éomer concluded.

‘The Southrons do not wish to divide and weaken themselves further,’ said Aragorn. ‘Not against an adversary such as Dol Amroth – one that would give them no easy defeat.’ He bent close to the map upon the navigation table. ‘What of the Swan Fleet’s movements?’

‘Prince Imrahil made ready to depart even as my men set out,’ said Alphtaen. ‘It seems we continue to be favoured by a westerly wind; even so, I do not think the main armada’s arrival can be expected within the day.’

The cabin fell silent as the same thoughts swarmed each of their minds: the race between enemy and aid, and the swiftly fading hope of gaining the Anduin.

‘The Swan Fleet shall have to come to us, wherever that may be,’ said Aragorn. ‘And we must hold out as long as possible; Pelargir surely feels the brunt of the Southrons’ fleet already – we cannot allow even greater numbers to descend upon them without so much as attempting a defence.’

‘I shall go ensure the flares are at hand,’ said Bardlorn.

Éomer clapped a reassuring hand on Aragorn’s shoulder before following the Captain out to confirm his Riders’ horses were properly stowed and tended to. With a series of deep bows and loud declarations of fealty, Alphtaen disappeared back onto his own sloop, leaving Aragorn alone in the navigation cabin.

After several additional moments of staring at the map as though it might reveal some previously unconsidered solution, Aragorn eventually followed the others. Yet no matter how many tasks he devoted himself to, concern gnawed at the edges of his mind, and a second sleepless dawn rose as he sat upon the deck, unlaying frazzled rope to be spun anew. The hulking dark shapes of Southron dromunds materialised against orange streaks heralding the sun’s rising. The ships were far closer than the previous night – closer than any might have estimated.

The tension was interminable and unbearable. There was nothing to be done save watch the enemy ships close in league by league. Shifts at the oars were served, menial tasks were executed, fitful naps were abandoned; swords, rapiers, and daggers were removed from scabbards only for the twice-sharpened blades to be tested and resheathed. Arrows were counted and recounted. More than one sailor bit back the urge to snap at his fellows for their nervous fidgeting and tapping.

The Corsair dromonds grew fearfully near. Shapes of individual Southrons could be distinguished upon their decks, darting about in a flurry, making ready for battle. Throughout the Gondorian fleet and their Rohirric allies, not a single breath was released with ease.

Then a sudden shout snapped the strained mood. ‘Land!’ a scout cried. ‘Land, and the Anduin!’

As one, all within hearing leapt towards the starboard bulwarks to make out for themselves the sliver of green arcing from the east across to the horizon ahead. Aragorn swiftly joined them, then turned to observe the advancing Southrons. They appeared even nearer – as though they, too, had heard to call. The pace of their oars increased, splashing into the waters of Belfalas, driving their ships through the spray that broke upon their bows.

With a second glance forward, Aragorn calculated the distances to be nearly equal – there was yet hope! But it was slight, and could easily slip through their fingers. He tumbled down to the deck below, where the oarsmen were oblivious to this new development.

‘Land!’ he echoed. ‘Pull with your mightiest might! Our best chances lie in reaching the safety of Anduin, and those shores are just within grasp! Pull!’

The rowers’ exhaustion transformed at once into thrumming vigour, and their pace accelerated as they began to chant and cry out, encouraging one another to delve into their deepest stores of strength. The Alcarindur flew across the waves, joined by her brethren in a final press towards the lands of South Gondor.

Noontide came and passed amidst a strange atmosphere. In spite of the oarsmen’s efforts, the Southron ships gained dramatically, and yet the coastline did not seem to draw near with equal measure. Soldiers abandoned all pretence of purpose and sat in stony silence, arrayed along the stern and flanks of the ship, prepared for a battle that seemed ever on the cusp but never actualized.

Even as the fiery sun hung off to the Alcarindur’s port side, the stony isle of Tolfolas grew distinct along the shoreline. But in that very same moment, cries went up from the ship stern; for the first salvo of Southron arrows had been loosed, several finding purchase in the wood there. Aragorn raced to the aft and found it was an uproar of noise, though the ranks remained orderly as they manned heavy crossbows upon the bulwarks.

‘Save your arrows!’ he called. ‘We have too few as it is, and our conflict is certain to be protracted. Do not fire unless absolutely necessary.’

The Gondorians stayed their hands. In the lull that followed, several of the more resourceful sailors dodged about, gathering any undamaged Southron arrows that might be reused. Still, tension bit at their fingers, set twinges betwixt their ribs, furrowed their brows.

A second volley of arrows was leased from the enemy dromunds, nearer and more accurate, and yet the Gondorians did not break. Their focus being so consumed with what lay behind, however, they were taken by surprise when the looming mass of rock rose up along their port side: at great last they had gained the meagre shelter of Tolfolas.

With a burst, the foremost Southron dromund lurched forward in a final attempt to halt the Alcarindur’s progress, but was met with the cry of ‘Loose!’ and the first volley of Gondorian arrows.

The scene broke into immediate chaos. Even as the two fleets drifted across the distance between Tolfalas and the Anduin, many drew within a detachment’s span of each other, yet the numbers upon both sides were still too great to attempt a boarding. The Haradrim firepower proved especially oppressive, however; they fought as if unconcerned with supplies – for they were – and fired indiscriminately across the distance. More than one sailor upon the Alcarindur was borne belowdecks to the infirmary, a fate echoed on each of the Gondorian dromunds.

The chase wore on, neither fleet gaining an advantage or falling to disadvantage. But then as evening, oblivious to the chaos below, settled into dusk, the Forodrim were at last granted a reprieve: the spurs of Belfalas and South Gondor came together to form the mouth of the Anduin.

‘Row, row!’ cried Aragorn over the hiss of arrows and shouts of men. ‘Draw further into the Anduin, then turn and cut them off in a narrow swath of the river!’

The orders were immediately relayed to those belowdeck, whose muscles bulged and strained against the swift currents; yet there was none who did not understand his survival depended on adherence to these commands. They applied themselves to their oars with renewed zeal. Abovedeck, the sight of fire flaring upon the enemy dromunds sent fear curdling within the northerners’ stomachs.

‘Prepare the blankets!’ came Éomer’s shout. ‘Smother the flames – they cannot be extinguished with water!’

A horn from the Alcarindur cut across the water just then. As one, the northern fleet slowed and drew abreast one another. Their oars’ pace slackened until the ships kept even with a peninsula jutting from the western bank, where a smattering of dwellings and farmland formed a small settlement. The Southron ships suddenly hung back, biding their time and calculating their approach.

‘I know this waterway as well as any other,’ said Captain Bardlorn, appearing between Aragorn and Éomer at the bulwark. ‘The Anduin is wide for a long ways yet; there is no point beyond Gwathail that shall serve us better.’

‘Even with one side protected, this shall be a bitter battle,’ said Aragorn.

‘Then we will make it all the more bitter for those who wish to sour our tables!’ Éomer enthused. The taste of conflict had come upon his tongue and he was eager to draw near his enemies. For too long had the horselord been constrained to boat decks and statesmanship; he longed to act.

But such an opportunity was not to be afforded him, for the Southrons were wise, and sought to avoid the Alcarindur and its kingly warriors. They aligned in column and drove towards the easternmost vessels, swiftly and near-effortlessly breaking the Gondorians’ formation. In moments, the first Southron detachment was secured. A furious tumult roiled in the dim light of evening. Tiny arcs of fire grew more distinct against the gathering darkness. Sailors upon neighbouring ships sent volleys in aid, but could not abandon their positions, which were all that stood between the Southron dromunds and their advancing further upriver towards Pelargir and beyond. It would be a short and futile battle, it seemed.

Then a horn, a horn! The sweet sound of the silver horn of Dol Amroth cut through the air, giving the Southrons pause. At once, the Gondorians seized upon this opening and laid ruin to the detachments, sending a large number of Corsairs tumbling into the waters of Anduin.

Through the forest of sable lateen sails appeared those of deep blue, emblazoned with distinctive white swans. As many as the Gondorian and Southron ships combined were the Dol Amrothinian numbers. They filled the channel, preventing the Southrons’ retreat and drawing them from fore to aft in a desperate attempt to defend against this newly-arrived threat. Quickly abandoning their arrows, the Southrons made use of more substantial fire orbs, though the Swan Fleet – having so recently left port – were wholly prepared with sandbags soaked in vinegar.

Even as Aragorn’s beleaguered troops continued to battle what few Southrons still assailed them, a tiny dinghy slipped unobserved through the black dromunds and pulled up alongside the Alcarindur. At a short sound blast from his horn, the messenger was welcomed aboard – yet this time the leaders were far too preoccupied to insist on removing to the aftcastle. Aragorn, Éomer, and Bardlorn all stood about the bold young lad, impatient for what news he brought.

‘Hail King Arago—’ he began.

‘Yes, yes, what is it?’ Éomer interrupted, in no mood for formal introductions.

‘Prince Imrahil insists you continue up the Anduin,’ said the boy. ‘He would like to assure you the Swan Fleet is capable of detaining and overcoming these enemy forces; you are needed more urgently in the north. We will follow soon after, when we prevail here.’

Aragorn did not waste one moment.

‘Let us set sail at once,’ he said, not so much as waiting for the others’ response – though he spoke the sentiments of all. The young messenger slipped back over the side of Alcarindur and down into his own boat, disappearing once more into the melee. Bardlorn waved a signal to Maeron, and his horn’s rallying blare sounded above their heads, calling for the northern fleet to turn and advance towards Pelargir.

Chapter Text

The instant Truva regained consciousness, she threw herself against the cell bars with an animalistic shriek. Paying no heed to the stripes of pain sure to form bruises later, or to her dislocated auricular finger, she continued to hurl herself time and time against the door; in her mind, the corporeal world no longer existed – only the flashing images of her time in the Hidlands: Dregant’s snarling face, bloodied and battered bodies, the whip’s crack, whispers from other fighters as she was dragged from the Training Compound to be sequestered in a cramped cage for years on end.

She could not endure it again. Not the long, listless days. Not the confinement. Not the sense of belonging to another human.

The very notion shattered her soul. She could not.

A gaoler appeared just as she clashed against the gate again. ‘Amä kamkıkh!’ he shouted, striking at the bars with his club and splintering Truva’s fingers in the process. When she did not fall back, merely continued to stare at him with eyes wide and wild, he used the end of his weapon to shove her away.

Yielding to the club’s pressure, Truva stood just beyond its furthest reach. She did not avert her gaze. The gaoler lingered but a moment longer, observing her askance, then turned back to his duties with a furious muttering that was surely half curses.

When the gaoler disappeared, an emaciated figure lurking in the cell across the passageway rushed towards his own bars, clutching them with hands of dark, mottled skin. The Orc’s voice was hushed – as not to be heard by the gaoler – but he spoke with desperate rapidity, imploring Truva with words she could not comprehend. When she shook her head in bewilderment, he raised long, skinny fingers in a gesture that was quite obviously intended as lewd, and spat in her direction.

Truva fell back against the cell’s foul straw. Her heart still raced, yet it seemed as though the worst of her sudden panic had faded. Resetting her dislocated finger – an old and oft-recurring injury – she breathed deeply and evenly. Her captors had not stripped her of Aragorn’s Star; her fingers worried its patterns and edges as she sought to replace frenetic thoughts with more calming ones: of Éomer the moment she encountered him in the Hidlands, the first occasion on which Théoden King had called her ‘daughter’, Aragorn’s gentle kiss upon her lips.

Eventually, she turned her mind to a more rational assessment of circumstances – little good though it did her, for all options were equally unpromising. She did not so much as share a common language with the gaoler; there was no potential for escape on that front – and even less so in her fellow captive, it would seem.

Nor was there any hope of immediate rescue; any friend aware of her general whereabouts had no notion of when her reappearance ought to be expected. Even Legolas and Gimli, those last to see her, knew nothing save that she had gone off into the lands of Rhûn on some ill-defined venture.

Shifting variables made more protracted plans harder to assess. With greatest fortune, Lord Faramir and whatever forces remained in Gondor would repel Alatar’s attack, and send the Easterlings back to their homelands with tails between their legs. But subsequent to their victory, the likelihood of any Western host – weak as they would be – venturing into Rhûn and stumbling upon Truva was nonexistent, nor could she foresee any circumstance in which Alatar would agree to an exchange.

And if Stoningland should fall? Truva shuddered to think – though perhaps that would offer her the greatest opportunity to flee. Surely Alatar, upon his triumphant return, would not be content to leave her locked up and wasting away in his dungeons, bereft of all potential. Knowing the meddling Wizards, Truva could only suppose he would make yet another attempt at persuading her to ally herself with the Easterlings.

Contingencies swirled in Truva’s mind as the hours passed unmarked in the depths of Baradorn, where the meagre sun did not penetrate. She was accompanied only by the sound of the guard changing or the chains that hobbled the Orc rustling across the way. Then, after a time, a low rumble could be heard above, a steady beat of marching feet: the Easterling company moving out.

Truva’s heart palpitated painfully in her throat at the thought of what lay at the other end of their journey, and the further the sound faded away, the more restless she became. In an attempt to dispel some modicum of her scarcely-contained energy, she moved about her cell, examining every nook and cranny. The enclosure was well-forged; not a single stone loose, not a crack too wide, not a bar out of place. Not that she had any real expectation of escape – for even if she succeeded in extricating herself from confinement, she would have to be very lucky indeed to overcome whatever guard remained behind at Karkürem.

In spite of her agitation (or perhaps as a result of it), Truva began to doze fitfully. Her eyes fluttered closed against her will, only to jerk open suddenly, accompanied by a rush of ragged gasps. This cycle repeated itself ad infinitum, broken only momentarily by a bowl of broth being shoved unceremoniously into her cell. Nearly half its contents spilled out, though this did not seem to discourage her Orcish companion across the way, who plied his tongue to the filthy cobblestone floor and lapped up every last drop of broth he could.

Truva brought her own bowl to her lips, and soon the warmth of the broth invited slumber to overtake her. This time she slept soundly, as though she lay upon her bed in Edoras; not even her quarters in Aldburg afforded her such deep sleep.

But then, with an abrupt shake, she was woken.

Truva leapt to her feet, finding herself face to face with a strange, elderly man whose features flickered in the torches’ paltry light. He was garbed in blue robes like those of Alatar, though his silver hair was streaked heavily with black, and the lines of age were not so heavily ingrained upon his round face.

Yet Truva noted none of this. All she could see was the open cell door behind him.

‘Come!’ the old man urged, his voice reverberating off the stone walls of the gaol. Already the Orc lingered in the passageway beyond.

Truva did not hesitate. She leapt towards the exit, attempting to evade the old man, yet he was far more sprightly than his age would suggest. He outpaced her easily, slipping out of the cell and darting along the aisle between those that now lay empty. Truva had no choice but to follow.

The gaoler lay unconscious at his desk, but neither Truva nor the other two paid him any mind as they passed, ascending the steps three at a time and emerging into the Baradorn entrance hall. It too was empty, save the clatter of rain lashing against its windows, falling from thunderous clouds which obscured the early morning sky beyond.

The old man bustled towards the far corner of the hall, but Truva had no intention of waiting to discover his aim. Spying a gardening scythe hung upon the wall amidst an assortment of other tools, she lunged for it – only to turn and find the Orc similarly armed. He stood directly in front of the main doors, blocking her escape.

Truva’s eyes flickered to the old man, who was pulling several bundles out from where they were hidden beneath the immense fronds of a potted caladium, oblivious to the standoff. ‘You are Rómestámo,’ she stated.

‘Very well deduced,’ the Wizard replied. He placed the bundles in the middle of the hall and began to unroll them. ‘And while it does not surprise me that Alatar insists upon using that name, I do prefer Pallando.’

‘You ally yourself with the Orcs.’ It sounded like an accusation; perhaps it was.

‘And it appears you have already met their queen, Azgaur,’ said the Wizard, extricating a scimitar from the mess of fabric and handing it to the Orc. Truva’s heart pounded as the Orc unsheathed his blade; now she could not possibly rely on force to secure her escape. She sought instead to distract the duo with conversation:

‘I see Orcs are very much like Dwarves, in that males and females are indistinguishable to those not of their kind. If royalty of any sort, I would have thought your companion a king, not a queen.’

The Wizard glanced at her briefly. ‘Nothing of the sort; “king” and “queen” are merely titles in Rhûn, belonging to the most premier leader and their partner, regardless of sex. Rather like your mother and Alatar.’

Truva allowed the scythe to drop to her side. ‘How do you—?’ She couldn’t bring herself to finish the question.

‘One does not ask a Wizard to unveil his mysteries,’ he said with a wink. ‘And the identity of my informants must be protected at all costs.’

He straightened then, and extended the hilt of Fréodhel towards Truva. She hesitated, slowly reaching for the leather grip, when the Wizard suddenly withdrew the sword.

‘You may, of course, go where you will once freed from this place,’ said he, ‘yet I suspect you will make directly for Gondor in the wake of Alatar and his host. Is that not true?’

‘Very well deduced,’ Truva echoed.

The Wizard paid no mind to her impertinent answer. ‘If I were to imply I had a proposal that would increase the West’s hopes for victory, would you be at all inclined to listen?’

Even as he spoke, he gently lowered the sword hilt into Truva’s outstretched palm. Drawing the sheath towards herself, she freed the blade in one sweeping motion, and upon careful inspection was convinced it had not sustained any damage.

‘What is the nature of this proposal?’ she asked, resheathing Fréodhel once more.

‘There is no time,’ the Wizard urged. ‘We must begone; if you wish to hear my explanation, I will give it on the way.’ He passed to her the Elven bow and other weapons, as well as the horn of the House of Éofor.

‘And my armour? My rucksack?’

‘If you wish to have any hope of escaping this stronghold unscathed, you would do well to conceal yourself with the Easterlings’ own armour. As for your other effects, I know not where they may be found.’

Truva grimaced and drove to the back of her mind the loss of the greatest physical reminder she possessed of Théoden King – just when she desired it most – and even Gimli’s tiny carving of Bron. Thus emptying her thoughts, she rushed to exchange her silken garb for the blue and gold livery of an Easterling rider, as Azgaur Queen had already done. With Fréodhel secured about her waist, Truva made for the main doors, but Pallando caught her elbow.

‘There are no guards within the hall, but there are many without,’ he said in a hushed voice.

He instead led the fugitives up, up the tower’s spiral staircase, stopping when they had nearly ascended to the third floor, where thick strands of woodbine brushed against a window, tossed by stormy gusts of wind. He pushed open the pane and clutched at the vines, but Truva stopped him with a stifled, ‘Wait!’

Leaving the odd duo behind her, she ascended the remaining floors to Alatar’s study. Its doors were closed, but yielded easily to her touch. The study was unoccupied. Entering furtively, Truva strode across the lush carpet to the pedestal and ripped the cloth off the palantír. She stared into its murky depths, but felt no hesitation; she knew now precisely what to expect, and what information she sought most desperately.

Placing her hands above the glassy sphere, Truva allowed its rush to consume her, welcomed its disorienting sights which sent her careening southward to where she knew Aragorn to be. And then there he was – watching the races of some peculiar creature – rushing across empty golden sands upon the back that very same beast – wielding Andúril at the prow of a ship under fire –

She stepped back and stood gasping in the centre of the study. Alatar’s words rang in her ears: sometimes the palantíri show things that have not yet come to pass, and such things are never certain until they do. And yet, and yet… what she had just witnessed was so entirely consistent with events she knew to be occurring in the south. Aragorn was in danger.

She turned to spy Pallando and Azgaur standing in the doorway of the study, staring at her.

‘I suppose I ought not be so surprised,’ the Wizard muttered.

‘I must go,’ Truva insisted. ‘Now.’

Pallando did not gainsay her; he merely descended once more to the third floor landing, where he carefully lowered himself down the makeshift rope of woodbine into the thicket of purple azalea below. Truva glanced questioningly at the Queen, who returned a glower that clearly indicated he expected her to follow first.

The woodbine’s waxy leaves were slick with rainwater as Truva climbed hand over hand down, nearly slipping on several occasions. No sooner had she gained her footing in the loamy earth than Azgaur dropped down behind her with a grunt. Pallando raised his finger to his lips for silence – though his companions needed no reminder; just around the bend of Baradorn, two Easterling guards chatted away as though they hadn’t a care in the world.

Pallando darted from one voluminous hydrangea to the next, leading the fugitives westward away from the tower’s entrance until they slipped out of the garden and into the paths of the city. A great many villagers still milled about their morning business, though none so much as cast a glance in the trio’s direction. Far more dangerous were the infrequent guards, at whose passing Truva and the others were forced to duck into alleyways and shopfronts to evade detection.

They soon came upon the stables. With a breath of relief, Truva darted across the way before striding in through the double doors with an air of confidence, hoping against hope the stablehands would not recognise her. She needn’t have worried, however, for the stablehands were occupied as ever in their game of cards, and paid her no mind.

When she stopped in front of Zaĭsan’s stall, however, it lay empty, as did a number of others. She raced up and down the rows, searching frantically for the fiery piebald, yet was unable to locate him; of those few horses that remained, none bore his distinctive markings.

In her panic, it took Truva several moments to hear Pallando whistling to her from outside the stables. Abandoning her search, she scrambled out a window opening onto the rear alleyway. But even as she did so, one stablehand called out in Easterling – though he never took his eyes off his cards, and made no rush in Truva’s direction.

‘Did you perhaps befriend a steed by the name of Zaĭsan?’ Pallando whispered as Truva dropped down into the alleyway beside him.

‘Yes,’ she replied, brows furrowed in confusion.

‘Laddie says Alatar himself rode off on that horse,’ said the Wizard, with a nod in the vague direction of the stablehand who had called out.

‘Helm take that pernicious Wizard,’ Truva swore quietly.

‘It would have been folly to ride out on horseback, as it is,’ Pallando quipped as he crept along the stables’ rear wall. ‘The main gates of Karkürem currently boast more guards than Morannon ever did.’

Truva could make neither heads nor tails of the Wizard’s wild plans, and yet it appeared they coincided with her own – for a short while, at least – and so she continued to follow after his bobbing blue hood as he wove along uncrowded byways and hidden paths. In a matter of minutes, the southernmost stretch of wall rose up before them.

‘How long has it been since the company’s departure?’ Truva asked, casting her glance first to her right, where a noisy cohort of guards at the main gate were just hidden from view by the wall’s curve, then up at the towering battlements.

‘They broke camp yesterday, just after dawn,’ said Pallando. ‘They will have a significant advantage; we must move with all haste.’

‘Move whither?’

But the Wizard did not answer. After glancing both ways along the street to ensure no villagers were about, he bounded across the cobblestones and scaled the wall as if upon air. Truva stared in bewilderment, yet Azgaur was already shoving her forward. There, sweeping against the wall’s immense stone blocks, dangled a creeper stripped of its leaves. Truva wound it round her hand, ignoring the biting cut of vine against the flesh of her hand, and ascended after Pallando.

There were no guards upon the battlements. Perhaps it was as Óddîr claimed: that none dared attack Karkürem, and so its defenders grew content, their patrols lax. Or perhaps they had marched out in too great of numbers to maintain a standard watch. Yet while the fortress might be safe from assault, that said nothing of escaping prisoners.

As soon as Azgaur gained the parapet, the three fugitives turned away from the city. Truva saw then that her fear upon entering Karkürem had become her very path to salvation, for against the outer battlements rested a felled tree, its vines cast over the ramparts in order to allow their ascent – and presumably the Wizard’s initial descent. Pallando made the short jump down to the trunk, then scrambled branch by branch along the tree until he dropped with a flourish of blue robes onto the greensward. Truva followed close behind, as did Azgaur, and in a flash they were beneath the forest’s cover, dashing between birch and pine as they bore directly southward.

Their headlong sprint did not last long, however. Scarcely a mile had been put between themselves and the fortress before Pallando slowed to a swift stride, which carried him at nearly the same pace as a jog.

‘A sprightly walk is as good as a stuttered trot,’ he said, waggling his eyebrows significantly. ‘Best not overexert ourselves.’

Indeed, Azgaur’s breathing had grown somewhat laboured – though he strove to conceal that fact, and Truva feigned to pay it no mind. She instead drew apace with the Wizard, intent on determining what his precise intentions were.

‘I have come with you thus far because you offered not only freedom to me, but also succour to my people,’ she said. ‘Yet I cannot say that I trust you – especially following so hard upon your compatriot’s betrayal. Tell me, what aid might Rhûn render Gondor, and for what purpose?’

‘You needn’t rely upon mere belief,’ the Wizard replied. ‘Least, no more than you already afforded Alatar, poorly though that served you. But first, tell me all that you know of circumstances here upon the Sea of Rhûn – or all that Alatar told you.’

Truva shot him a mistrustful look, then glanced over her shoulder to where Azgaur continued to stumble along behind them, indifferent to their conversation in a language he did not understand.

‘He is a figurehead, nothing more,’ Pallando clarified. ‘His threats in Baradorn were mere showmanship, designed to buy time with which we might convince you of our value. Do not mistake him as representative of the forces that defend Uzdígh.’

‘Alatar said you did not favour amassing a standing army, for fear of Sauron turning it to his fell purposes.’

‘So I did, so I did – as did Alatar. Yet shifts in the political landscape of Rhûn caused us both to reassess positions we had previously held. I suppose Alatar suggested it was the Orcs of Uzdígh who built the irrigation system that initiated the conflict between us, as well.’

‘Nothing of the sort,’ said Truva, launching into the history Alatar had relayed to her: how the Easterlings’ agricultural expansion had increased their need for water, the subsequent construction of an irrigation system and the Orcs’ violent reaction, the rapid disintegration of diplomacy between the two factions, and finally Pallando’s own role in the disappearance of King Ezele.

After she concluded her narration, Pallando remained silent for quite some time. His stride had slowed, and a pensive expression lay upon his face. Fat drops of water fell through the canopy onto the company’s heads and down their necks, suggesting the rain overhead had grown to a downpour, if the thick fronds of oak and beech were no longer sufficient to protect them.

‘Well,’ said the Wizard at great last. ‘That is quite some tale.’

‘Do you deny it?’ Truva accused.

‘Deny it?’ Pallando mused. ‘No, I do not think I can in good faith claim anything my dear friend said was an outright lie.’ His demeanour had grown clouded, his voice no more than a murmur. A singular bead of rainwater struck his forehead and trickled down to drip off the bulbous point of his nose as he sighed heavily. ‘I suppose it is merely a matter of perspective – but nor do I believe Alatar was entirely forthright regarding the true nature of his motivations.’

Truva made no further remark, for she sensed the Wizard would diffuse the haze of her confusion in his own time. Though neither Ithryn Luin had proven nearly as close as Radagast – let alone Gandalf – it was clear that, of the two, Pallando was more inclined towards the characteristic Wizardly reticence.

‘It is true Easterling Orcs are hardly an accommodating, neighbourly folk – even those who shunned Sauron’s influence,’ Pallando continued, resuming his headlong pace. ‘Indeed, I quite think it was due to their quarrelsome disposition, and disaffection to fall under the rule of another, that they evaded his clutching fingers in the first place. Yet Orcs are not impervious to reason, and it proved no difficult task to convince them of the advantages living in a moderately altruistic society would provide.’

Azgaur gave a grunt then, as if confirming what the Wizard said, though in all likelihood it was due more to having tripped over a particularly prominent root system. Pallando stopped briefly to offer him a hand before forging on.

‘Relations between Uzdígh, Agdî, and their inclusive territories were never easy. A great many isolated incidents of dispute arose – yet none were sufficient to spark larger conflict. That is, until the first dam was built. It is from that point I believe my understanding of events begins to deviate from that of my companion.’

‘Alatar said he built the system to support expanding infrastructure in the East Sea region,’ said Truva with all the impassivity she could muster.

‘And I imagine that was his partial intent,’ Pallando admitted. ‘Yet what I suspect he did not tell you is that the system they built funnelled the Celduin in its near entirety into their own lands, leaving Uzdígh deprived of the very resource most necessary for survival. The dam was constructed without our consultation, and Agdî made no attempts at fair distribution. While I have no proof of my suppositions, I do believe this served a dual purpose: to bolster the strength of East Rhûn whilst simultaneously weakening Uzdígh.’

‘So you attacked.’

‘Negotiations would have been far preferable, I must admit.’ The Wizard’s sighs grew deeper. ‘Yet as I mentioned, Easterling Orcs are a belligerent bunch, and are not liable to allow even the smallest of slights to go unavenged – let alone significant ones. The Agdî dam was swiftly disassembled, only to be reconstructed in a manner benefitting the West Sea alone, thus perpetuating a destructive cycle that would endure for hundreds of years.’

‘Then what is Uzdígh’s motivation for allying itself with Gondor? Whether it be resources or revenge you seek, surely you would benefit greatest by assailing the Easterling defences while their main host is away, marching upon distant lands.’

‘That only holds true if Alatar and his Noyon find defeat in the West, and return with a force insufficient to retake their strongholds.’

‘You do not think Gondor capable of staving off Rhûn’s assault.’ Though Truva could not fault Pallando for his assessment, she would not say it in so many words.

‘I do not wish to leave it to chance.’ Pallando stared determinedly ahead. ‘Should the Easterlings be met with victory, they will return to Rhûn with strength enough to seize control of the entire Zünuur region, whether we keep to ourselves in Uzdígh or no. Ensuring Gondor’s victory is the only hope we have of maintaining our own security.’

‘Alatar is intent on acquiring resources; surely those of the West will satisfy his needs. Perhaps he might not even return to Rhûn. Why risk the safety of your forces on an uncertainty?’

The foreboding look in Pallando’s eyes was more chilling than the rain that seeped into the gaps of Truva’s armour. His strides grew even longer, much to Azgaur’s vocal dismay.

‘Alatar’s greed cannot be sated,’ the Wizard murmured, as if to himself. ‘He is not the man I once knew, and has not been for quite some time. That is why I gave warning to your mother.’

‘I know no mother!’ Truva exclaimed fiercely.

Pallando glanced over his shoulder once more to his Orcish companion, who was straggling even further behind. A string of muttered curses – distinguishable regardless of language – sputtered from his lips. When the Wizard spoke again, he did not address Truva’s assertion.

‘Even if you choose to forgo our cause and instead make directly for Gondor, you are bound in the same direction as we,’ he said. ‘I beg of you to camp with us this night, and hear the full length of my tale ere you make a decision. If you remain unconvinced, you shall of course be free to travel whither you will.’

Some aspect of the Wizard’s expression told of his unwillingness to discuss the issue at length – though what the source of his hesitation was Truva could not guess. She pursed her lips but nodded, trusting there was no harm in accompanying this strange duo for a short while; Pallando had, after all, rescued her from a desperate situation, even if their encounter was the result of mere fortuitous happenstance.

Thus the Wizard pressed on at a furious pace. But Azgaur’s complaints grew so insistent – his stomach likewise lending its voice – that the company had little choice but to halt briefly around the time Truva assumed to be midday, though the overcast sky and thick foliage did not easily allow the passing of hours to be tracked. Taking shelter beneath an umbrella of butterbur leaves sprouting from a nurse log, the three passed around waterskins and loaves of Orcish waybread in silence. The Queen devoured every last crumb of blackened cram with apparent relish, but Truva found the fare so unpalatable she joined Pallando in fasting.

When they took to their feet once more, the ground began to slope heavily downwards, transitioning from soft loam to gritty soil. The dense forest grew thicker about them before thinning ever so slightly; the giant, unidentifiable trees like that of Baradorn became less frequent, replaced by spruces and firs. Crowded undergrowth slowed the company’s progress.

Hours passed. The minimal light that filtered through the trees gradually became dusky, then turned fully dark. Temporarily satiated by his noon meal, Azgaur began to voice his dissatisfaction yet again, but Pallando did not slacken his pace – and indeed seemed to increase it.

Then quite suddenly the earth fell away beneath their feet. Even in the darkness, Truva could see moonlight glinting upon the Sea of Rhûn, could hear gentle waves curling upon its sandy shores as she scrambled down a rocky escarpment after Pallando and came upon the beach itself. The Wizard then turned sharply west and travelled along the treeline parallel to the water’s edge, glancing back through the forest every now and then.

‘Ah hah!’ he cried after a time, dashing towards a small thicket of windswept juniper and barberry shrubs. From the topmost branches he shook down a carefully concealed tarpaulin to reveal a dinghy, with two sails strapped neatly about its tiny mast.

‘We will make camp here tonight and depart in the morning,’ he said, extricating blankets from the hull as he held a short exchange with Azgaur in their own dialect. Whatever Pallando said to the Orc caused the corners of Azgaur’s mouth to pull down and form a truly ferocious glower, demonstrating to Truva that he had not, in actuality, been scowling continuously at her since their first encounter, as she previously believed. When the two finished speaking, Azgaur turned on his heel and stomped off through the trees.

‘We could make a veritable bonfire and have reasonable assurance of not being detected,’ Pallando remarked, wholly unaffected by the Queen’s discontent. ‘Yet the docks of Karkürem lie at the head of an inlet just to the east, and I think it best not to tempt fate – even if all the East Zünuur forces are on the march. A small fire shall suffice.’

‘I will go collect firewood,’ Truva offered.

‘That is the task I have just sent Queen Azgaur on,’ said Pallando, with the shadow of a self-contented smile upon his lips. ‘He is not accustomed to procuring anything for himself, and I rather think the work shall do him some good.’

Truva studied the Wizard as he set about arranging an astonishingly large assortment of crockery. ‘Was the Queen not just confined in gaol?’ she asked. ‘I would think he is deserving of rest.’

‘Confined for scarcely longer than yourself!’ Pallando chuckled. ‘He was captured while enjoying a poorly-earned snooze upon the Sea not three days ago. His attendants thought – or hoped, perhaps – that he had drowned, and so the task of retrieving him fell to me.’

‘Three days? He appears so emaciated!’

Pallando fixed Truva with a curious look. ‘Orcs are a peculiar people; their bodies do not function in the entirely same manner as those of Men. I assure you, Azgaur eats a great deal more heartily than even the most portly of gentlemen in the West.’

‘You do not seem to hold a high estimation of the Queen,’ Truva remarked.

‘Easterling Orcs abide by a system of values that does not always align with my own.’ The Wizard offered a skin of wine to Truva, which she politely refused. ‘What I can say in Azgaur’s favour is that he boasts a great many traits the citizens of Uzdígh find desirable; for although it is true he is no hand at combat, he is cunning and sharp-witted, and by some means contrived for the King to choose him above all others.’

Unconvinced, Truva mused silently on this information a moment before rising. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said, gathering a cloth and drifting towards the forest, ‘I think I will go foraging, regardless. Grateful though I am for your inclination to share your waybread, I do not think I can bring myself to subsist upon it.’

‘I spied a rather lush patch of knotweed a short distance back,’ offered the Wizard, busy preparing what looked suspiciously like tea. ‘And I apologise for the nearly inedible cram; I did not realise I would be taking on a second, unexpected fugitive until I had already arrived in Karkürem.’

‘I could not dare fault you for something so entirely beyond your control,’ said Truva, wandering off in the direction Pallando had indicated.

He had not been mistaken; she soon stumbled upon a carpet of the bristly knotweed shoots, with the additional good luck of bracken stems poking through here and there. She gathered as many as her cloth would hold and returned to camp, where both Pallando and Azgaur sat about a fire, having somehow managed to both construct a meagre lean-to and snare several silver carp in the short span that she was away. The Queen was in the middle of prattling on about some story he apparently deemed hilarious – as evidenced by his own uproarious laughter.

Stone-faced, Pallando placed Truva’s contribution beside the fish to roast before pouring Azgaur another glass of wine. ‘I won’t translate,’ he said archly, with a nod to the Queen. ‘He’s elucidating on some of the more, ah, primal activities he and the King regularly engage in.’

‘I see,’ was all Truva said as she took a seat in the sand and accepted the cup of tea he offered.

Throughout the telling of Azgaur’s tale, all three members of the party took turns tending the carp, though the Queen did not possess the patience to wait until it had cooked fully, choosing instead to pluck a fish from the fire and consume its entire head in one bite. Its tail disappeared in a second mouthful, and the Queen leaned contentedly back against a rock, eyes fluttering against the weight of wine.

With Azgaur’s ribald tales finally at an end, silence fell between Truva and the Wizard, broken only by their companion’s surprisingly gentle snores. Another cup of tea passed before the fish was prepared, yet when Truva offered a portion to Pallando, he politely refused.

‘Have you never wondered why Mithrandir eats very little, if at all?’ he asked.

Truva pondered this a moment, for indeed she had never made note of the fact. ‘Why is that so?’

‘I mention it only because the reason perhaps relates to Alatar and the circumstances of your birth.’ The Wizard glanced at Truva, who suddenly found her meal far more fascinating than their conversation, and refused to return his gaze.

‘You see, the corporeal body is not a Wizard’s true manifestation, nor is he inherently bound to it,’ Pallando continued. ‘In coming to Middle-earth, we were given the figures of old men as a mere contrivance by which we might attain the task set upon us – the details of which I will spare you for now.

‘Yet with each act of humanity a Wizard commits, the more tied to this form he becomes. Every sip of tea, every embrace, every puff on a pipe, every summer afternoon doze decreases the likelihood of an Istar returning to his true nature, and inspires in his mind the more base thoughts of Men.’

‘I have seen Gandalf embrace many others,’ Truva interrupted. ‘He is particularly fond of the Holbytlan – the Halflings – and I imagine that fondness is aided in no small part by his penchant for their pipeweed.’

‘So Hobbits do exist, after all,’ murmured Pallando. He paused briefly to fumble around in a pack, extricating a pouch of his own tobacco before pulling a pipe as if from nowhere. This he packed and set alight, then settled back, allowing gentle wisps of smoke to be carried adrift by the wind off the Sea.

‘I suppose to forgo food, yet not the touch of others, is consistent with the ever-foolish and sentimental character of Olórin,’ he continued. ‘But it was not so for Alatar. Even in our earliest days, he felt an affinity for the Easterlings, yet not in the way I suspect Gandalf – as you call him – did for the Periandi. Alatar revelled in being considered a deity, in being elevated to a position of significance beyond anything he had previously known. He indulged immensely in the pleasures of Men, and so was born into his mind the notions of ambition and avarice; it was not concern for the Easterlings that drove his actions, but rather the acute desire for power.

‘This the Easterlings gave him, fully and easily. They promoted him above even their own Chieftains, above all save the very King; and so Alatar’s rapacity only increased. It was then he sought to sow seeds of instability in West Rhûn, under the guise of infrastructural growth – yet with the underlying hope that it would one day allow him to control the Sea of Rhûn in its entirety.’

Pallando fell silent a moment, the dying fire flickering in his eyes as he sighed heavily. Truva added another log and stoked the flames, observing the Wizard from the corner of her eye. Whereas all aspects of Alatar were long and thin, there was a tired roundness to Pallando; he had the appearance of a man who had been portly in his youth but since lost much of the weight, as if deflated by the years. Only his beard, silver curls so dark they nearly appeared blue, was robust.

He indulged in another puff of his pipe before speaking again. ‘Yet even this was not sufficient to sate Alatar’s greed, and so he set his mind upon that which he had yet to subsume: the Kingship. Had Alatar but asked, the Easterlings would surely have transitioned power into his hands – and happily at that. But Alatar’s mind became so corrupted by his indulgences that he felt the need to possess the King in the way a Man would. He took the King as a wife.

‘I do not believe Alatar ever truly loved Ezele,’ said Pallando softly. His eyes glimmered in the firelight. ‘If he did, such sentiments were secondary to his aspirations for power.’

‘Alatar said you poisoned her mind out of jealousy for their love,’ Truva stated bluntly. She had been played for a fool once already, and was determined not to be moved by Pallando’s display of emotion. She would hear his iteration of the story, compare it to Alatar’s, then parse out her own understanding of the truth – nothing more.

‘It does not surprise me that he interpreted my actions in such a way,’ said Pallando with a humourless chuckle.

‘Were you envious of their love?’ Truva pressed.

‘It is impossible to have coveted what they did not possess,’ the Wizard insisted, his lips pressing into a bitter line. Then his voice grew hushed as he murmured, ‘Yet I cannot in good faith say I did not care deeply for Ezele.’

Only the tranquil rush of waves and crackle of fire could be heard as Pallando once more allowed his narration to lapse into quietude. Truva observed him closely. There was a moment in which she thought she spied the ghost of an expression Gandalf often wore when he was deepest in thought, but then it was gone, and Pallando regained his phlegmatic manner of speaking.

‘Perhaps I, like Alatar, indulged in a few too many cups of tea.’ He took a sip as if to confirm this. ‘You see, as quarrelsome as Uzdígh and Agdî were throughout the years, their respective leaders spent a great deal of time in communication, always attempting to ease tensions between two disparate peoples. Many a late evening was spent in Karkürem and the study of Baradorn – for that citadel Alatar built to woo Ezele. Thus through our unceasing negotiations I came to sense Alatar’s intentions, and my affections blossomed despite all efforts to the contrary.

‘She was powerful – far more powerful even than the Orcs of West Rhûn, for though many Easterling tribes had fallen prey to Sauron’s influence, still they feared her. But she was kind also, and thoughtful, and cared deeply for her people. Agdî flourished under her policies, and even Uzdígh prospered from her stance of pacification. This is why I believe she fell susceptible to Alatar’s subterfuge; she believed his concern for the Easterlings equal to her own.

‘I voiced my concerns to her but once,’ he whispered, taking a long draw from his pipe. ‘She married him regardless.’

Here Pallando paused for quite some time, staring into the settling fire, before taking a deep breath to continue. ‘At first I thought my initial impressions must have been mistaken, for they appeared happy, in their own way. Their union also allowed Alatar the one act that would unequivocally tie him to his life in Middle-earth—’

‘Fathering a child,’ Truva interrupted. When Pallando looked upon her, his dark eyes were full of sympathy.

‘It was only then that the illusion began to unravel. Ezele came to me, distraught, with neat braids dishevelled and tears in her eyes. It was difficult to understand through her sobs, and she gave no details – only that she had grown to fear Alatar’s insatiable hunger for power, and the plans he had concocted to attain it.’

‘Did those plans perhaps include me?’ Truva asked, her tone dispassionate. ‘Was I no more than a tool by which he might accomplish his objective?’

Pallando’s eyebrows arched high. ‘What gave you that impression?’

‘Alatar himself,’ said Truva. ‘I did not think much of it at the time, yet hard upon our first meeting, he seemed most intent on evaluating my abilities and discovering the ways in which I might be useful. There was no mention of more… familial connections.’

‘He must have been terribly distracted by the impending military campaign,’ mused Pallando. ‘Alatar is typically far more adept at manipulating those around him without their knowledge. But yes, I suppose that is also what drove him to search so thoroughly for you, following Ezele’s disappearance. I doubt he carried much consideration for his wife – with all frankness, he stood to benefit considerably from her absence – yet he would not have been pleased to lose whatever advantage you might have brought him.’

Truva’s mouth twisted into a frown, although it was an answer she had foreseen, and indeed expected. ‘Do you know what became of the King?’ she asked softly.

‘No,’ whispered Pallando, a tear trickling down his cheek. Truva started; she could not recall having ever seen a Wizard cry, yet Pallando did not seem intent on hiding his distress. ‘In my distrust of Alatar, I too went in search of Ezele – yet all trace of her disappeared beneath the eaves of Taur-nu-Fuin – the forest I believe you know as Mirkwood.’

Perhaps it was all a facade; perhaps Pallando was in league with Alatar, or some other such convoluted twist. Truva found that she did not care. Of what consequence would it be if she laid bare the details of her tale?

‘I do not know at what point it happened, but the King and I were separated. I fell into the hands of Dwarves – I suspect those of the Iron Hills – and Ezele was discovered in the Enchanted River by Silvan Elves. Perhaps she fell in and I wandered off, to be snared by greedy hands; or perhaps I was snatched away, and as a result she threw herself into its waters – I know not.’

The silence that followed was oppressive. Pallando was now dry-eyed, a lull in the wind causing a cloud of smoke to accumulate in the twists of his beard and about his balding head.

‘That ought not to have been your fate,’ he murmured at last. Unlike Alatar’s reassurances – which were likely spoken in truth but with greedy intent – Truva could not help but feel as though Pallando proffered earnest sympathy.

‘Perhaps not,’ she replied, wrapping her cloak against the chill night and settling against the bole of a coarse pine. Her mind ought to have been racing with this trove of new information, desperate to seek out the truth between the two Wizards’ tales, yet instead there was some strange sense of emotional fulfilment, of unfamiliar contentment. The glow of the fire and Azgaur’s soft snores lulled her to sleep.

Chapter Text

The Alcarindur and her armada came upon the outer reaches of Pelargir in the grey light of early morn. There the company spied farms – the meagre spring harvest of which was uprooted – as well as riverbanks muddied and churned, and fishing boats absent from local docks. Yet there was no sign of the Southron vessels that had slipped past the Swan Fleet’s defences in Harnen, nor were any villagers visible upon the shores, who might give word of what events had transpired along these reaches of Lebennin.

The mystery only deepened when scouts returned to report that, for all intents and purposes, Pelargir appeared very much in a similar state as the Gondorian sailors had left it some months ago: still bearing the scars of battle, but otherwise undisturbed – improved, perhaps, by the reconstruction that had been done in their short time away.

Yet when the city itself came into view, an eerie silence reigned; there was no hint of movement, no bustle of fishermen within its canals, no clang of baker’s bell to signal fresh bread, no blathering of livestock at market. Not even the hint guardsmen could be spied upon its towers or battlements. Pelargir appeared wholly abandoned.

But when the Alcarindur drew near enough for its heraldry and passengers to be distinguished, a trumpet blared from a watchtower. The city leapt alive at once. With hearts racing – though the attack was not entirely unexpected – the crew of the Alcarindur assumed formation and steeled their hearts. They were met with no deadly offence, however, but a rush of Pelargirian longshoremen pouring onto the docks to guide the ships to port.

But the greatest surprise of all came when, from beneath archways in the largest paths of the city, or behind blinds hastily constructed in the fields, emerged the massive bulk of half a dozen oliphaunts, ears flapping gently as they assessed this new development.

The throngs upon the dock quickly parted as Minister Tinnedir came forward under Gondor’s sable banner to greet the party, the Wizard Radagast at his side. A gangway was swiftly affixed to the Alcariundur and Aragorn alighted upon the docks, with Éomer, Bardlorn and all other commanders close behind.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Aragorn asked of the Minister, indicating the oliphaunts. ‘What happened here? Did you not fall under the assault of the Southron fleet?’

‘It is equally astounding to us, my lord,’ said the Minister. ‘I think perhaps the Wizard might be more capable of explaining than I.’

All eyes turned to Radagast, who smiled hesitantly, unaccustomed to being so thick in the midst of events. ‘Ah, well, it is – you see, we have been working for some time upon a road that allows swifter passage between Dol Amroth and Pelargir, through the hilly lands of Dor-en-Ernil.’

‘“We” being the oliphaunts and a small group of labourers from Dol Amroth,’ Tinnedir clarified.

‘Just so,’ said Ennebyn, the head keeper, who stood just beside the Wizard. ‘Evenings are typically quite docile in the barn, for the oliphaunts are well-mannered and peaceful when cared for by a gentle hand; yet two days ago, they awoke deep in the night and fussed up a terrible ruckus, bowling down the wooden doors quite entirely and storming off into the night.’

‘The keepers and I followed as best we could on horseback,’ Radagast added, ‘and though we were massively outpaced, the oliphaunts’ tracks were not difficult to follow: they made directly over the developing trail and straight for Pelargir.’

‘What a terrible fright we had, seeing such massive beasts charge the unprotected agriculture sector in the south!’ exclaimed the Minister. ‘Yet their gentle mien is well-known, and their purpose was clear: no sooner had the first fell sail appeared upon the Anduin than the oliphaunts proceeded to foil each of the Southrons’ attempts to land, even as we struggled to mount the most basic of defences. After great destruction was wrought upon any Corsair vessel that dared draw near, the remaining fleet passed silently by.’

The gathered Pelargirians shuddered at the recollection of enemy dromunds gliding eerily upon the Anduin waters, the splash of paddles the only sound in the night.

‘These are quite unusual circumstances,’ Aragorn remarked.

‘I can offer no further explanation, save that perhaps they had some sense of the Southrons’ coming, and rushed to defend Pelargir against their old masters’ hands,’ said Radagast.

‘Did they cause such a disturbance before the first Corsair assault upon the city?’ asked Éomer.

‘No, milord,’ the Wizard replied. ‘Though the road was not nearly so complete then, nor the danger so great – small as the attacking fleet was.’

Aragorn mulled silently for a moment. ‘And now the Southrons aim for a deeper purchase: Harlond, or perhaps even Osgiliath. Pelargir was never their target nor destination.’

‘My curiosity is acute with regard to how you came upon such knowledge,’ said the Minister, ‘though I am certain it is a long tale you have to tell of the south, and I trust you do not wish to tarry here, milords.’

‘Verily,’ said Éomer. ‘I long to be gone even now; though it is no comment upon the welcome I find here, and rather my fervent urge to press on.’

‘Following our departure, you might yet be visited by a second host,’ Aragorn added. ‘But whether it will be Swan Ships or black Southron dromunds, I cannot say.’

‘We shall prepare for both,’ said the Minister. ‘As for your own ventures, our stores are in short supply as ever – yet we did succeed in stockpiling a small number of weapons and other resources. We will provide you with what little we can spare.’

Even as he spoke, a stream of longshoremen formed a line between dock and ship and began conveying bundles towards the Alcarindur.

‘And vinegar?’ Éomer inquired.

‘Most certainly, my lord,’ said Tinnedir. ‘Though I do not think there was sufficient time for the process to complete, so its efficacy may be lessened somewhat.’

‘We must make do with what is available to us,’ said Aragorn, stepping in to aid the longshoreman alongside the other commanders.

Their task was soon completed, many hands and few supplies as there were. Aragorn then stood upon the gangway of the Alcarindur, looking out across a host of Pelargirian faces whose concern read apparent.

‘I will not demand that any Man accompany us,’ said he. ‘You have come under the violent hand of Corsairs once already, and in the meantime laboured with much effort to rebuild what they struck down. Before that, many of you battled upon Pelennor Fields, or before the very Black Gates themselves.

‘Yet we find ourselves again beset upon by adversaries who seek to take advantage of our perceived weakness, whose fell deeds come wave upon wave, with the intent of wearing away at our resolve. If you can find the strength within yourself, I ask that you take up arms and sail northward with us, in a final defence of our homes and livelihoods.’

No rousing cheer greeted the King’s speech – only a grim silence as many able-bodied warriors shuffled forward. They came with sword and bow, shield and helm; indeed, they had not been free of such items since the Southrons’ reappearance, knowing what would ultimately be asked of them.

Aragorn stepped aside as they mounted the gangway with stony expression. ‘For those who choose to stay,’ he continued, ‘know this: you have yet your part to play. It is in you that our greatest trust lies – for should our northern forces fail, the protection of this city and all the lands of Lebennin shall lie with you. Let us each serve his purpose with stout heart.’

At last these words evoked a tremendous roar from the crowd. A keen energy passed between the armada and those upon the docks; with wordless cries they echoed each other’s tremulous encouragement as the Alcarindur took to sail once more.

The wharfs and battlements of Pelargir gradually disappeared around a bend in Anduin, and the wooded hills of South Ithilien rose up along the eastern bank. Aragorn stood upon the portside bow, gazing out across the rich farms of Lossarnach, which had at last shaken off their snowy mantle and begun to unveil their emerald jewels of spring – though still there was an unseasonable sharpness in the air. He pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders just as Éomer approached and leaned against the bulwarks beside him. The two kings watched the passing scenery in silence for quite some time until Éomer could withstand it no longer.

‘What do you suppose awaits us in the north?’ he murmured.

‘Death,’ said Aragorn without hesitation. His unseeing eyes did not turn, his mouth did not waver from its grim line.

‘I wish I could gainsay such desolate thought,’ said Éomer, huffing a humourless chuckle, ‘yet I fear I cannot. Even if death comes not for us, it will surely come for those under our command – which makes it all the worse.’

The two continued to stare off into the distance, allowing the quietude to bear unspoken significance between them a while, consumed by their own thoughts. Aragorn’s turned to when he had last advanced up the Anduin on the eve of battle, when his unease over certain demise was tempered by a hope unlooked for. Now that he knew such hope had not been in vain – that a fierce warrior and circumspect leader loved him in return – a renewed determination roiled in his breast. He would not endure for so many years under the shadow of evil, only to be sundered from what little good had come of it.

Duty to his people was paramount, to be sure, and yet – and yet a small needle of personal desire had worked its way into his heart, redoubling his strength of will.

‘I do not think the Southrons will allow Harlond to go untouched, as they did Pelargir,’ he said to Éomer, turning at last to matters of practicality. ‘It is too significant a position; he who holds the harbour controls southern access to Minas Tirith and Osgiliath.’

‘And prevents military aid and supplies from coming in that direction,’ Éomer added. ‘But still I cannot fathom the Southrons’ intentions. Even if they succeed in taking Harlond, surely they cannot expect to then besiege Mundburg; their numbers are great, but not so great as to maintain such an expansive position.’

‘Perhaps they only seek to be a thorn in the lion’s paw until we capitulate to their demands, or perhaps there are machinations we are yet unaware of; the Southrons are cunning, and have deceived us more than once in recent days – and the walls of Minas Tirith are still vulnerable following the War. That is my greatest cause for concern.’

‘What of Osgiliath? Though my passage through that city for the birth of little Elboron was brief, it seemed great progress had been made in reconstructing its defences.’

‘Therein lies our greatest hope,’ said Aragorn with steely mien. ‘Osgiliath was the focus of our strongest efforts to rebuild, having suffered the greatest damage during the War. It is still susceptible to attack, but we did not leave it wholly undefended; if the garrison holds until we can lend them succour, we might be so lucky as to see a less bloody victory.’

‘Then there is yet one element in our favour: for in coming by ship, the Southrons will surely launch an assault upon Osgiliath before ever attempting to take the White City.’

Neither of the two Kings spoke of what would happen should Osgiliath fall; there was no purpose in doing so, save to invite despondency. Their path was laid clear before them – there would be no turning from it. With one last, despairing glance between them, Aragorn and Éomer went about their separate duties.

Not a hint of the enemy was spied throughout all the morning and afternoon, even as the Alcarindur came upon the outflow of Erui and the peaks of Ered Nimrais loomed taller in the distant northwest. Darkness overtook daylight. Sailors sat for their evening meal in terse silence or overzealous levity in equal parts – for each Man was accustomed to enduring the approach of battle in his own manner. When it came time to retire for the night, some slept soundly while others feigned the attempt; yet more simply abandoned all pretence of rest and found ways to keep themselves occupied during the long hours until dawn.

The first haze of day revealed the Gondorian fleet to have nearly gained the foot of Mindolluin, Harlond just out of sight behind the mountain’s bulk. Nervous and pressed for time, very few sailors succeeded in swallowing breakfast before rushing to form ranks upon the deck of Alcarindur.

The steady beat of oars calmed their palpitating hearts as the otherwise silent surroundings fostered an uneasy mood within their breast. Then, upon the still air, they were gradually able to discern sounds – faint at first, but growing until the clamour of battle was distinct and unmistakable. Hands clutched bow grips and sword hilts, thumbs fingered arrow fletching and steel pommels; eyes flickered from bank to bank and around each bend of the Anduin, wary of an ambush – in spite of the scouts’ reports – and ever cognizant that each new stretch of river could reveal their final end.

The sounds grew louder: the creak of mast and hull, the splinter of oars, shouts and horns and blade upon blade. It became almost deafening. Then, beyond one final promontory, Harlond appeared on their port side.

The sight Aragorn and the others beheld there confirmed their greatest fears: deep within the harbour, several smaller Gondorian vessels fought valiantly, reinforced by a great many troops upon land; but there was no doubt the Southrons held the upper hand.

‘This is not the Corsairs’ full fleet!’ Aragorn cried over the melee’s uproar.

‘Perhaps taking Harlond was not so significant to them as we thought,’ shouted Éomer in return.

‘The bulk of their forces must have continued on to Osgiliath,’ said Captain Bardlorn.

‘And so too must we go,’ Aragorn declared. ‘Let only the most necessary number of our ships remain here to ensure Harlond remains under Gondorian control.’

Bardlorn shook his head in disagreement. ‘I do not think it a good idea to further divide our already negligible forces. Why do we not lend succour to Harlond as one, then proceed on together?’

‘There is little we can do in such a confined space,’ Aragorn countered. ‘Let us hope it will be enough to trap the Southrons in the harbour. Our far more pressing concern lies with Osgiliath, if that, as it seems, be where their heaviest strike will fall.’

The Captain yielded to Aragorn’s determination, though hesitation was written heavily upon his brow. After a few brief signals were exchanged between ships, there came a sounding of Maeron’s horn, and the Alcarindur and all save three of her armada forged further along the Anduin. Frantic cries rose up behind them – though there was no distinguishing to whom such cries belonged.

As the Fields of the Pelennor came into view, there was no visible movement across the vast swaths of farms and open grassland. Those Gondorian troops that had remained behind were already entrenched in their positions, whether in defence of Minas Tirith or engaged in conflict within her ports; for in addition to Harlond, the clangour of battle in Osgiliath rose up to meet the northerners’ ears as they drew nearer that garrison. The sailors’ muscles were taut and their jaws set; the jovial late afternoon sun belied the tense scene which lay below.

The company’s progress slowed now; the oarsmen sought to conserve their energy, knowing full well they would be called upon to serve – either as navigators or as swordsmen – once their destination was reached. With each blow upon the chief’s pipes, with each pull of the oars, they drew closer and closer to conflict.

Yet Aragorn knew this stretch of Anduin better than any. He bade the fleet halt at a slow curve where the riverbank rose high and trees grew right up to the earthen overhang. There they awaited the final scouts’ report.

‘Let us not stumble into combat blindly and compound our disadvantages – for even at our full strength we are outmatched by the Corsairs when on water,’ said he. ‘But amongst our numbers, we have those who fare better even than the Haradrim on land; let us make use of what few advantages we boast.’

Éomer stepped forward at these words; he knew them to be in reference to the Eorlingas. ‘It is true, our Mearas grow restless, and my men are eager to ride them into battle. We know not what circumstances may greet us in Osgiliath, yet surely the horselords will be of more use, were we to disembark and assail the enemy in territory where we are strongest.’

‘But let us not be overly hasty,’ Captain Bardlorn reasoned. ‘Perhaps it is as you say, and an attack from both land and sea will be best, but I would rather we make our decision upon hearing the scouts’ report.’

And so the warriors – sailors, soldiers, and Riders alike – sat about in the agonising task of doing nothing, made all the more torturous for action laying so close at hand. Whatever tension the previous days had given rise to was no comparison to the keen suspense that gripped the northern army in those strained moments.

They blessedly did not have long to wait; a tiny scouting vessel soon slipped into view, and its pair of Swan Knights boarded the Alcarindur in a flash. They leapt to attention before Aragorn and the other commanders.

‘Osgiliath has fallen, my lords!’ declared one.

Whispers flared immediately amongst the sailors, spreading to the other vessels of the fleet more swiftly than a summer wildfire after a drought. Despite the breakneck pace with which they had pursued the Southrons, Osgiliath already lay in enemy hands? Surely fate could not work so steadfastly against them!

‘There was no sign of ongoing conflict,’ said the second scout. ‘The sounds we mistook for battle were nothing more than the Corsairs and Haradrim establishing their position within the garrison. All Gondorians appear to have fled – whither to, we cannot guess.’

‘And it seems the Southrons anticipate no counterattack – least not by water – for they have not raised the harbour chains,’ the first added. ‘Or perhaps they do not know to.’

‘It is a small blessing!’ said Captain Bardlorn. ‘An opening, an opportunity by which we might yet retake Osgiliath – and a fatal miscalculation on the Southrons’ part.’

‘It is no blessing,’ said Aragorn grimly, ‘nor any miscalculation. They do not raise the harbour chains because they do not fear our navy. They would rather fight to keep the southern Anduin open than allow any blockade to settle in and prevent their escape.’

‘Thus will the best be made of our cavalry,’ said Éomer. ‘With the Southrons’ focus on defence of the river, the main gates of Osgiliath will be susceptible to attack.’

‘Let the Rohirrim disembark and make for the western fortifications,’ commanded Aragorn, whose own thoughts were of the same ilk. ‘From there – If you’ve the will, Lord Éomer – you might also send a messenger into your lands and muster what forces remain in Rohan; for who can suppose how long this siege may last? We shall require a great many more Men to sustain us.’

‘I will go, milord,’ Gamhelm offered.

Éomer gave a curt nod of confirmation. ‘But make first for Mundburg, and ask that the beacons be lit before you go, so that the Muster may depart all the sooner. When you come amongst our Riders, appraise Elfhelm Marshal of the circumstances; he is even more blind than we.’

‘Yes, milord,’ said Gamhelm.

‘Helm’s speed to you, Rider,’ said Aragorn, employing the Eorlingas’ own turn of phrase. ‘As for the rest: those sailors of Dol Amroth shall remain aboard, keeping with them only the necessary crew to man their ships and mount an offence. All other Gondorians will disembark on the eastern riverbank and march upon the gate of Annondû, making use of their knowledge of the garrison’s construction. Maeron, I place these men under your command.’

‘And you, milord?’ asked Bardlorn.

‘I shall remain upon the Alcarindur, and lend strength where it is needed most.’

The ship deck leapt into action at this declaration; the plan had been set. King Éomer and his Riders descended belowdecks to retrieve their horses whilst the remainder of the fleet drifted to the eastern shore and allowed the Gondorian warriors – particularly those less adept at sailing – to disembark. Some crews, their numbers too depleted to manoeuvre the larger dromunds, exchanged their vessels for smaller ones; others abandoned their own ships entirely and joined the ranks of another. Even as the last few foot soldiers slipped behind trees or disappeared into the tall grasses of South Ithilien, the chief’s flute struck up again, and Gondor’s dwindling armada advanced upstream once more.

They sat upon the very precipice of battle. The oarsmen’s breath came as one, steady and even, in time with the beat of paddle upon water, closer and closer, nearer and nearer.

A horn cracked in the stillness.

‘Forward!’ came the cry, accompanied by a second chorus of trumpets; not as any order – the signal to advance was unmistakable – but as a rousing cry to steel Gondorian hearts.

There, arrayed before the bridge Menelrond, which arched between the southern battlements of Osgiliath, floated the enemy fleet. Haradrim serpents upon their scarlet fields fluttered from the guardhouses and tall towers of the city, joined by the white ship-wheel on the Corsairs’ azure.

The Gondorians looked upon this spectacle in despair. Aragorn raised his voice so that all might hear: ‘We come at last to our home – the home which our foes have so vilely sought to wrench from our grasp. But it shall not be given so freely! Far have we come, and long have we been deprived the scent of our gardens, the touch of our loved ones, the sound of their voices – may your desire for such things sustain you, and power your resolve.

‘Be not fearful; we have thrashed these Corsairs before, and we shall do so again! With stout heart may you crash upon these foes and show them the strength of no tide may surpass that of Gondorians returned from the sea!’

A chilling roar reverberated all about the Gondorian ships – a wave of unrestrained, guttural shouts born of rage and abandon. Even in the face of Southron warriors streaming across Osgiliath’s battlements to uphold their undeserved claim, the northerners did not shy away; they had prepared to surrender their lives in defence of their homes long ago, when conflict first reared up in Pelargir. Now, in witnessing the very thing they had dreaded most, there would be no half-measures or hesitancy.

Yet the Southrons were equally unwilling to forfeit their gains and the promise of a stronger position against their northern neighbour. The instant the Alcarindur and her armada fell upon the Corsair ships, chaos ensued. The air became thick with arrows and the crack of ram upon hull as each side arranged formations, only to be sundered by their opponent.

The Anduin, wide though it was at Osgiliath, simultaneously hindered and rendered aid, both offering protection and stifling movement between its banks. But for all the Gondorians’ exertions, the Southron line did not give. From the harbour emerged a stream of reinforcements, allowing exhausted enemy crews to slip back into protected waters and recover while the Gondorians laboured on without rest.

After several failed attempts, the Alcarindur succeeded in driving along the eastern bank and across the oars of a Corsair dromund. All attempts to withdraw into the safety of Osgiliath were met with disjointed shifting from the incapacitated ship. Capitalising on their hard-earned opportunity, the Alcarindur crew drew alongside the enemy dromund and strove to secure their detachments. Southron arrows whistled overhead as Aragorn joined the sailors taking shelter behind the bulwarks as they prepared to board – yet it was not he who led the attack.

‘Over!’ cried Bardlorn, darting out from behind chests of sand.

The Gondorians loosed a volley and rose up as one, spilling over onto the Corsair deck and drawing their foes into a maelstrom of flashing silver blades. Aragorn too leapt down from the Alcarindur’s railing, yet even as he advanced, the enemy tumbled over themselves to fall back; they knew well the blade Andúril, and the spirit which radiated from its bearer, who would not be denied.

Bardlorn likewise found himself lightly opposed, for there were few who could stand before these august leaders of Gondor and not quail. Yet the remainder of the two factions were locked in combat across the blackened decks, neither willing to give a hint of quarter, let alone surrender. Aragorn took advantage of his unassailed prominence to take a position at the prow and turn his bow upon neighbouring enemy dromunds.

Then from the city emerged a terrible black ship, far larger than any that battled then upon the Anduin: a Southron flagship. The enemy dromunds pulled aside to make way for this new arrival. Deep within its belly, Aragorn could see the tell-tale fire burning. Dread sank into the pit of his stomach; that which had wrought so much destruction upon the city of Pelargir – and upon Gondorian ships at the mouth of Harnen – would surely prove beyond destructive in the close confines of Anduin.

The crew of Alcarindur wordlessly retreated to the familiarity of their own ship, casting off from the Corsair dromund without attempting to founder it, so wholly was their attention drawn by this sinister threat. Chests of sand were swiftly opened and swords exchanged for shovels – yet even as the sailors did so, Aragorn spied the glint of Gondorian armour upon the spade of land between the Anduin and Ithilduin. He turned to glimpse a hulking man: one he recognized as having once belonged to the Hidlanders – Blackbramble! The warrior had evaded the Southrons’ notice despite his large size, for he was far quieter than many a smaller man – a skill that lingered from his time in the Hidlands.

With a quick signal to Captain Bardlorn, Aragorn threw a rope over the side of Alcarindur and shimmied down into the water, swimming furtively across the short span between boat and bank. Blackbramble dismounted from his horse and slipped down the bank to greet him.

‘Milord, it is well to see you!’ said Blackbramble, bowing with all proper respect in spite of the tumultuous situation.

‘What happened here?’ asked Aragorn.

‘When first we heard of your victory in Pelargir, we were glad,’ Blackbramble began, ‘and even when less certain news followed, still our spirit was not dimmed. Thus were we caught entirely unawares when Southrons stormed up the Anduin with a fleet we could not reckon with. Osgiliath’s fortifications were yet underdeveloped and the forces to man them insufficient, and though all available reserves poured forth from Minas Tirith, and the White Company led by Prince Faramir lent us succour, we could not withstand the crushing onslaught.’

‘I was overzealous, and believed the southern lands’ strength to be equally as diminished as our own,’ said Aragorn, his voice low. ‘We return now to defend lands we perhaps ought never to have left. Tell me, what has become of the residents of Osgiliath and its defenders?’

‘All those who could not wield a blade were evacuated to Minas Tirith; those who escorted them are regrouping in that city even now. Others who remained but were overrun fell back to Cair Andros, where we are besieged by a faction of Corsair dromunds. Our wounded take shelter there, and it is my misfortune to report Lord Faramir is amongst their number, having sustained grave injuries.’

Aragorn stifled a grimace. ‘With what strength do the Southrons assail that fortress?’

‘Five ships, milord, at the time of my leaving.’

Strategies flitted in Aragorn’s mind, each promising a hint of victory, only to be dashed by the more powerful shadow of practicality. Pieces shifted across the board of his imagination, then returned to their original place and the sequence begun again as every slight variation he could conjure was accounted for. He gazed out across the battle: black dromunds littering the currents of Anduin more thickly than the fallen leaves of autumn. A red glow began to rise up from the decks of several ships as men scrambled to extinguish streaking flames with sand.

‘If we take their northern armada, it will give us the ability to open a line of attack upon all fronts of Osgiliath,’ said Aragorn. ‘Yet I fear dividing our already meagre forces even further. How many men shelter within the fortifications of Elminas?’

‘Some three hundred,’ answered Blackbramble. ‘But few are as ready for battle as I; most others have not a soldier’s mettle – that is the very reason we were forced to retreat when met with the Southrons’ initial attack. I do not know whether the additional men is worth the risk of sending your troops to Cair Andros. Lord Faramir sent me with the intention of conveying information, not to beg for aid.’

‘It is not only warriors I seek,’ said Aragorn. ‘I wish also to maximise the impact of our forces while simultaneously minimising the efficacy of theirs. If we succeed in keeping the Southrons penned within the city, not only will they be prevented from discharging their ground forces, the movement of their ships will likewise be smothered. But should Cair Andros fall and Corsairs control the northern stretch of Anduin, they will be able to sustain themselves against a siege far longer; it will be a long, embittered conflict if we allow them to become so entrenched.’

‘Then let us hope your machinations are well-laid, and deliver into our hands even the slightest of victories,’ said Blackbramble. ‘Yet how do you intend to travel the distance? It is near fifteen of leagues from here.’

Aragorn did not have to ponder, for this issue had already been calculated during his tactical contemplations. ‘In coming, did you happen to glimpse the Southrons’ defences on the opposite side of Osgiliath?’

‘Quite clearly, milord,’ said Blackbramble. ‘They are light, for the full force of their might is focused upon your ships here, or upon Elminas. I do not think they fear attack from the north.’

‘Nor should they,’ Aragorn murmured, then louder: ‘Wait here.’

‘Yes, milord.’

There was a great deal to be commended in Blackbramble’s unquestioning acceptance of orders, yet Aragorn said nothing. He slipped back into the water and struck out towards the Alcarindur, ascending once more to the ship’s main deck.

‘What business is this?’ Bardlorn hissed as Aragorn darted about in search of grapnels. ‘The Corsair flagship lays waste to our pitiful navy and you are galavanting about, swimming in the river—! With all due respect, milord,’ he quickly amended.

‘Lord Faramir and the others fell back to Cair Andros,’ Aragorn replied, taking no mind to the Captain’s near-mutinous words – for in the heat of battle, many were spoken that were later regretted. ‘The fortress is besieged even now, without sufficient numbers to defend it. The Prince himself is said to be gravely injured.’

‘If Elminas falls, no siege we lay will ever be successful,’ said Bardlorn, his tone altering in an instant.

‘Just so. I will not ask that you lend me many men – we have few sailors as it is. But I propose taking a small company, augmented by warriors from Captain Maeron’s ranks, to reinforce Lord Faramir’s position. Upon securing the stretch of Anduin between Osgiliath and Cair Andros, I will return and assail the Southrons from the north, thereby alleviating the pressure you face.’

Bardlorn considered a minute, casting a glance at one Corsair dromund that spewed an arc of fire towards Gondor’s most prominent ships.

‘Very well,’ he concluded at last. ‘But I can spare no more than three men.’

A moment of stillness passed between the two commanders. Hands upon shoulders transformed into an embrace; for there was no saying when – or if – they would be reunited again.

It was the work of but moments to select three men – adept sailors all, equally lethal on solid ground as on water. One by one, they disappeared overboard, waiting until they were certain to be unobserved by Southrons before striking out towards the eastern riverbank. Aragorn, too, seized several grappling hooks and was gone.

Chapter Text

Even Azgaur Queen rose early the next morning with minimal persuasion. Once all trace of their camp had been expunged and remnants of the previous evening’s meal found its way into their mouths, the trio set about rigging the dinghy’s sails. They were upon the water before the brazen sun had so much as broken the horizon, before overcast skies gave way to faded mallow. As rosy streaks of dawn crept across the seemingly boundless expanse of Zünuur, Azgaur saw fit to curl up beneath a blanket and continue his rest in the prow. Truva, on the contrary, was ill-contented to be without use.

‘Are there no paddles?’ she asked, glancing about the tiny hull.

‘Allow nature to assume the brunt of the labour,’ said Pallando. He sat with one hand on the tiller, a rather self-contented smile upon his face.

Rebuffed, Truva turned to watch the Sea’s northern shore speed past, and smoothed back stray locks of hair against the buffeting winds. Perhaps she imagined it, or perhaps the bow wave grew slightly as Pallando muttered almost imperceptibly behind her. After catching several of her glances, the Wizard broke into a soft chuckle.

‘Be at ease, Marshal!’ said he. ‘We shan’t reach Uzdígh until tomorrow noon at the earliest, even if we sail through the night; nor I do not think we shall be so unfortunate as to encounter any of the East Rhûn navy – they, too, march upon Gondor.’

‘Immense galleons have I sailed upon before, but it was only by their rotating crew that they were able to maintain an uninterrupted course. Surely it is dangerous to do so alone and without aid?’

Pallando’s smile only grew wider and the curls of his bushy beard scattered upon the wind. ‘Time is of the essence, and I will sacrifice none of it,’ he declared.

Truva mulled over his cryptic answer in silence a while, observing the relaxed manner in which he manned the dinghy. ‘Then will you not teach me?’ she asked. ‘The means of sailing so small a vessel?’

Without a moment’s hesitation, the Wizard beckoned to her and – settling her just in front of himself – passed to her control of the tiller.

‘This here is the boom…’ he began, indicating the long pole jutting from the mast.

One by one he explained the dinghy components and the purpose each served. As morning wore on, Truva swiftly gained moderate proficiency in the more theoretical aspects of sailing, and so Pallando progressed to their practical application. By the time midday rolled around and Azgaur roused himself from his doze in hopes of a noontide meal, he was greeted by the sight of Truva manoeuvring the boat on her own.

‘Skai!’ he cursed in surprise, though his fears were soon pacified with waybread and wine. Happy to be fed (albeit modestly), the Queen then struck up a song. It could not be said to be considered a lovely song to the ears of any Man – and perhaps even to those of fellow Orcs – but he sang with great enthusiasm, which lifted the entire company’s spirits regardless; a contented mood overtook them, and even Pallando saw fit to recline against the hull and rest.

His song concluded, Azgaur procured a fishing rod from some unseen cranny of the dinghy and cast it over the side, intending to supplement his paltry lunch. Truva looked on easy amusement for a time, but her attention soon drifted, and after several hours still Azgaur had been met with no success. Grumbling in frustration, the Orc tossed his rod back into the hull and splayed out as best he could in the cramped space, determined to indulge in what little sunlight streamed down.

Truva continued to guide their course – for there was little else to do, and it was a far preferable task to sitting listlessly as the featureless shoreline slid by. But even sailing the dinghy proved to be a rather less than thrilling activity. She felt no small amount of relief when the sky began to shift periwinkle and Pallando roused himself from his rest, wordlessly exchanging positions with her.

They sat for a time, listening as the dinghy bow ploughed gentle waves. Azgaur, in spite of his ever-ravenous nature, did not seem compelled to waken, and instead continued to doze through the period that would ordinarily be their evening meal.

It was the Wizard who ultimately broke the silence. ‘Not much dinner to be forged upon the water,’ he said. ‘Sorry, lass.’

‘I have gone without a meal or two more than once in my life,’ Truva replied with a half-smile. ‘And I am not terribly eager to subject myself to the struggles Azgaur Queen faced while attempting to fish this afternoon.’

‘The Queen would most likely starve if it fell to himself to procure his own meals,’ Pallando quipped.

The dark shadow of the Wizard’s diminutive form was hunched over the tiller, stolid and immutable. A sense of tranquillity sat heavy about the boat, in spite of the speed with which it cut through the water; the chilling winds felt muted, serene.

Pallando then broached an even less amusing topic than the lack of dinner. ‘Have you given any consideration to what you might say in Uzdígh on the morrow?’

Truva baulked. ‘Will I be expected to say something?’ she exclaimed. Panic constricted her throat; memories swirled before her eyes, blinding her: the recollection of standing before a sea of Hidlanders, their expectant faces staring up at her as she begged them to sacrifice their very lives for a cause they knew nothing of. A scene in which she asked a company of fighters crowded into the makeshift quarters of Minas Tirith to make that exact same sacrifice a second time. The unmoving bodies of those who had trusted in her – their unblinking eyes and purple-tinged hands, blue lips and blood-encrusted armour.

‘We have suspected Alatar’s movements for a long time,’ said the Wizard, oblivious to the horrors that plagued Truva’s mind. ‘The armies of East Rhûn migrated to Zünuur’s southern shores nigh on three moons ago, and though we know not what events subsequently stayed their movements, we began gathering our own scattered forces about us in response.

‘The Generals of Uzdígh shall be easy to convince; I have impressed upon them the dire nature of these circumstances. With assurance of allyship from a Marshal of the West, they will be more than amenable to war. But it is the King that concerns me greatest, for still I cannot guess her mind.’

‘You say you have long suspected Alatar’s movements?’ said Truva, making no mention of Pallando’s assumption that the West would willingly unite with Orcs – or even that she would deign to meet the King.

Pallando did not answer immediately. Truva felt more than saw him draw inwards, as if bent by the weight of his own knowledge.

‘I do not think Alatar came to Middle-earth with the intention he harbours now,’ he murmured, voice scarcely louder than the wash of waves against the dinghy hull. ‘Yet I wonder whether he had not considered this eventuality, even as he first began to sow conflict between East and West Rhûn. He has simply been biding his time since then, strengthening his numbers and making secretive allies with the likes of Umbar and Harad.

‘I believe Alatar was content to quietly serve the purpose we Istari were tasked with – for dividing Rhûn would help ensure Sauron’s downfall when the inevitable clash came. He knew also the West would assuredly be weakened in the process, thus providing him the perfect opportunity to seize his true objective: dominion of all Middle-earth.’

In the silence that followed, Pallando adjusted the tiller slightly. ‘It is not my wish to ensure the security of East Rhûn alone, but also that of Gondor and Rohan, as well – and even the lands of those Hobbits Gandalf is so enamoured with.’

Truva weighed the deviating details of the two Wizards’ stories in her mind, comparing them to all that she herself had witnessed during her brief time in Rhûn. Perhaps both Alatar and Pallando intended to mislead her, in their own manner; but even if so, it was certainly not towards a common goal – the attack she had sustained immediately after arriving in Rhûn evidenced that. Nevertheless, doubt was doubt; perhaps it would be best to forgo entirely these troublesome Wizards and their warring lands.

But then Truva recalled the callous way in which Alatar had suggested that she abandon her duties as Marshal, that she betray her people and all those she loved. Once again, she felt the Noyon’s restraining arms about her, felt in her bones the reverberations of East Rhûn army’s marching feet above as she lay locked in the dungeons of Baradorn. Her conclusion came swiftly.

‘I suppose I shall have to make a very good speech,’ she said.

This remark elicited a humourless chuckle from Pallando, but Truva could not bring herself to join in. She drew her cape across her like a blanket and settled low in the dinghy to rest, though she was not tired. Still, who could say when her next sleep would come?

Her unfocused eyes gazed off into the distance, where clusters of lights dotted along the lakeshore indicated villages and distant lives being lived; otherwise, there was only darkness and gently rocking waves – the lull of which proved far too effective for Truva’s liking. The watery sun was several fingers above the horizon ere she awoke.

Pallando sat in the stern, maintaining the exact same course as ever. Truva glanced towards land and judged their speed to have increased rather significantly at some point in the night – though how they sustained a pace rivalling that of a dromund and all its oarsmen, she could not suppose.

Opposite the Wizard, Azgaur crouched in the bow, scowling at the single wafer of waybread in each of his hands. He was unaccustomed to eating such meagre fare three days in a row, and was feeling rather put upon. The fact that he had consumed their entire store of wine the night previous did not improve his mood any.

‘We haven’t made as much headway as I should have liked,’ said Pallando when he saw Truva had awoken. ‘We shall be lucky to reach Uzdígh before sundown.’

With a howl, Azgaur heaved one wafer far out over the Sea, then located his fishing-pole and cast it into the water with an air of melancholic desperation. Thus the previous day’s monotony was begun again. As Truva watched the Queen’s fruitless attempts, her thoughts turned to how best to plead her case before the Orcs of West Rhûn – yet each contrived phrase made her to feel as though she were floundering in the waters of Zünuur itself, dragged ever deeper into its murky depths. She sat gasping, knuckles white upon the gunwales.

‘Sha!’ Azgaur exclaimed suddenly, wrenching Truva from her own introspective trap. The line of his rod was drawn taught, something caught upon it. Pallando slowed the dinghy’s pace as Truva leapt to help draw the fish in, for the Queen was scarcely able to keep hold of the pole as it was. After considerable struggle, an immense brown trout lay flopping noisily against the ship hull.

Truva waited for Azgaur to dispatch the fish, yet when she glanced up, he merely stared at her expectantly.

‘I doubt he’s ever slaughtered his own catch before, Marshal,’ laughed Pallando, resuming the dinghy’s original pace – or perhaps an even faster one.

With a sigh, Truva drew her knife and slashed the trout’s hindbrain before gutting and filleting it – for with one look at Azgaur’s ravenous face, she knew he couldn’t wait for the fish to be bled. Scarcely had she finished before the Orc fell upon his breakfast, shoving pink slices of flesh between his dark lips.

Then, astoundingly, he paused a brief moment and – selecting the smallest of pieces – offered it to Truva. She eyed it warily.

‘You’d best accept that,’ said Pallando. ‘Never have I seen the Queen be so generous, even towards the King. Now you see his crafty ways; he knows an advantageous alliance when he sees one.’

For fear of offending so significant a figure as the Queen, Truva gingerly took the slice of trout in hand. Her talks with Óddîr revealed that whatever had been offered to her in Karkürem was vegetable in nature, and now that it came down to it, the notion of eating raw fish straight from the Sea seemed rather unpalatable. Yet the Orc’s evident enjoyment aroused some small seed of curiosity in her, and so she placed the slice in her mouth and chewed thoroughly before swallowing. Azgaur’s dark, sclera-less eyes peered at her intensely, awaiting her reaction.

‘In truth, I’ve had many a far worse meals in days past,’ she concluded, though she did not feel the need to elaborate upon the things she had been forced to eat to survive in the Hidlands.

Satisfied with his overture, and with his hunger slackened, Azgaur immediately returned to his repose. Pallando granted Truva control of the tiller once more, but he seemed disinclined to rest, and instead inclined towards conversation.

‘Forgive me if you find my question overly forthright,’ he began, ‘but will you not tell me what became of you since your youngest remembered days? I long most desperately to learn the story of Ezele’s child.’

Though she was taken aback by the Wizard’s sudden invocation of the King’s name, there was a strong undercurrent of emotion in his voice which moved Truva quite unexpectedly. She hesitated only a brief moment, feigning to adjust the tiller, before she responded.

‘I find no call to forgive you,’ she said, ‘for your question is not unwarranted, and I take no offence. I cannot recall many of my earliest memories, yet I can describe to you the Hidlands…’

And so the seemingly unending hours of morning stretched into noon, then afternoon as Truva told her tale. Azgaur awoke at one point and demanded Pallando translate until the Orc grew bored and turned to his own ruminations, draping himself over the gunwales to dangle one finger in the water. Pallando, on the contrary, proved a fair listener, interrupting only when he required the most necessary clarifications. When Truva at last fell silent, so too did he, only to heave a heavy sigh after a prolonged spell had passed.

‘So many misfortunes in so short a life,’ he commiserated.

‘Yet more than equal in number of auspicious turns,’ said Truva.

‘Perhaps.’ The Wizard then pointed far off in the distance. ‘I do believe one such fortuity lies before us.’

Upon the eastern horizon, a thin line of grey rose above the Sea water and its shores, hinting at the nearing of civilisation. Azgaur gave a short declaration of enthusiasm, only to resume his daydreaming as the dinghy ploughed on. Truva peered through the descending darkness as they drew near the outlet of River Running, hoping for any new information as to the Easterlings’ position – both East and West – but was met with nothing save inscrutable landscape.

Just as Pallando predicted, night had fully fallen by the time they drew near enough to distinguish the fortresses of Agdî and Uzdígh. The harbours of both cities lay still; no activity could be seen upon the waterfront, no boats coming or going.

‘What few warships Alatar boasts of must be moored upon the southern shores of Zünuur, which lie under control of East Rhûn,’ commented Pallando as he looked upon the especially bare docks of Agdî. ‘Still, it is best we give the city a wide berth – perhaps there are still a few companies lying in wait to attack.’

Truva was more than happy to oblige. ‘Are there not many warships in Rhûn?’

‘Warships require money and resources, time and training,’ answered the Wizard. ‘It is far easier to conduct our minor skirmishes on land rather than on water; neither Easterlings nor Orcs are traditionally seafaring peoples, you see. There are trade routes across Zünuur, to be sure – but these are predominantly controlled by Alatar, and are run almost exclusively by smaller merchant vessels.’ Pallando paused then, and the shadow of a scowl crossed his face. ‘Even so, he had sufficient shipwrights to send southward and garner Haradrim allyship.’

‘Shipwrights? So it was by Alatar’s strength the Sutherlands were able to attack Pelargir,’ Truva concluded.

Pallando’s mouth became a grim line. ‘It would seem so.’

‘Yet we repelled their attack, and drove them from Stoningland! Why then would Alatar march now upon our lands, having been defeated once already?’ But even as Truva said these words, the images she had seen in the palantír came flashing back – of Aragorn surrounded in flame, of northern ships burning – and her assurance grew less.

‘If I have learned anything of Alatar, it is that he is patient, and weaves complex webs to ensnare only those he is certain to triumph over,’ said Pallando, shaking his head. ‘Whatever he intends, I am certain it does not bode well for the West.’

It was well past midnight by the time they circumnavigated the waters about Agdî. As with those of the East Rhûn fortress, the battlements of Uzdígh towered high above the River Running, extending far into the Sea and affording their harbour moderate protection. As soon as the dinghy rounded the long breakwater, the entire Orcish city itself came into view, every corner illuminated with bright lamps in spite of the late hour – for the citizens of Uzdígh anticipated with no small degree of enthusiasm the return of their Queen.

Pallando procured oars from beneath a hidden lip of the gunwales and passed them to Truva, so that he might take over the sails for the last stretch.

‘Did you not say there were no oars?’ she accused.

‘And risk being stuck adrift upon the Sea?’ said Pallando, one eyebrow raised archly. ‘I should think not! No, it was merely that I know a determined countenance when I see one: the face of one who will use up their full strength and exhaust themselves unnecessarily.’

Then he paused momentarily, a puckish grin twitching his beard. ‘I should also like to clarify that I never explicitly denied the existence of oars – merely suggested you ought to allow nature to assume the brunt of labour.’

‘You taught me how to sail,’ Truva pointed out. ‘Is that not fatiguing enough?’

‘Yes, well… There are some to whom boredom and inactivity are equally as wearying as physical exertion – and manning a ship’s tiller, especially of a craft this small, is no comparison to rowing. Moreover—’

Their conversation was cut short when Azgaur snatched one paddle from Truva’s hand and thrust it ineffectually into the water, so desperate was he to return to his accustomed lap of luxury. Truva sighed gently and took back the oar, paddling where Pallando directed. With her back to the city, Truva could not see its finer details, yet the hum of excitement was palpable as the dinghy drew nearer.

Tension erupted into cheers and joyous cries as the company pulled alongside the dock. Several Orcs leapt forward to moor the boat, and another to assist Azgaur onto solid ground, yet no sooner had these guards laid eyes upon Truva than raucous squabbling broke out. She turned around to find a swarm of Orcs dressed in menacing armour racing down the pier. The Orc that had aided Azgaur now seized Truva’s arm in his massive fist, dragging her from the boat and onto the planks as she scrambled to catch her footing.

With a single bound, Pallando alighted upon the dock.

‘Lût!’ he cried.

All at once, the congregation came to a halt. Pallando laid a gentle hand upon the arm of the Orc who detained Truva, who released her at once. When she stood and dusted herself off, the city unfurled itself to her. In spite of her precarious situation, she couldn’t help but look with awe upon the sight: a steep, terraced hill rising from the very waters of Zünuur, each level boasting row upon row of mud brick houses, all decorated with stark black geometric motifs. Not a corner was left unadorned; canopies of patterned textiles were stretched across streets and alleyways, down to a sprawling market tucked amidst harbour warehouses.

As Truva gazed upon this magnificent city, Pallando spread his arms wide and began to speak in a dialect of Orcish, casting his voice above the eddying whispers sweeping through those crowded upon the quay. One tremendous Orc, nearly two full heads taller than Truva and thrice as wide, stepped forward in response. Muscle rippled beneath a scarlet tunic and along bare legs. It took a great deal of conscious effort on Truva’s part not to step back.

‘Kîzge King,’ Pallando whispered beside her. Truva bowed, yet when she went to straighten, the Wizard’s hand was upon her back. ‘To your knees. Flare your elbows and incline your head three seconds before rising – that is, if you wish to survive your first meeting with the King.’

Sudden alarm flooded Truva’s mind; she had been betrayed yet again! To be sacrificed upon the very docks of her arrival! Why had she not fled Karkürem alone when the opportunity had presented itself? Surely Gondor could fend off Alatar without an ally as untrustworthy as Orcs – regardless of their origin. Instead, Truva was left with no alternative save prostrate herself before this King, and hope for mercy.

She did so.

When Truva rose, the King stood staring at her, entirely motionless. Then, with a grace belied by her size, Kîzge returned the gesture – though she remained inclined for far shorter a time. Truva did not breathe all the while, suspended in fear.

Once the King regained her feet, she inhaled deeply and addressed both Pallando and the gathered Orcs in a voice deep and rumbling, as of rocks tumbling down a cliff face. Truva had no notion of what was said, yet in a flash the crowd surged forward with renewed exclamations, bearing Azgaur Queen off in a fur-lined palanquin.

But a great many others, eager to see what became of the peculiar Easterling, remained behind as guards hemmed in on all sides. Pallando raised a hand to halt their approach.

‘I apologise,’ he said, turning to Truva. ‘Failing to teach you Orcish greeting customs was an immense oversight on my part. Long has it been since any visitor unfamiliar with our culture has come into these lands, let alone one of Easterling origin, and so it did not occur to me. Even so, the King has agreed to treat with you in spite of your perceived rudeness, and shall grant you entrance into Uzdígh – provided you submit to being bound.’

‘Bound?’ Truva repeated. Uneasiness set an edge in her voice.

‘Your hands alone,’ the Wizard added, more than a little contritely. ‘You will not be blindfolded.’

Truva sighed. ‘I haven’t much choice, have I?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

At a gesture from Pallando, a ring of Orcish guards stepped forward and stripped Truva of Fréodhel and all other weapons before securing her wrists with a length of abrasive rope. The King did not wait for them to finish before turning on her heel and striding back along the pier towards the harbourside market. The guards scrambled to drag Truva along behind in her wake.

When they gained the quay, the crowds shrank back in awe and fear – for they dared not approach one as mighty as the King, or as exotic as Truva.

Beyond the harbour, an immense staircase divided the city, cutting deep into the cliff face and granting access to each prominent terrace. This the company ascended, step by step, until they came to the uppermost heights of Uzdígh, which levelled out entirely. A thoroughfare spread before them, flanked by clay brick residences boasting low doors and few windows, adorned in the most elaborate designs: stripes from floor to roof, filled with triangles and stars and dots and all manner of artistic ornamentation. When Truva peered closer, torchlight revealed the dwellings to be painted not with black, but deep midnight blue.

The company walked along this thoroughfare a short distance until their path intersected a second major artery, lined along its far side by an immense wall. Here, many of the curious onlookers deviated either left or right, making towards smaller huts or boisterous taverns or crowded inns. The King, however, crossed to a gate in the wall opposite, which sprang open at her approach. The party was admitted into the fortified quarter beyond, where the path was so narrow that no more than six Men could walk abreast; the more robustly-bodied Orcs could scarcely fit four.

This new path came to an abrupt end just before a high, circular wall – yet unlike all others, this was unadorned, its smooth clay facade unbroken save by an arch so tiny not even a Holbytla could pass through upright. Truva watched in amazement as Kîzge King knelt upon the ground and crawled through the tunnel, followed by half a dozen guards. Pallando went next; yet no sooner had his toes disappeared than another Orc shoved Truva forward, forcing her down onto all fours and nudging her with his boot.

Truva was in no position to protest this unbecoming treatment. She crept ahead as best she could with hands bound, passing through a tunnel nearly three feet thick. When she emerged upon the opposite side, Pallando immediately assisted her to her feet as Kîzge King and the Orcish guards merely stood about and watched. Their unabashed stares were joined by those of watchmen stationed in intervals around the inner wall, whose curiosity superseded their dedication to duty.

The next guard to crawl through the entryway bumped his head against Truva’s calves and let loose a string of curses. Before Truva could step out of his way, Kîzge King marched off along a mosaic pathway, its tiles a lattice of ruby pincushion flowers upon a field of white. In following the King, the party wend its way amidst nearly twoscore huts of varying shapes and sizes – tiny and towering alike, square or tent-like or the curved shape of beans. While all were decorated in a similar manner to those beyond the wall, these were painted in scarlet tones rather than black or blue.

‘The royal compound,’ Pallando murmured to Truva in explanation. ‘Its patterns are red, for only the King of Uzdígh may don the colour.’ He then pointed towards a comparatively large hut from which flickering light and uproarious noise poured. ‘There lies the Queen’s chambers. The King, on the other hand, maintains at least half a dozen sleeping quarters, and chooses where to sleep each night upon a whim – obfuscating her location to any potential assailants. Generals and advisors live beyond the compound walls.’

‘It seems a wearing way of life,’ Truva remarked, laying a map of each structure’s location within her mind. She was still unconvinced she would not require a route of sudden escape.

‘Perhaps, but it ensures that wearying life continues to be lived.’

The party soon came upon the largest of the citadel buildings: a massive dome with no windows at all, from the top of which long pennant strings arced to each neighbouring hut. This time, rather than enter first, Kîzge beckoned to Truva and pointed at the tiny door. Pallando began to speak, yet the King cut him off and pointed again, this time more forcefully. The intent was unmistakable; Truva knelt and shuffled through this second tunnel-door.

Immediate chaos greeted her within.

Three Orcs leapt up and brandished gleaming axes and scimitars, rushing around a central bonfire to attack at once. Truva scrambled to her feet and only just managed to evade the first Orc’s strike before trapping the head of the second’s axe in her bindings. Pallando appeared through the tunnel and darted forward, shouting in an Orcish tongue, yet the assailants did not cease their onslaught. Truva swung her weight so that the axe-wielding Orc was between her and the others, dragging him back towards the entrance.

Just then, Kîzge King also emerged into the chamber. She straightened to her fullest height, casting an immense shadow upon tapestries lining the wall behind her, and let loose a deep, guttural laugh. The three Orcs came to a sudden halt as they turned to look wide-eyed upon their leader, free weapons still raised in anticipation.

The King seized Truva’s bonds with hands searing hot and dragged her forward through the befuddled trio of Orcs, then thrust her down onto the ground in front of the fire before taking a seat opposite. The three would-be assailants joined her as the King’s guard dispersed about the perimeter of the hall. Pallando did not sit, instead choosing to hover between the two parties.

For a time, the King seemed content to observe Truva wordlessly, obsidian eyes taking in every detail of the Eorling Marshal: from her pilfered armour and Easterling appearance to the decidedly foreign weave of her braids. Truva evaded the King’s intimidating gaze and instead inspected the walls, where geometric patterns had been replaced by sprawling murals of both warfare and cultivation. Upon the eastern wall was drawn a map of Middle-earth, though Rhûn was in the very centre, and its western edge extended only as far as the Firienmist. Truva stared at expansive mountain ranges and river veins – each labelled with names written in indecipherable characters; truly, Zünuur was no more than the nearest reaches of the Eastern lands.

One of the three Orcs that had attacked Truva made a brief comment then, breaking Truva’s focus. Kîzge snarled a reply and the Orc shrank back, wholly intimidated by the King’s demeanour. After a few moments, however, another of the three resumed the thread of conversation. Garbed in the pelt of a wolf, he appeared rather more stately than his comrades – who wore no furs at all – and the air he commanded brooked no argument.

Kîzge King stared intently at this Orc as he spoke. When he at last fell silent, she turned to Truva and addressed her in what sounded to be a dialect of Easterling. When Truva’s perplexed expression did not show any signs of understanding, the King rolled her eyes and motioned shortly to Pallando.

‘They doubt your origin,’ he said. ‘They ask for proof that you are Alatar’s daughter, come from the West.’

Truva mused a moment, then spoke in the Eorling tongue: ‘I do not suppose my language would be sufficient to vindicate me?’

‘Perhaps; you speak as one native,’ said the Wizard. When he conveyed this information to their audience, the King’s eyes narrowed, and her answer did not sound friendly to Truva’s ears.

‘A spy knows many languages,’ Pallando translated.

‘Then perhaps the horn of the House of Éofor?’

‘Too easily stolen.’ He fell silent a moment, then added, ‘Do you not possess a bow of immense power, similar to that of a Wizard?’

‘I have never known a Wizard to carry any bow,’ said Truva, ‘and I have only a modest understanding of its magic; yet if such a display would reassure the King of my quality, I would happily wield my bow – yet you must know that it cannot be controlled.’

Pallando gestured towards a guard near the entrance, who disappeared at once. ‘It can be controlled,’ he insisted. ‘You must simply learn how. I will assist you.’

The guard returned immediately, bearing the Elven bow but no arrows. At a command from Kîzge, the guard cut Truva’s bonds before offering her the weapon and darting back, eyes rolling in fear. Truva glanced at Pallando, her own trepidation apparent.

‘I have always found it begins from my chin,’ said the Wizard, thrusting his magnificent beard forward. ‘A certain tingling springs up when I clench my jaw – though at first it feels little more than the effects of focusing keenly. I have witnessed you successfully viewing across space through the palantír; it is very much the same sense of intent.’

Truva ran her hands along the bow, its carvings smooth beneath her fingers. She raised it to her chest, gripping the string tightly.

‘Breathe in deeply, steadily,’ said Pallando, his sagging stomach growing rotund as he modelled his own advice. Truva inhaled and closed her eyes, desperation sharp in her mind as she fell under the intense scrutiny of her audience.

Inch by inch she turned her arms and drew the string, waiting for the anticipated trill of energy, but stillness reigned. One breath passed, and then another; only when Kîzge gave a snort – a sound of both amusement and disgust – did Truva’s eyes fly open. The King selected an arrow from her own quiver and tossed it to the Marshal before leaping across the fire, scimitar raised.

Truva scarcely had enough time to nock the arrow and loose, bearing no thought for the consequences of killing a king in the very bowels of enemy territory, yet there it was: the spark of something more.

Truva watched in astonishment as the King deflected her arrow and came to a halt a mere hairsbreadth away. Kîzge spoke gruffly, hands ghosting over Truva’s bow, never outright touching it. The wood thrummed gently in response, the sound only just audible.

‘The King has accepted your explanation of origin,’ said Pallando, his own posture relaxing, ‘though I think it unwise to expect camaraderie between the Orcs of West Rhûn and your people any time soon.’

Kîzge resettled on the opposite side of the fire. She folded her arms across her broad chest, copper flames flickering in her dark eyes as she lapsed once more into silence. All present seemed to wait upon her next word, and yet the fire’s crackle was all that greeted their ears for a very long time. Hazy, earth-scented woodsmoke filled the hall, curling lazily upwards towards a circular opening at the dome’s crest.

When Kîzge spoke at last, the tension remained unalleviated; the Orcs turned their attention to Truva and Pallando in equal measure – the King must have asked a question.

‘Kîzge King wonders what assurances you can give that the forces of Uzdígh will not walk into a trap, beset upon both by West Rhûn and Gondor, as well as her allies,’ Pallando translated.

Negotiations had begun.

‘I can offer no such assurances,’ Truva answered with all honesty, ‘as I am neither king myself, nor currently in direct contact with one. Yet the West was exceedingly fair in their dealings with adversarial lands upon the War’s conclusion – perhaps too fair. Do you not have scouts who can confirm the Easterling clans’ peaceful return to their homelands? Aragorn King treats with honour and magnanimity, as does Éomer King; you needn’t fear duplicity on their part, as you might on that of Alatar.’

When Pallando conveyed these words to the King, Truva rather suspected he failed to mention the first portion of her response, for there was no frown of doubt upon Kîzge’s scarred and distorted features, only cautious appraisal. As the King considered Truva’s answer, the pelt-clad Orc rose and strode to the wall upon which the map of Eastern Middle-earth had been drawn. He beckoned for Truva to follow.

‘Pè,’ he said, touching forefinger to nose.

‘Ghazubor is the current Pè – the title of Uzdígh’s highest military rank,’ said Pallando. ‘He is second only to the King. The two who serve him, dressed in blue indicative of their rank, are his Òrlok: Agbesh and Grazud.’

Truva bowed slightly in acknowledgement of the commanders. The Pè gave an accepting nod, turned to the map, and began to speak rapidly in Orcish, running his finger along the red clay with its black lines. When he pointed first to the Sutherlands before indicating Rhûn, Pallando explained:

‘There is word that the combined forces of Umbar and Harad will soon sail from the south. Those few ships you encountered in Pelargir were, in all likelihood, but a small subset of the navy Alatar helped create in the months following the War. Alatar himself is positioned to march from the southeastern tip of the Sea, then across the barren plains of Dagorlad.

‘It will take his army no more than a fortnight to reach Gondor – less, if they drive hard, as I suspect they will. There are rumours the campaign was delayed for some unforeseen reason, and so now the Easterlings rush to realign their timeline with that of the Southrons. Alatar was noted as having been particularly vexed these past few weeks.’

Truva saw a twinkle of humour in the Wizard’s eyes then, and couldn’t help but allow a small sense of satisfaction to extend to her own mood; Alatar was deserving of any and all obstacles he encountered, she thought vengefully.

The King then raised another question behind them. As several gangly Orcs entered bearing food-laden trays and tankards of ale, Ghazubor took hold of Truva’s shoulders and physically guided her to a seat between himself and Kîzge.

‘The King asks about Rohan,’ said Pallando as the fare was laid out before them and the two Òrlok leaned forward to pour ale and distribute food. ‘You are from that land; can you not assemble a force of the Rohirrim to assist Gondor?’

‘Éomer King set sail for Umbar alongside Aragorn King,’ said Truva, accepting a mug of ale. It had been several hours since her peculiar lunch of raw fish, and her stomach clenched in protest. ‘If it is as you say, and the Sutherlands are entangled in Alatar’s plot, he will have already sent a call for succour at the earliest opportunity. If – Helm protect them – misfortune has befallen the forces of the West, I fear it is not until we gain Minas Tirith that there shall be any hope of summoning aid; for there lies the easternmost beacon of the Firienwít, which not even the Mark’s swiftest Rider can outpace.’

One Òrlok handed Truva a plate, which she took warily – for hidden amongst the stewed meats, chicken bones and flatbread was what appeared to be locusts. Many years had passed since she last resorted to eating insects for survival, and so in an attempt to divert attention from her hesitancy, she asked, ‘Can we not assail the forces of East Rhûn before they ever cross into Stoningland?’

‘I very much doubt we shall be able to overtake their army,’ said Pallando. ‘Even if we do, our numbers alone are insufficient to overpower Alatar’s; otherwise, we would not be in our current position, and the conflict between our lands would have come to a head long ago.’

‘Tsartsā!’ interrupted an Òrlok, the one called Agbesh. He reached around Ghazubor to point excitedly at the locusts on Truva’s plate, selecting one and stuffing it in his mouth before offering his own to her. The King observed each motion with scrutinising gaze.

‘This variety of locust is a particular delicacy in Rhûn,’ Pallando explained apologetically. ‘They return only once every seventeen years. For the King to serve you freshly-prepared tsartsā is an honour, indeed.’

Truva frowned down at the gangly bugs, piled high and gleaming. But then she recalled the ambivalence with which she had regarded her afternoon filleted trout, only for it to prove a palatable meal. Selecting a single locust, she brought it to her mouth and attempted to chew as quickly as possible – only to find she somewhat enjoyed the bug’s piscine yet nutty taste; it was faintly reminiscent of the morels she had relinquished to the Easterlings, and not at all like the acidic ants she was accustomed to in the Hidlands.

Seemingly pleased by her guest’s acquiescence, Kîzge King motioned for all present to begin their own meals, and proceeded to ask (through Pallando) an endless barrage of questions regarding Éomer King and Eorling horses, as well as Gondor and its lands. Truva strove to be forthright, though she feigned ignorance on more than one occasion – for still she did not fully trust the Orcs, in spite of the sense that some level of entente existed now between them.

Scarcely had she finished a third of her meal before gentle waves of lassitude began to lap at the edges of her mind – subtle at first, then stronger with each successive inquiry of the King’s. Truva’s eyes grew heavy, and thus she was oblivious to Kîzge’s peeved expression and dismissive gestures when Pallando interrupted yet another question, or the brief discussion that followed.

But when the King barked a few short orders, Truva’s eyes snapped open. With prompting from Pallando, she scrambled to her feet and bowed to King, Pè, and Òrlok alike in the same manner she had upon the docks. Pallando then guided her back through the tiny tunnel-door, where a parade of guards preceded them, and followed after as well – for clearly the Orcs were equally mistrusting of Truva as she was of them.

As she was led along a meandering, circuitous path through the huts, Pallando walked beside her. ‘It is late, and the King’s questions were many,’ he said. ‘Orcs do not show tiredness in the way Men do, and they favour darkness and nighttime – though those of West Rhûn have spent generations growing accustomed to tilling their lands beneath the sun.’

Truva nodded, exhaustion slowing her movements. ‘All hours of the day are equal in their value,’ she murmured. For the briefest of moments, her eyes were open long enough to glimpse Pallando’s sympathetic smile.

‘I expect the muster horns shall sound early, come morning,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’

These words Truva spoke with much deeper meaning than their simplicity. Escape from Karkürem, defence against the Orcs’ suspicions – for these she owed the Wizard a tremendous debt of gratitude, even if his actions were born merely of a practical desire to aid West Rhûn. The emotions she felt in that moment could not be properly articulated, especially in her current state of fatigue, but Pallando gave an understanding grunt.

‘Goodnight,’ he said. ‘Summon the guards – and, by extension, myself – for even the most trifling of matters, should you find the need.’

He slipped between a pair of buildings and was gone before Truva was even aware he had spoken. In the same moment, her escort halted before the entrance of a small residence and stood expectantly beside its door, which was so minute Truva was forced to nearly crawl upon her belly to enter. The sound of guards assuming position outside followed, and she knew there would be no leaving that night.

Despite years of contrary depictions in tales of old, told to misbehaving children on stormy nights in the halls of Meduseld or throughout the homes of Edoras, Truva found the hut to be quite austere and neat within – much as the rest of Uzdígh had been. A single torch illuminated a low cot and little else, but there was scarcely a dust mote out of place.

Against the opposite wall rested Fréodhel.

Perhaps these Rhûnic Orcs were of a different breed entirely than those of Isengard and Mordor, Truva thought, or perhaps she had misjudged Orcs entirely. Kîzge King certainly could not be said to have shown equal hospitality as other leaders of the varying lands along her journey – yet Truva was alive, and that fact in and of itself exceeded her expectations.

Still Truva slept fitfully, and just as Pallando had predicted, horns blared before the tinge of dawn light was visible. The sound reverberated deafeningly within the tiny dome, rousing Truva in an instant and sending waves of disorientation through her mind. She leapt up from the cot, gathered her weapons in a rush, and squirmed through the entrance – only to be greeted by an Orc who had unceremoniously thrust the end of his long trumpet into the tunnel mouth.

Already Pallando was striding along the mosaic path towards Truva, showing no regard for the other compound residents being woken in a similar manner.

‘Are you prepared to speak before the troops?’ he asked, without offering so much as a ‘good morning’. Truva’s stomach immediately calcified; the task hadn’t slipped her mind, so much as been pushed so very far into its recesses that she had succeeded in ignoring it – for a time.

‘I do not suppose I shall ever be more ready,’ she said.

‘Excellent!’ said the Wizard. The twist at the left corner of his lips suggested he understood her meaning, yet chose to interpret it differently.

Just then, several guards emerged from a nearby hut, followed hard upon by Kîzge. The King was garbed in a tremendous armoured coat, the gleam of its black lamellar plates only just visible in the gloom of early morning.

This small party made its way back to the gate of the royal compound, beyond which waited the Pè and his Òrlok, who were in turn accompanied by standard bearers and drummers. Ghazubor held out a glinting double-bladed halberd and bow of Kine horn, which Kîzge seized in her massive, taloned hands. Energy thrummed amidst the Orcs as she did so, and the drums were struck up. Even Truva was awed – for the King cut the figure of a fearsome warrior, worthy of standing beside the mightiest of leaders.

When Kîzge and company emerged from the fortified district into the main streets of Uzdígh, this same energy pervaded the gathered crowds, where the old and infirm (as well as those too young to keep pace) had come to pay their final respects. They pounded their chests and stomped their feet in time to the drums; some even fell upon their hands and knees before the King, beating out a menacing dance of death.

Kîzge spoke not a word; she merely bowed as the Orcs of Uzdígh do, her forehead brushing the ground for three suspenseful breaths. She then rose and turned westward, walking parallel to the battlements of the fortified district. This portion of the city boasted structures decorated in deep emerald greens and bright yellows; yet as the company neared the city walls, these buildings were replaced by livestock pens and market stalls – all shuttered for the day.

The bleating of goats and clucking of chickens gradually fell away as the walls loomed larger. With an abrupt turn, the immense gate suddenly reared up in front of the company. Kîzge King did not stride through this archway, however, and instead led the party into the nearer of two gatehouses and up its spiral staircase. They emerged upon the battlements even as the sun broke the horizon to sit trapped beneath expansive, low clouds.

In a breath, all of West Rhûn was laid before Truva: vast swaths of millet and bean fields stretching as far as the eye could see, with a smattering of dwellings here and there. Far to the southwest rose a range of low mountains along the shore of Zünuur – though they appeared little more than high hills in Truva’s eyes (accustomed, as she was, to the piercing heights of Firienwít).

Yet most arresting was what lay directly before the gates of Uzdígh: rank upon rank of Orcish soldiers, thousands strong, beating halberd upon earth or axe upon shield in time with the drums, scimitars raised in the blood-red light of dawn.

Kîzge King leapt up onto the parapet itself and raised an arm. At once, the city’s pulse stilled; the drums fell silent and the warriors lowered their weapons, waiting with bated breath to hear what wisdom their exalted leader would bestow upon them. Yet the King spoke no more than a few words, her raspy voice carrying easily to even the most distant formations, before beckoning Truva forward.

Truva stepped delicately into one of the embrasures beside the King, willing herself not to look down at the dizzying drop below. Still, the exhilaration of standing unprotected at such a height matched the terror she felt in finding herself before so large an audience. She dug her short fingernails into the palm of her hand, thinking of Aragorn and Éomer, her homeland and loved ones – it was for their sake she made her appeal.

‘I am a stranger to you,’ she cried. Her voice sounded feeble in comparison to that of Kîzge, but she took a shaky breath and continued. ‘In fact, I wear the face of your enemy – both in name and appearance. I would not begrudge you, were you to regard me with suspicion. Yet at this current juncture, the fate of both Uzdígh and the West lies upon the same path.’

Pallando translated simultaneously as Truva made her pronouncements, their voices weaving together in spoken round, ebbing and swelling with the emotions of the Marshal’s supplications.

‘I have come in recent days to recognise the vast and complex nature of Orcish tribes. All I ask in return is that you do not allow my kinship with the Wizard Alatar cloud your judgement of me, for I too have suffered at the hands of his deceptions and mistruths. Though I be Easterling by blood, I know nothing of their spirit – for it is not a fortnight gone since I first stepped into these lands.

‘Nor would I have you judge me by my true origin: that of the Riddermark; for though our lands have fought bitterly in ages long gone by, it is actions of the present – not the resentments of the past – that guide our course now. Rohan and Gondor have crowned fair and just Kings, and they will treat in earnest with West Rhûn, should we find victory upon the field of battle.

‘And if we do not find victory, we shall most certainly seek out death!’

Even thunder would have been drowned out by the response to this declaration – though Truva suspected the Orcs would have roused themselves for any speech invoking war and death. The drums struck up once more, their beat soon echoed by the warriors; horns sounded, low rumbles and high timbre in equal measure.

Then from behind Truva came the clopping of hooves. She turned to find herself face-to-face with a Kine steer – taller nearly doubly than she, its massive horns wider than the battlements themselves. The animal seemed far more massive than those she had spied off in the distance of the plains, now that she was no more than an arm-span away and could examine in detail the creature’s coarse fur – pitch-black, save a stripe of pure white stretching from shoulder to tail. How the Orcs had succeeded in guiding it up through the guardhouse, Truva could not fathom.

The Pè passed to Kîzge King a wide, shallow bowl, embellished with red mosaics reflecting the designs of the royal compound. This the King placed before the Kine and, drawing her scimitar with a flash, swept a single stroke across the creature’s throat. Scarlet blood spurted forth, overfilling the bowl and splattering upon the wall-walk flagstones as the beast sank to its knees. When at last its tremendous horns lay propped upon the ground, the King seized the bowl and raised it to her lips, drinking deeply.

After downing nearly half the contents, Kîzge then passed the bowl to Truva. Not even the Pè blinked at this clear delineation of rank, and so Truva set aside all misgivings and rushed to follow the King’s example. When she, too, had drunk, Pallando advised her to offer the bowl to Ghazubor in turn.

Thus the bowl circulated amongst all the commanders before Kîzge King accepted it once more, raising it up over her head and pouring a vermilion waterfall upon herself. With a final flick, she cast the last droplets across the forces below, who cried out with such ferocity the very walls of the city shook. Another chorus of horns and drums sounded, signalling for the entire army to turn and set out, making for the lands of Gondor.

Chapter Text

Aragorn was last to join Blackbramble and the three Swan Knight sailors, who had gathered within a thicket of alder trees upon the eastern bank of Anduin, just out of enemy sight. No words were exchanged as the small company set out, keeping to what little cover there was in the sparse farmlands of Ithilien. Not half an hour had passed before they drew near the conflict raging in front of Osgiliath’s eastern gate, where Captain Maeron himself was to be found beside a trebuchet – craftily reconfigured from one of the dromunds’ siege weapons – aiding in its loading.

‘How fares your assault?’ Aragorn inquired.

‘Well enough, milord,’ Maeron answered. ‘That is, if you consider gaining no advantage whatsoever a fair result. The Southrons entrenched themselves quite thoroughly, I’m afraid.’

‘Have courage; your efforts are what prevent our adversaries from focusing the entirety of their strength on Captain Bardlorn and our navy,’ said Aragon. ‘But I must ask a further favour: fivescore warriors, at the least – any you can spare.’

‘If my King wills it, so shall it be done,’ said Maeron.

Thus it was with numbers greatly augmented that Aragorn and Blackbramble bade goodbye and farewell to the Captain but a short while later, making for the northern battlements of Osgiliath, where the Anduin flowed into the city. The sun had sunk low in the sky by the time they secreted themselves within a thicket of blackthorn, just on the far side of the defensive moat, from which they could easily observe the Southron guard. Two ships bobbed beneath the archways, the chatter of their sailors – happy to be in a position of safety, rather than where the fighting was thickest – floated up to the Gondorians’ ears.

‘One must be incapacitated; the other, we take,’ said Aragorn quietly. ‘The latter I leave to you, Blackbramble – for if Marshal Truva trusts in you, so shall I. Take half of the company and be prepared to make with all speed for Cair Andros when my warriors board.’

‘Yes, milord,’ said the soldier, a bright red flush creeping across his face visible even in the descending gloam.

‘But let us wait until it is a little darker yet; our task shall be easier under the concealment of half-light.’

And so the company settled into the thicket and listened to the distant clash of Maeron’s forces at the gate – sounds joined by the melodies of drab song thrushes, displeased to be suddenly sharing their home. The birds’ flittering antics brought a breath of normalcy to the Gondorian’s restless hearts, easing the tension and inactivity which grated at their nerves; night seemed as though it would never come.

A change of the Southron guard passed. These new warriors proved even merrier than their counterparts – perhaps the battle surged in their favour. But still the Gondorian company did not budge.

Aragorn gave no signal when it came time; there was no need. As soon as he was up on his feet, so were the others, moving stealthily through grasses made thicker by the growing darkness. They slipped into the moat and forged through its waters, which were waist-deep and powerful, having been diverted from the Anduin itself. When they scrambled out the opposite side and drew near where the garrison walls delved into the river, they paused briefly, assessing the guards’ positions.

A stroke of luck at last! The black heraldry of Haradrim warriors outnumbered the Corsairs’ blue.

With a quick series of signals, Aragorn assigned Blackbramble the nearer of the two vessels, then slipped into the water. The city wall, slippery though it was with stonewort, gave him good purchase against the weight of his armour as he drew out into the depths of Anduin. At the edge of the first pier, he made a quick calculation; the closest dromund was just within range, and its crew all gathered at the bow, distracted by their own revelry.

Clinging to the pile as best he could, Aragorn raised one grappling hook above his head, swung it about – and loosed.

If the Southrons heard any noise, they paid it no mind; their shouts continued to be of a cheerful nature. Slowly, cautiously, Aragorn took hold of the hook’s long line and, inhaling a deep breath, dipped below the surface to follow it underwater. But even as he came upon the first ship’s stern, followed close by the others, he cast another grapnel towards the second Corsair ship. It, too, went undetected, and so he and the first twoscore sailors struck out for the further ship, leaving Blackbramble’s men to their task.

Once tucked beside the second dromund’s hull, Aragorn scaled the grapnel line as silently as possible in raiment wet with river water. He had nearly gained the deck when a clangour went up from Blackbramble’s ambush upon the distant Southrons, alerting their comrades. As one, the guards nearest the stern turned to spy Aragorn hauling himself over the bulwarks. They had scarcely drawn their bows and scimitars before he leapt onto the deck and charged, giving his brethren space to board.

Immediately finding himself surrounded by a trio of Haradrim warriors, Aragorn brandished Andúril. But these adversaries were not faint of heart; they shrank back only a brief moment before leaping into a dance of glimmering blades. All three struck and stepped and shoved as though they were of one mind, seeking the slightest of openings but finding none.

But nor could Aragorn find or craft his own opportunity. Each time one opponent was beaten back, the other two attacked in unison, leaving scarcely enough time to defend against them. Bent by the onslaught, Aragorn’s feet shuffled a slow retreat towards the stern, drawing perilously close to the bulwarks.

The Corsairs, however, were not nearly so bold as their eastern allies, and were soon overwhelmed by the ferocity of this unexpected assault. Scarcely had the last Gondorian set foot on deck than the first Southron sailor leapt overboard, prompting his brethren to abandon ship en masse and leaving the Gondorian warriors free to come to their King’s aid.

Abandoned by a significant portion of their force, only a handful of Haradrim were left to contend with the grim-faced and determined northerners. They mounted one last, half-hearted defence, taking cover behind a stock of barrels and clay pots. But once Aragorn gained one corner of their line, it became evident their attempts would not be met with success. The Haradrim dashed about the deck, setting fires all across the dromund before fleeing outright, casting themselves overboard after the Corsairs.

The northerners turned their bows at once upon their fleeing adversaries in the water below, but Aragorn called for them to halt.

‘Save your arrows!’ he cried. ‘You will need every last one – and the resources of this ship, as well. Transfer these fire pots and all other weapons you find to Blackbramble’s ship. But move quickly! As soon as the Southrons gain the quay, they will lift the harbour chains. We must be gone before then, else we are trapped.’

As the Gondorians manoeuvred the two dromunds abreast of one another, Aragorn descended below to the rowing deck and stripped each oar of its thong, casting it from its port until all drifted along on the current. When he returned above, the supplies had already been shifted in their entirety from one dromund to the other. Many of the Gondorians now made the short step across to where Blackbramble and his men rushed to put out flames set by the retreating Southrons.

Aiding in the destruction the Haradrim had wrought upon the second dromund, Aragorn fanned their fires until the vessel was irrecoverable, then vaulted over the bulwarks back into Blackbramble’s company.

All eyes turned to him, anticipant.

‘Set sail,’ was all he said.

And so it was with renewed determination that the company embarked once more; yet their destination lay a great distance ahead, and though the winds were strong and hastened their progress, the sailors were few in number. Arduous shifts at the oars were followed by entirely too-short recoveries. As the evening wore on into deep night, the Gondorians’ pace flagged and their expressions grew haggard.

‘This blistering pace will serve to our advantage,’ Aragorn reassured a new shift of sailors, having taken the first himself and fully intending to take the next, as well. ‘We shall come upon our adversaries in the night, unexpected and undetected.’

But while these were not empty words, nor did they lend strength as rest or food or water did; exhaustion bit at the sailors’ fingers, burned in their forearms, seared the muscles of their backs, pinched at the corners of their eyes. Still, it was most certainly not the first time any of them had endured miserable conditions or less than favourable circumstances; with stern countenance, the Gondorians tightened their grips and fell into a synchronous pattern, moving as one single, many-limbed organism skittering along the Anduin.

In the smallest of hours, moonlight threw shimmering jewels across the Anduin. The only sound to be heard was the ke-wik of a tawny owl and of oars plunging into the river; otherwise, darkness lay thick about the dromund. Its crew simultaneously felt as though dawn must be near and that the night would never end, stretching the torment of suspense on for all eternity.

But then Blackbramble appeared suddenly on the oar deck, expression wild. ‘Milord, you’d best come quick!’ he exclaimed before disappearing again.

Aragorn leapt to his feet and raced up the stairs after Blackbramble’s hulking form. They converged at the ship’s prow, staring out ahead. Ever so indistinctly, the sounds of battle could once more be made out above the currents’ rush, and a faint red glow illuminated the treeline ahead.

Thudding back down the stairs, Aragorn stuck his head through the doorframe. ‘The time is now!’

The oarsmen grew frenzied at these words, cutting fleetly through the black waters at a terrifying pace. Small though their numbers were – and entrenched though they knew their foe would be – the Gondorians had precisely one advantage; they would have to exploit it to the fullest extent.

‘Lower the Southron colours.’ Aragorn issued this last, quiet command just moments before the dromund bowsprit drove into the nearest enemy ship.

With a lurch, handfuls of unsuspecting Southrons were cast overboard – for not even in the last seconds had the Gondorians’ approach been detected. The groan of ship and siege weapon intermingled with the Southrons’ cries as Aragorn and his warriors stormed the foremost ship, overwhelming its upper deck in a single rush.

But they would not take the remaining enemy ships so easily. No sooner had Aragorn ordered Blackbramble to man the catapult of the captured vessel than Corsair oarsmen poured forth from below, scimitars gleaming like waves upon the sea. But even as they fell upon the Gondorians, warriors from all sides were sent stumbling when the deck shuddered underfoot, having come under assault from a second Corsair vessel. Alerted by the commotion, the nearest dromunds turned to face this new threat, swiftly forming a line of attack.

Their advantage of secrecy now spent, Blackbramble raised a horn to his lips. Its sounding was soon answered by another from within the fortress of Elminas upon Cair Andros: that of Vorondil of Gondor, passed down through the many generations to Boromir, Captain-General of the White Tower – a horn once sundered, but now renewed.

Lord Faramir!

The horns’ echoes slowly yielded to the clang of blade striking blade. Arrows fell thick about the Gondorians, though they continued to reserve their own, relying instead upon what little shelter was to be found aboard the captured ship as they sought to board the vessel which had struck them – simultaneously working to prevent the Corsairs’ own attempts to do the very same thing.

There was even less room to manoeuvre here than in the stretches of Anduin between Osgiliath and Harlond; the Corsairs found themselves constrained, unable to take advantage of their superior numbers. Laying detachments between their own ships, the Corsairs rushed to assail the Gondorians’ position, yet neither was able to gain sufficient opening to advance, and instead found themselves locked in unyielding combat.

Then upon the shore Aragorn heard a cry. From the fortress gates poured a stream of soldiers, garbed both in the livery of the Citadel and of Ithilien, their swords gleaming in the light of fires set upon the isle – now scorched by the Southrons’ assault – as well as that of flaming ship wreckages.

‘Take to our own vessel!’ Aragorn commanded Blackbramble. ‘Rejoin Lord Faramir!’

The Hidland soldier had scarcely nodded before he was gone. In the next moment, Aragorn and those who remained behind laid cover as the dromund by which they had advanced from Osgiliath disentangled itself and snaked towards the banks of Cair Andros. No sooner had Blackbramble’s forces gained the isle than the ship drove back into the mêlée once more, falling upon the vessel already under attack from Aragorn’s forces.

Unable to hold against multiple fronts of attack, the Corsairs – those that did not fall by the Gondorians’ blade or arrow – raced back to their individual ships or dove into the waters below. Even those that manned the beleaguered first vessel sought safety among their comrades. All Southron dromunds now hung back, uneager to engage these redoubled Gondorian forces.

Then, in the gentle glow of firelight, Aragorn spied across the distance a sight most welcome: that of Lord Faramir – armour terrifically dented and exhaustion heavy upon his shoulders, tangled locks swept across his sweaty brow – yet alive. Aragorn clove a path along the captured ship deck and leapt aboard the second vessel, even as Faramir hailed him.

‘My lord!’ he exclaimed, making as if to bow. But Aragorn caught him by the arm and embraced him closely, as a brother.

‘Great joy it brings me to see you, my friend! I was led to believe you were upon death’s very threshold.’

‘Blackbramble is stouthearted in battle, but less so in the infirmary,’ said Faramir, the suggestion of humour in his eye. ‘He must have greatly overestimated my injuries. You shall have to be gentle in your reprimand.’

‘And Lady Éowyn? I trust she is safe and well?’

‘I myself can but hope. I entrusted her and the others to a light guard in Ithilien, hoping the location’s insignificance would prompt the Corsairs to pass it over – though to be quite forthright, I fear more for any who would dare threaten my dove and the infant Elboron. I rather think it is we who are in the greater danger.’

‘Though she may have renounced her shieldmaiden ways for that of a healer, Lady Éowyn’s spirit is no less fierce,’ Aragorn concurred. ‘But let us set our mind to the task at hand, all the sooner to be reunited with those we love. These few enemy ships that besets us now are but a small fraction of their fleet, as you well know – though what you do not know is that even more may yet come. We are desperately needed by those who wage battle in Osgiliath.’

And so the Gondorians turned their attention to the remaining Corsair dromunds. But not even with the added strength of Ithilien Rangers and soldiers of the White City could the Southrons be easily subdued. Aragorn led a wave of soldiers onto the next vessel, only to fall back before regrouping and attempting a second boarding. The Corsairs in turn found their resolve hardened, and did not forfeit any position freely; each of the Gondorians’ advances was hard-won, and their setbacks bitter.

Then, as the battle raged on and another droumund fell under Gondorian possession, a peculiar sound could be discerned over that of blade striking blade and hull rending hull. It was faint at first, audible only between fleeting lulls in the chaos: a beating, like that of a heart — a steady pace, neither racing nor lethargic. It slowly crescendoed, a rhythmic pulse bearing down upon Cair Andros as night began to yield to day and the conflict between Gondor and the southron forces grew more fierce. But even when the first wash of light poured across the land, still the noise’s source could not be spied.

The sunrise lent heart to the Gondorians, however, and at last they were able to wrest full control of the vessels they had succeeded in boarding. With their inescapable defeat near at hand, the Corsairs’ spirits faltered entirely; the last two remaining dromonds turned and fled back towards Osgiliath and the protection of their brethren. The Southrons had thought their assault upon Cair Andros would be met with little resistance, and found themselves wildly mistaken.

Exhausted, the forces of Gondor tumbled onto the docks and flame-blackened banks of Cair Andros, soaking in the rising sun’s gentle rays. Yet they soon roused themselves, for they were in no position to succumb to their enervation; there were fires to be put out on dromund and isle alike, and injured warriors to be rushed into the infirmary, and graves to be dug in the fortress’ garden of remembrance. There was stock of resources to be taken, as well – including a full assessment of their numbers, and plans for rejoining the forces at Osgiliath made. But even as Aragorn bent before one injured Swan Knight to see how best to transport him, Faramir approached with hurried step.

‘My lord, I have spoken with those who keep watch from within Elminas,’ he said. ‘It seems our lookouts have discovered the source of the beating we hear even now.’

Aragorn rose and cast his eyes upon the Steward, who met his concerned gaze in kind; the sound was unmistakable – it was that of an army on the move, approaching from no great distance.

‘They come from the East,’ Faramir continued, his voice a near-whisper. Aragorn’s heart spasmed painfully to hear these words spoken, but Faramir’s expression dampened the hope that crept in.

‘Have they sent no envoy?’

Faramir shook his head. ‘There has been no word, yet their forward companies are visible already; they make no attempt at secrecy.’

Aragorn’s grimace narrowed to a thin, determined line. ‘Let us first send our own scouts,’ he said, beckoning to Blackbramble. ‘Take the most fleet-footed amongst our soldiers. Determine the numbers of these new arrivals, and whatever else you can – but do not approach outright until we know whether they come to help or harm us.’

With a bow, Blackbramble leapt into action, darting off as the main company tramped up the hill towards Elminas and its southern postern door. The bailey garden, ravaged both by winter and war, lay painfully bare, as did the corridors and halls within the keep itself – for ever had the threat of attack come primarily from the south; even in the wake of Cair Andros’ overrunning during the War, only the most essential of resources had been allocated to the isle.

Within the infirmary, those injured during the initial assault upon Osgiliath greeted their King’s entrance with a murmur of gentle rustling. Aragorn acknowledged each in turn, working swiftly to assess who was in most desperate need of assistance while also directing the arrangement of new arrivals. Alongside the companies’ own healers, he made his way through the ward, engaged in an unending series of bandaging and sewing and splinting and extracting.

Long were his labours. Strong beams of late afternoon sun streamed through the windows before he sat upon a stool with hands empty and limp, damp sweat upon his brow. One exceedingly young assistant – none other than the sailor Fofrin – brought him a bowl of water with which to wash up, but he was slow to do so, his mind as tumultuous as his body was still.

It was even as he was drying his hands that Faramir appeared in the doorway. A mere glance was all that passed between them before Aragorn rose and made a final sweep of the infirmary, then exited into the hallway beyond. As the pair ascended the stairs leading to the eastern battlements, Aragorn glanced obliquely at Faramir, whose step was uneven and who heavily favoured his right side.

‘You yourself ought to be tended by a healer,’ he chided gently.

‘So that they may fuss and bother over me, and insist that I abandon my duties?’ Faramir scoffed. ‘I think not.’ He threw the tower door open and strode along the wall-walk to where Blackbramble and the other scouts stood clustered above Elminas’ eastern gate.

‘How now, Master Blackbramble?’ said Aragorn. ‘What report have you to give?’

‘They halt even now some three leagues distant from our position,’ he replied, pointing out across the eastern branch of Anduin in the direction of Dagorlad, where a black shadow unrelated to the weather was cast upon the heathland. ‘Their camp spans clear to the Ephel Dúath, each tent hosting half a dozen heads. They number in the thousands.’

‘Of what people be these soldiers?’ asked Faramir.

‘I cannot say,’ said Blackbramble. ‘They don livery unfamiliar to me; it is not that worn by the Easterlings during the War – though their weaponry and insignia are unmistakably of that region.’

‘Not twelvemonth has passed since we made peace with those lands,’ Aragorn mused. ‘There is yet a possibility we find them before our doors with no ill intent.’

‘Perhaps they have heard of our tribulations, and come to grant us succour in our conflict against the Southrons,’ suggested Faramir. ‘I had news out of Osgiliath some time ago that Legolas, Gimli and Truva made for Rhûn – perhaps it is they who ride at the helm of this new host.’

Aragorn’s stomach gave another sharp twist then, the cruel blade of uncertainty sinking deep between his ribs. Countless threads slipped through his mind, each more fearful than the last – for in spite of his spoken optimism, and Faramir’s agreement, the danger they faced was grave indeed if they were incorrect. Both Umbar and Harad had been quick to abandon all pretence of accord; there was little hope the Easterlings were any more faithful.

Yet that was not the full extent of Aragorn’s fears. Throughout his journey in the Sutherlands, some small, selfish corner of his heart had been comforted by the knowledge that Truva was elsewhere, beyond the reach of immediate danger. He did not wish to entertain the idea she had come amongst them again, into an ongoing conflict – however desperately her expertise was needed, or how fervently he hoped their reunion drew nigh.

‘Perhaps,’ he muttered, half to himself. ‘Perhaps it is so, and come morn we shall march to Osgiliath with numbers strengthened manifold. But until we have any such assurance, let us be circumspect, and spend the time left to us reinforcing our defences, or getting what rest we can – for if indeed this host is an enemy to us, we must not allow them to gain a foothold in so crucial a position as Cair Andros.’

‘But if our friends are amongst them—’ Blackbramble began, hope in his eyes.

‘If our friends are amongst them, they will surely be swift to send word,’ said Aragorn, laying a sympathetic hand upon the warrior’s shoulder.

Together, the party descended into the halls of Elminas, gathering all unoccupied and able-bodied soldiers and setting about what few tasks could be accomplished before dawn – or earlier, should the fortress come under attack in the night. Under Faramir’s direction, the soldiers readied arrows and combustible clay pots commandeered from the Corsairs’ dromunds, or transferred rubble that had fallen during the onslaught to piles beside their own catapults. But even as Aragorn laboured amongst these industrious warriors, Faramir drew him aside.

‘When was it that last you slept?’ he asked. Aragorn searched his hazy memory, but the answer came too slow for Faramir’s satisfaction. ‘Aragorn, rest,’ he insisted.

Aragorn had no retort – in all likelihood, an effect of not having slept a full night (let alone soundly) since fleeing Herumoros. His mind and movements were slow, and more taxing than he would care to admit.

‘Very well,’ he sighed, yielding to Faramir’s insistent look without complaint.

His steps led him first to Elminas’ dining hall, where stale waybread and water were being distributed to any who had not yet eaten; thus Aragorn was alone in taking advantage of their services. Then up, up the southeastern tower he climbed, where both encroaching army and contested stretch of Anduin could be observed. The emerald sea of Cormallen shimmered just beyond the isle’s southern tip, cut by the small stream of Hennethír – a reminder of peaceful, joyous days free of anguish.

An errant thought strayed across Aragorn’s mind then, prompted by the beauty of Ithilien: an image of the Garden of the Houses of Healing, its empty beds waiting anticipant for leaves of sea-scented athelas. He briefly wondered whether it might not be his own line, but that of another, that would one day enjoy the Garden’s serenity. But it mattered not; Gondor would be defended, even if it was by his own death that he defended it.

The umber wash of sunset warmed Aragorn’s skin and filtered through the lids of his eyes even when he closed them, promising himself but a moment’s respite. When next he woke, waybread still clutched loosely in hand, he had not even realised he slumbered – and yet the scene about him was fully dark. The Easterling encampment beyond Elminas’ embrasures was a pattern of scarlet stars upon a sable field, their campfires seemingly outnumbering the stars of the sky.

Aragorn felt certain these were not welcome forces. But some nagging spark spoke to him of Truva, whispered of her strength and assurance, hinted at her presence—

A fool’s hope. Aragorn rubbed his face with his hands; he ought not allow himself to be misguided by desire. All he could depend upon was all he had before him, however little it may be: six hundred men against an Easterling force thousands strong, under circumstances that offered no possibility of reinforcements. Every variable was immaculately set against Gondor; it made Aragorn uneasy in a way he could not articulate.

Darkness crept into dawn, but still no messenger was received. Then, as dawn turned to day and the Easterling fires became lost in the light, Aragorn descended to the bustling fortifications with hope diminished. He strode along the ramparts, hailing each bustling soldier as they hurried about completing last-minute preparations, until he came to the gate keep where Faramir and Blackbramble stood gazing out across the expanse with impassive expressions.

No greeting passed between the three; they merely watched in silence as formations emerged from the dark mass of the Easterling camp. Then the steady beat resumed – for the host marched once again, drawing ever nearer the isle of Cair Andros. They came and came, until the very stone of Elminas shuddered beneath their stamping feet, and their chants rattled the bones and teeth of those who stood upon the fortress battlements.

The morning sun was high in the sky when the first companies began to array themselves upon the bank opposite, stretching out like a patchwork of threatening selion fields. But even as the rear ranks of Easterlings continued to file forward, a fanfare trumpeted. One single rider bearing the white standard of parley rode forth. His lamellar armour gleamed in the sunlight, and his helm boasted the insignia of a silver sturgeon.

The Noyon halted in the very middle of the bridge spanning from bank to gate.

‘Will you not treat with us, King Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the line of Elendil?’ he cried, voice carrying over the sound of marching soldiers. ‘Can we not be allies, deserving of consideration?’

‘Did we not already give the Easterlings our promise of peace and fraternity?’ Aragorn replied. ‘Speak what words you will, and we will give them consideration.’

The Noyon’s mount shifted slightly, but the commander himself gave no outward indication of discomfiture. ‘I think you mistake us for our brethren,’ he said calmly. ‘We have made no such promise with you – though we greatly desire to do so. No, we come on a different campaign.’

‘And what campaign is that?’ demanded Blackbramble, having grown bold in his newfound responsibilities.

‘Are you not beset upon by the armies of the Southlands?’ asked the Noyon. ‘We see the smouldering remnants of their black dromunds upon your shores even now.’

‘How came you by this knowledge of distant lands’ ships, and affairs in which you have no involvement?’ Aragorn countered.

‘Grant us an audience, and we may discuss all such matters at length.’

Aragorn glanced towards his companions, who returned his look of suspicion. Yet even as he contemplated how best to exact the information he sought without jeopardising the safety of his warriors, another figure stepped forward: a man old and wizened, garbed in robes of deepest midnight blue, and riding upon a chestnut and white pinto steed.

‘Aragorn son of Arathorn, counsel of Olórin – known also as Mithrandir in these lands, or Gandalf more widely.’ His voice was no louder than if he spoke in conversation beside all who listened, and yet it was easily discernible across the distance. ‘Relinquish the lands of Anórien – north of Minas Tirith and east of Rohan’s border, as far as Onodló and the Anduin itself – and those of the Wold, belonging to a people who once harassed my own. Do this, or we shall be called upon to wreak great destruction upon your paltry forces.’

Terror struck the hearts of all Gondorians gathered on the battlements. Hope of a peaceable resolution – which had not been great from the outset – vanished entirely.

‘You come with so unreasonable a demand,’ said Faramir, ‘including for lands which none here hold dominion over. Methinks you wish to control all of Middle-earth!’

‘On the contrary, it is King Aragorn who seeks uncurtailed power – for in reuniting the regions of Gondor and Arnor, he would bring under his fearful flag all the most fertile regions of Middle-earth, subjugating any who would question him. There can be no balance or equity in a world in which the Reunited Kingdom is allowed to exist.’

‘If these be your demands, we shall not grant them,’ said Aragorn, his words stark and bold.

Alatar’s quiet chuckle in response trickled down the spines of his audience. ‘You make your ruinous decisions far too rashly, Lord Aragorn.’

‘And you make your extortionate demands far too confidently, Wizard,’ said he. ‘I have treated with your kind before; yea, and seen how greed corrupts and enfeebles your power. These are not things taught me by Mithrandir, but that I have seen with mine own eyes. You are of Saruman’s ilk, sundered from your original purpose and slave to baser desires. There is nothing with which you can bargain that would possibly entice me to entrust even the smallest parcel of land into your care – for you will do nothing save exploit it to your own benefit, not that of its people.’

‘So shall it be,’ said Alatar. ‘You have said it with your own words – there can be no arbitration between us. Your fate you have sealed yourself.’

He and the Noyon spun around and swiftly retreated from the bridge, back into the safety of their imposing ranks. Even as they did so, brazen trumpets rang out. From the shelter of Cormallen’s culumalda trees emerged a parade of siege weapons, each more intimidating than the last – and makeshift bridges as well, to mount the short span between eastern bank and isle.

‘How is this possible?’ said Faramir, uncomprehending. ‘My warriors and I swept the woods of North Ithilien with alarming regularity, especially following the attack we suffered in winter. These structures would have taken weeks to construct; how did we not discover their machinations?’

‘Cormallen alone is vast, my friend – to say nothing of the woodlands throughout all of Ithilien; those who wish to be overlooked will find it easy to make it so.’

But before he could so much as issue a command, the battlements had already become a mill of activity. Soldiers darted about like minnows when a heron’s shadow passes overhead, reinforcing the main eastern gate of Elminas and aligning Gondor’s own weapons, moving to mitigate the looming threats’ effects before they even occurred.

‘Let us hope Captain Bardlorn’s circumstances prove more fortunate than ours,’ said Aragorn when the Easterling trebuchets came within range, ‘for it is we who shall require rescuing, it seems, rather than the other way around.’

‘And not for the first time,’ quipped Blackbramble.

Just then, the first projectile came sailing towards Cair Andros. It splashed harmlessly into the waters of Anduin, but was followed immediately by a shuddering stroke to the battlements themselves.

‘And so it begins,’ said Faramir, the muscles of his jaw tight.

Archers raced to aid their brethren at the siege weapons, for the Easterling warriors still lingered beyond range of their bows. Others used blankets to extinguish a flaming, pitch-like substance lobbed onto the ramparts – and in an instant Aragorn discerned how Alatar had been so knowledgeable about the Southrons’ assault, and why his timing was so impeccable.

‘It is a coordinated attack!’ shouted Faramir, having come to the same conclusion. ‘They work together with the Southrons!’

A second boulder struck the fortress walls.

‘That is an issue we must contend with if we are so fortunate as to survive this day,’ Aragorn replied. ‘But for now, it matters not; we face the same attack regardless of how it was conceived.’

It was the gate of Elminas itself that was struck this time. The defender’s ears were met with a sharp splintering sound, but the gate held. Aragorn rushed to aid soldiers loading a trebuchet nearby, desperate for any activity to occupy his mind; sieges wearied him more thoroughly than any combat at close quarters, for there was entirely too much time to think – not only thoughts of strategy, but also of exhaustion, and of thirst, and despondency.

The trebuchet pin was released, and the first of the Easterling siege weapons was rendered to splinters as a result, only to be replaced by another – and a canopied battering ram.

‘Ready the ram defences!’ cried Faramir.

Aragorn yielded to the soldiers who ran towards his position at the trebuchet. ‘I entrust the rampart defence to you,’ he said to Faramir, who nodded. ‘And do not overexert yourself; I see it pains you to walk, let alone lift a blade.’

‘Go, milord,’ said Farair, his expression half grimace, half amused smile. ‘Go defend the gates, and see that I needn’t unsheath my sword.’

With one final clasping of hands, Aragorn leapt down the exterior stairs four at a time and gained the main gate, where already a large contingent of soldiers led by Blackbramble had barricaded its rear. Shouts came from above and beyond, followed by the thud of ram upon plank. Dust drifted down and settled upon those gathered below as the Easterling ram struck a second time.

The worn leather grip of Andúril was soft in Aragorn’s calloused palm; other soldiers clutched their weapons so tight they were in danger of needing new ones entirely – certainly more than a few fletching feathers were plucked by their wielders’ nervous fidgeting.

A third strike sounded, then a fourth. The gate planking grew splintered at shoulder height. Archers adjusted their position to take advantage of any opening as soon as it might be cleared.

A fifth strike.

But then a trumpet sounded, clear upon the late morning air.

‘The Horn of the House of Éofor!’ Blackbramble exclaimed. ‘It was by this horn the Eorlingas were led in their assault upon the Black Gates!’

He dashed off at once, making for the austere stables of Elminas. Aragorn gazed after the Hidlander in confusion a moment before racing to rejoin Faramir upon the ramparts, breathless. He dared not to hope, and yet—

Off to the north, a second force had materialised. Its ranks were arrayed upon the crest of a hill, just near enough for each individual to be distinguished. Bright, bold banners – the likes of which Aragorn in all his travels had never seen before – hung limp in the nonexistent breeze.

‘Orcs!’ gasped Faramir. ‘I did not think our luck could turn any worse!’

‘Yea, friend, yet listen!’ said Aragorn.

A horn – unmistakably that of the Rohirrim – sounded again. The newly-arrived army stormed down the hill, like spring floodwater tumbling down a mountainside. One figure momentarily darted out ahead, bold and brash: Truva!

Chapter Text

There were few to bid farewell to the armies of West Rhûn, for the Orcs were ruthless in their recruitment. Their notion of what constituted ‘able-bodied’ deviated vastly from that of Men; any Uzdígh resident capable of wielding a weapon and keeping pace – be they man, woman, or child – had been conscripted. When the ranks of warriors turned towards Gondor to a rousing chorus of cries, those who remained behind were no more than the youngest of the young, the infirm, and the smallest of guards to protect them.

The Òrlok Agbesh and a handful of warriors lingered also, albeit only briefly, for they were tasked with butchering the sacrificed Kine and preparing its meat for drying along the journey, then ultimately bringing up the caravan rear. All others set a swift but steady pace along a wide track, bearing a curving path southwestward along the shore of Zünuur and between a patchwork of fields and pastures. Gradually, the rustle of winds through drooping millet flowers and the Sea’s susurrations replaced the deafening clangour of drums and horns.

But that is not to suggest the host made its way in silence. The squawking of greylag geese overhead was reflected in several outbursts between the soldiers below – for mere trodden toes or dropped equipment proved just cause for quarrels between the truculent Orc warriors. Pairs and trios (and even entire groups) would fall out of line to resolve their conflict with startlingly brutal fisticuffs, before racing back to resume their ranks. Yet neither Kîzge King nor the Pè, nor Pallando or any of Truva’s other companions appeared disturbed by these events, and so she let them pass unremarked.

These altercations decreased in frequency as the day wore on and fatigue began to creep into the muscles and bones of those less accustomed to military life. Warriors broke for rest and meals in small units, only rejoining the rear once the rest of the column had passed; thus the host never fully ceased its forward progress towards the range of tall hills which from Uzdígh had seemed so distant.

When Truva squinted, great streaks of muted yellow, crimson, pink and emerald mingled with the more common white and brown hues of mountains she was accustomed to. Turning to Pallando, who walked beside her, she asked, ‘Do my eyes deceive me, or are those hills painted as a child’s drawing?’

‘Painted, perhaps, but not by the hands of any child,’ replied the Wizard. ‘It is the earth itself that gives them such colour, though the tongues of Orcs and Men give them their names: Emyn Ninniach – the Rainbow Hills – to those of the West, yet in these lands they are known as Kôlong-uul.’

‘I have heard tell of these hills!’ exclaimed Truva. ‘Yet I was led to believe it was tribes of Men, not Orcs, who occupied them, building homes into the very rock itself.’

‘The southern foothills of Kôlong-uul lie at the border between our lands and those controlled by Alatar, yet neither he nor Kîzge wield any great influence in that area. The residents of Kôlong-uul forge their own path, subsisting on what little can be coaxed from the earth or drug from the sea, or grazed across the land. Its Men are the remnants of a more violent people who, after suffering a humiliating rout at the hands of Gondor’s inferior forces, were convinced to abandon Sauron’s ambitions and settle peaceably in Rhûn.’

‘How long have they lived there?’ Truva prompted, pleased to find Pallando in a rather garrulous mood. As they marched, she peppered him with additional questions about West Rhûn and its history, which he answered readily enough – though he was not wholly different from Gandalf in that his evasion of certain topics was subtle yet not infrequent.

Thus their conversation plodded along as the sun sagged towards the western plains, its light glimmering orange upon the waves of the Sea and washing the land with a warm, pleasant glow that contradicted the warriors’ exhaustion. But still the host forged on, and the sky was fully dark by the time Kîzge King called a halt. Fires were struck, foragers were sent afield, and the Orcs organised themselves into tidy divisions, each marked by its own standard bearer.

As Truva established her own camp, settling back against a rucksack she had been provided by the King, she posed yet another question to the Wizard: ‘What is the meaning of these many banners? They bear the same markings as the dwellings in Uzdígh, and in similar colours.’

‘Each is specific to the tribe it represents,’ Pallando explained. ‘Uzdígh Orcs are of disparate backgrounds, being divided not only by blood, but language as well. Though they thrive together in the walls of the city and beyond, still there is a desire to preserve their distinctions – if for no other reason than to provide incitement for disputes and quarrels.’

‘Do they not all speak the language devised by Sauron?’

‘A few were raised with that tongue, for they were born into the Dark Lord’s armies and served him for a time. Subsequently, each saw fit to abandon the Black Speech entirely.’

Truva shifted uncomfortably. ‘You mean to say there are soldiers among your ranks that fought in the War?’

‘Not many, but some,’ said Pallando. Neither he nor Truva had seen fit to build a fire in the warm spring evening, but by the light of the neighbouring clan’s blaze, built high to roast several head of waterfowl, he appeared lost in thought – or perhaps just weary.

‘Orcs and Easterlings alike fled to Rhûn after the Battle of the Black Gates,’ he continued. ‘Most turned east to take refuge in the northern stretches of Ered Lithui, or in the ancient strongholds of shadow within the Orocarni – the Red Mountains, far beyond the Sea of Helcar. But they will find little there save ancient forces that resent danger being invited so near.’

Thunderous clouds darkened the Wizard’s brow for a brief moment before he sighed deeply. ‘Others came to us,’ he concluded.

Despite her curiosity regarding the lands that lay further East, Pallando’s expression and manner of speaking urged Truva to retreat to a safer topic. ‘Is there no dialect common to all of West Rhûn?’

Pallando appeared greatly appeased by this line of questioning. ‘Rhûnic Orcs are expected to learn every language of their brethren,’ he explained. ‘The patterns you saw upon the walls of Uzdígh dictate which dialect is spoken in that section of the city; to insist upon using an outside tongue is considered a tremendous affront, and will necessarily result in a fracas.

‘But more so, such insistence is a disservice to oneself – for each tribe boasts its own particular skill, and you must delve into their territory if you wish to seek their services. In need of a tanner? You had best seek out the Lúzi clan. Xiwertaï Orcs will provide you with the best seed for your crop. Do not obtain rice wine from any other save the Bitû tribe, lest you are prepared to physically defend yourself.

‘You will, of course, be expected to speak Lúzi, Xiwertaï, and Bitû dialects during each of these respective encounters.’ Pallando fondled his beard, which was not quite busy enough to hide the flit of a smile – perhaps in memory of some amusing linguistic encounter.

‘If they speak so many dialects, why does that not extend to Westron?’ Truva pressed.

‘There is little need to speak the Common Tongue in Rhûn; indeed, a great deal of effort is spent in its avoidance. Most consider it an “outsider” language – least, that is the most polite interpretation of the term.’

‘Alatar’s upper ranks spoke it – albeit not extensively.’

Pallando fell quiet then, musing to himself for a while. ‘I suppose, considering Alatar’s motives with regard to the West, the decision to teach his commanders Westron serves a practical purpose. It is no easy task to conquer a people whose language you cannot speak. Not impossible, but not easy.’

Struck by a sudden idea, Truva digressed once more. ‘If Uzdígh Orcs do not speak the Common Tongue, then I ought to learn one of theirs. Will you not teach me?’

‘Your enthusiasm might wane once you understand the complexities of even the easiest of Orcish dialects,’ he warned half in jest, but relented when Truva’s eager expression did not change. ‘Ah well – as there isn’t much else to amuse us on the long march to Gondor, I shall indulge your request. But first, if you’ll allow, there is something I myself feel some curiosity over: your bow.’

Truva’s hand reached instinctively for Lady Arwen’s gift, which lay beside her rucksack, but merely laid her hand atop the grip. ‘What of my bow?’

‘I merely wish to examine it,’ the Wizard reassured her, holding out his hand. ‘Perhaps I might be able to determine the source of its power, or discern a way to control it.’

Still cautious, Truva passed the bow to Pallando, who spent a great deal of time peering at each tiny detail, running his hands along its carvings, whispering breathless words at its notches and listening to the string hum as he gave it several gentle twangs.

‘And it simply… works?’ he asked after a time. ‘The magic?’

‘Only sometimes,’ Truva answered. ‘The strange Elven words spring unbidden into my mind, but they too are no guarantee of success or failure.’

‘And how do you feel when it does work?’

‘There is a kind of tingling…’ Truva began, struggling to put the sensation into words, only for Pallando to immediately chase the inquiry with another before she had even finished explaining.

On and on such question and answer persisted, punctuated by Pallando requesting several times for Truva to attempt to recreate the effect, though each time she could not. One watch came and went, then another, and though the duo ruminated extensively upon the weapon’s mysteries, they went to bed that night having arrived at no conclusions or certainties.

A new company of Orcs mustered from outlying farmlands must have arrived in the night, because Truva was awoken by a squabble playing out beneath an unfamiliar teal standard thrust into the earth. Half a dozen Orcs tumbled about in the half-light, crashing into surrounding tribes and drawing new parties into the conflict. Ultimately, the entire camp was roused, and amidst grumbling and cursing (the nature of which was comprehensible even to Truva) the army set out far earlier than otherwise intended.

Before them, stretching clear to the horizon’s edge, were spread the nearly featureless steppes that lay between West Rhûn and Gondor. The land was dominated by short, hardy grasses and windswept shrubs, with scarcely a birch or scraggly pine to be seen. As the host deviated further westward, away from the Sea, only the Rainbow Hills’ proximity marked their progress. All the while, no sign of Alatar’s army was ever spied – not even by the scouts. They must have set a truly terrifying pace.

For Kîzge King’s forces, the road ahead was a seemingly endless trudge, broken only by the briefest of rests and the occasional cry of ‘Zîr, zîr!’ as a party of Orcs dashed off in pursuit of small, wavy-horned and deer-like animals. Pallando’s ramblings and linguistic teachings were all that occupied Truva’s mind; Kîzge still did not trust her fully, and so she was not tasked with patrols or watch, but marched under the King’s strict observance at all times.

By afternoon of the third day, the host came at last to the foothills of the Emyn Ninniach, and had nestled within a system of rocky crevices by sundown. Even when viewed up close, the hills’ namesake feature was equally as enchanting as when seen from afar; discrete layer formations and rivers of sand alike boasted rich colours visible even in the twilight. Ahead in the distance, lights from a multitude of settlements twinkled: the Men of the Rainbow Hills.

As Truva skinned a hare she had snared on the outskirts of camp (for though the pair of Oworja clan Orcs at the campfire beside hers had brought down a zîr thanks to her sharp eyes, she knew there would be no sharing), Pallando appeared with an air of excitement about him. He bustled through the maze of Orc clusters and took a seat at her fire with aplomb.

‘What is it you fear most in this world, Marshal?’ he asked without a word of introduction.

‘Fear?’ Truva questioned, taken entirely aback. She contemplated the Wizard’s question for some time as she set her hare to roast, for it had been put to her quite abruptly, and was a topic she had never previously considered.

‘Perhaps a bit trite, but what I fear most is failing those I love,’ she answered at last, clearing her throat even as she felt it constrict. ‘So many placed their faith in me, and gave to me their hearts; and I returned those sentiments with equal measure. Yet more than once was I unable to protect those who trusted me. The horror of such failings makes my nights long for lack of sleep.’

‘Ah,’ said the Wizard, himself taken aback. ‘Yes, yes, such fears are not as uncommon as we might wish them to be. If your answer is trite, it is only because too, too many others have shared in your experiences. Unfortunately, it is my thinking that – in having no understanding of the nature of such things when you first attempted to use the Elven bow – it came to be fear, rather than a more positive focus, that guided your response to magic. Though I must say, I truly despise such a dull word for so dynamic a concept.’

‘What concept is that?’ asked Truva. ‘Fear or magic?’

‘Both, I suppose.’

Truva’s brows furrowed together. ‘What are you proposing?’

‘It is my hope that you can, given sufficient time, learn to control your bow – and a great many other things, as well – in the manner of a Wizard. Yet for now, perhaps it would be more productive to explore the ways in which you have already succeeded.’

Truva rotated the hare on its spit. She did not feel as though she had succeeded in anything related to that infernal bow, but curiosity held a tighter grip. ‘How might we accomplish that?’

Pallando motioned to her pack, where the bow was stowed yet again. Truva picked the weapon up but did not draw it. Utter failure still weighed heavily in her mind; nothing but disappointment had come of the previous evening’s experiments.

‘Rather than focusing upon the bow itself, apply that same energy to your fears,’ Pallando insisted, ‘whether events you endured in the past, or those which you dread shall come to pass.’

Unconvinced, Truva closed her eyes and pondered the nebulous unease that had loomed over her ever since the War – indeed, since her departure from the Hidlands, and long before. She lay the bow across her lap and allowed her hands to rest upon it, yet felt no change – not even the slightest shift of energy.

‘Is there any specific occurrence that inspires your distress most?’ Pallando asked.

Truva frowned. She did not wish to dwell on it, to navigate memories she had spent the past twelvemonth attempting to banish into the furthest recesses of her mind.

‘Théodred,’ she whispered, hands constricting around the bow. Her breath caught in her throat as she attempted to continue. ‘Though he was but the first; many were soon to come, not least of which was Eilif. Poor Eilif! The most innocent of all, and the most trusting. And Théoden King, and Éothafa, Bron—’

Truva’s voice cut off sharply. Though Pallando said nothing, she could feel the intensity of his gaze upon her, could hear the rustle of his beard as he ran his fingers through it thoughtfully. She squeezed her eyelids tightly together.

Perhaps she imagined it. Perhaps what she felt was a hunger pang, brought on by the delectable smell of roasting hare – surely that was it. The clenching of her jaw was due to her desperate desire for a good meal, the tingling that spread through her chest to her fingers was simply an itch to remove the hare from the fire and dig in.

The thrumming of the bow in her hands was merely tremors brought on by a hard day’s march, no more.

She heard Pallando inhale deeply, yet still he did not speak. It was not until she opened her eyes that he gave her a look which spoke far more than words ever could.

Truva released her breath, and in an instant the sensation was gone.

‘I see,’ she said.

‘Yes, but do you feel?’

Truva’s fingertips fluttered along the full length of the bow, tugged at its string. It appeared now like any other well-crafted bow, unremarkable and ordinary, but still she could hear its hum. ‘I feel it.’

‘Solidify that sensation in your mind,’ said Pallando, rising. ‘Think upon it, and we shall try again tomorrow, after you have rested – for it is wearying to draw upon magic with intent, far more so than by accident.’

But even as he walked away, Truva’s voice, scarcely a whisper, stopped him.

‘Has everything I’ve ever done been an accident?’ she asked, eyes cast downwards. Emotions stirred by her efforts proved overwhelming at last, and – amplified as they were by enervation – caused tears to well and roll down her cheeks.

Pallando returned to the fireside and sat directly beside her. ‘Come now,’ he said soothingly. ‘What upsets you so?’

Producing a handkerchief of purest silk, he offered it to Truva, who merely feigned to dab at her tears; it was far too fine a cloth to ply to her face, filthy from days of hard travel.

‘All that I have accomplished – insignificant though such feats may be – was it all simply… accidental? The luck of magic inherent in my blood, with no bearing upon my skills? For tonight’s events have shown to me that magic does not flow through weapons alone.’

Truva’s voice seemed even quieter in contrast to those of the Ushnal Orcs as they cut into their zîr, now fully cooked. The hare hung suspended above her fire, scorched to charcoal and leather long ago. She stared at its blackened carcass in an attempt to evade the Wizard’s sympathetic eyes.

‘No,’ he murmured. ‘I do not think that is the case.’

He reached into the depths of his robes and extricated a wafer of waybread – that of Men, not Orcish cram – and passed it to Truva. ‘Of course, I cannot claim to possess all extant knowledge regarding magic; yet I have reason to believe intent plays a far larger role than fortuity. Magic does not merely happen.

‘This Elven bow of yours seems to have served as a sort of focal point, the crack through which the waters of the dam began to pour – nothing more. It shepherded you, and perceived your intent when you could not. Yet without its guidance, I very much doubt you would have achieved any feat of magic; your exploits in the Hidden Lands, and all other ventures you have spoken of to me in recent days – these have been gained by your hand, and your hand alone.

‘Most of all, magic is – in and of itself – a skill that does not negate your accomplishments. To harness its power is laudable in its own way, and any achievements made through it are equally as commendable as those made without. Do not shy away from feeling pride in yourself; give yourself consideration as you do all others whom you love.’

Truva’s eyes fell to her lap and folded the kerchief for wont of something to do with her hands. When she offered him the cloth back, he tucked it neatly within the breast of his robes and rose to his feet once more. As the Wizard ambled off into the night, he cast one final comment back over his shoulder:

‘If you’ve no intention of eating that hare, I’m certain your friends would be more than willing to accommodate you.’

He pointed to the Oworja Orcs, who had devoured their zîr in its entirety – bones, skin and all – and now sat staring wide-eyed and slobber-lipped at the charred hare. When Truva held out the spit in offering, they leapt forward with eager, snatching claws, leaving Truva to frown at the waybread she could not bring herself to eat.

The Host of West Rhûn gave the Rainbow Hills’ southern stretches a wide berth the following day, striking out across the open steppe and leaving all landmarks behind. There seemed to be some urgency in Kîzge King’s movements that morning, for she set a blistering pace and allowed fewer breaks, though not even the least hardy Orc amongst their ranks flagged; none wished to be shamed for appearing weak, or worse: left behind.

For days the host was locked in a monotonous routine, rising at the first hint of dawn and trampling feathergrass underfoot as they pursued Alatar’s forces, not pitching camp until well past full darkness. Each night, Pallando would seek Truva out and guide her towards better mastery of her magic – though she, too, was unsettled by the word and went to great lengths to avoid it. Yet in spite of their efforts, each night concluded with little development, their progress hampered in part by Pallando’s hesitancy to overtax his pupil, and in part by Truva’s struggle to overcome the fear which constricted her thoughts. But Marshal and Wizard were equally stubborn and unwilling to admit defeat, and so each night they persisted in their task with full devotion.

It was deep in the ninth afternoon when the black teeth of the Ered Lithui became visible upon the southern horizon, dark and threatening, though no shadow now hung over their jagged peaks as during the days of Sauron. Still, Truva couldn’t help but cast her eyes in the mountains’ direction as she and Pallando sat mulling over their individual worries that evening, their training concluded to no result once again. A marmot she had snared earlier sat roasting on a spit, and just as Truva deemed it cooked to perfection, Kîzge King herself stomped through camp and came to sit at their fire.

‘Taarbagan,’ she said, pleased with what she clearly considered an offering – for she helped herself at once.

Without acknowledging Truva further, the King then turned to Pallando and held a brief conversation with him in hushed tones. On occasion, Truva was able to discern a handful of words the Wizard had taught her during their long trek, though these were mere conjunctions and interjections, or simple terms such as ‘far’ and ‘walk’; she had no deeper understanding of their whispered consultations.

It occurred to her how very similar her current situation was to when she was whisked away from the Hidlands by Éomer and Éothafa – yet her burgeoning smile swiftly vanished, replaced by a spasm of grief as Éothafa’s visage swam before her eyes, pale from the shroud of death, followed by that of Théoden and so, so many others – too many.

Truva’s breathing grew laboured as the images overtook her sight, consuming her every thought. When she next became aware of her surroundings, Pallando squatted before her, gently calling her name. Kîzge was nowhere to be seen.

‘What business brought the King?’ Truva asked in an attempt to dispel the worry that was so plainly written upon the Wizard’s features.

‘Scouts have returned with rousing news: a sighting of Alatar’s army,’ he said, feigning ease as he sat back and pulled his pipe from within his robes, then set about packing and lighting it. ‘Our headlong dash has paid off, or so it would seem. I very much doubt we shall come upon Alatar before he gains the Anduin, yet your people of the West will not be long without succour.’

‘That is well news, indeed!’ Truva exclaimed.

‘Is it?’ asked the Wizard, the pipeweed embers glowing red-hot as he inhaled deeply. ‘What must be done must be done, but I do not revel in violence, and regret most vehemently that it is perhaps only through violence a solution to this conflict might be found. I would far rather we had no need of such news at all.’

Pallando’s blue eyes glazed over then, the mouthpiece of his pipe hovering untouched between his lips. After a time, he sighed deeply. ‘I cannot help but wonder whether I have failed, after all; that in attempting to stifle Sauron’s ruinous ambitions, I have not engendered more violence in this world.’

‘What would you have done instead?’ asked Truva. ‘Allowed Sauron to run amok so that Alatar would cower in his shadow, thus choosing the greater evil to constrain the lesser? You wield no power over either, and bear no responsibility for their actions, only those you take – or fail to take – in response. Had you done nothing to thwart Sauron’s influence, I fear we would be facing an evil far more terrible than Alatar’s invasion of Stoningland.’

Truva cut away a portion of the marmot before passing the remainder to the neighbouring trio of Xiwertaï Orcs, who promptly suspended it above their own fire to char. ‘But face Alatar we must,’ she continued softly, ‘for that is what lies within our power, whether we prevail or no. As it is with magic, is it not so with deeds? Most significant is our intentions – which now, as ever, must be the sowing of peace and the taming of those who would uproot it.’

Pallando peered at Truva then, the haze clearing from his eyes and a smile creeping across his lips. ‘You are your mother’s daughter, after all,’ he remarked.

Then, with a decided harrumph but not a word further, he devoted all his attentions to his smouldering pipe.

The West Rhûn army did not resume their accustomed pace the following day – for while they continued to pursue Alatar’s forces, Kîzge King had no intention of engaging in battle upon the steppe, exposed and exhausted as her soldiers were. Their progress was slowed even further when the ground beneath their feet began to soften, thick clumps of sedge and thistle sprouting up in their path. To the southwest, one shoulder of the Ered Lithui met with the peaks of Emyn Muil, and though Truva could not yet smell the foul stench, she knew they must be nearing Nindalf and the Dead Marshes.

From daybreak until nightfall the host pressed on, resting even more infrequently than before. Scouts set out and returned swiftly with unchanging reports, as the enemy’s location was now well-established and close at hand, their movements predictable. No fires were allowed that night, for fear of revealing their own presence; though Pallando assured Truva that Alatar – knowing only of Orcs’ selfish nature – would surely presume West Rhûn to have no interest in defending Gondor, and therefore was unlikely to expect them on his tail at all.

In the very earliest hours of their march the following morning, the Harad Road could be spied where it struck out eastward and followed the foothills of Ered Lithui – the path along which many Easterlings and Orcs had fled following their downfall at the Black Gates. Now, as that very same Road bore this strange new host towards Gondor, Truva could not subdue the rising swell of torment that tightened vise-like about her heart, could not swallow the sting of bile at the back of her throat, could not take her eyes from mountainsides cloaked in the shadows of dawn.

Stride by agonising stride, the battlefield was revealed to her, still littered with the refuse of War: weather-worn pennants fluttering feebly upon broken standards, a pattern of crosses dotting the foothills where she and Chaya and all the others had cleared the nest of Orc-holds, row upon row of burial mounds marking where friend and foe alike lay in their final repose.

But these vestiges of destruction were not what drew Truva’s steps, not what caused her knees to tremble and buckle beneath her, what divorced her mind from her body. Listlessly, Truva stared at the palm of her hand – scraped upon the shale rock when she caught herself – and wiped it on the skirt of her tunic. Scarlet blood turned black as it soaked into the dark fabric.

The West Rhûn Orcs paid Truva little mind as she diverted from their ranks and staggered across the barren plain, weaving amongst shattered bows and abandoned carts, wheels sundered in the heat of battle now long cooled. She stumbled upon a helmet; the sharp pain shooting from toe to thigh did not reach her consciousness, for Truva saw but one thing:

The grave of Bron.

There, upon a slight rise, rested the boulder engraved in her mind by grief. There, of all places in that desolate land, a sward of grass had sprouted, green and lush like that of the Mark’s rolling hills.

Tears coursed down Truva’s face unchecked, silent cries of anguish wracking her body as she fell upon the stone, weak and weary. She knew not how long she lay there; all thought of time passed from the world as grief consumed her.

Yet then she felt a gentle touch upon her shoulder. When she turned, the Wizard’s furrowed brow hovered within her hazy vision.

Pallando did not say a word; he merely took Truva’s hands in his own and lowered them to the grass. Fresh blades tickled her palms as he guided them from side to side. A quiet hum drifted from the Wizard’s lips then, interspersed with words indiscernible to Truva. All at once, his movements stilled. The heat drained from Truva’s fingers, replaced by the tell-tale tingling.

Pallando slowly withdrew his hands. When Truva’s followed, her rough fingers revealed a single blossom of simbelmynë, unfurling its pristine petals.

Truva gave a quiet gasp of surprise, causing one final teardrop to roll down her cheek. It fell upon the flower, trailing down its stem to dampen its roots; thus were the fields of all memories watered.

But memories were memories – mere wisps of things gone and past, superseded by pressing matters of the present. Pallando rose and offered Truva his hand, which she accepted gratefully before they hastened their steps to rejoin the host. The soldiers had not gone far, however; scarcely had the last stragglers bent southwards along Harad Road than Wizard and Marshal fell into step beside them.

Even in that very moment, shouts came from up ahead. Alatar’s forces had been spied – not by scouts, but by the main column’s foremost ranks. Surely that meant the Orcs, too, had been discovered!

Thus the final pursuit commenced.

Alatar’s pace redoubled. It seemed he wished to gain the defences of Cair Andros before confronting West Rhûn; for their odds of victory were substantially higher upon the garrison’s surrounding fields than within North Ithilien, where their superior numbers would be negated by the heavily-wooded terrain. Kîzge King, on the contrary, continued to hold her forces back, acutely aware it would be unwise to leap into conflict without the succour of Gondor.

Beneath the grey cast of afternoon, both Rhûnic hosts passed from the wastelands of Dagorlad into the northernmost reaches of Ithilien. Despite the cheerless circumstances, Truva’s sunken spirits lifted to find herself surrounded by greener nature once again. She yearned for the weeks the Armies of the West spent in the Field of Cormallen after the War, when the world had felt safe, and Aragorn’s presence lent her comfort, and there was joy in being alive.

But Aragorn was far, far away, far off in the south, facing his own unpropitious situation. Truva fought to turn her thoughts back to the laborious march ahead; she could not bear to think of what fate he might be forced to endure. Desperate for reassurance, her hands sought out the Star tucked away beneath her tunic.

It was deep into the night before the Host of West Rhûn pitched a light camp, cold Orcish cram their only meal. Before Truva could even contemplate choking down the awful waybread, Pallando appeared in the dark, beckoning for her to follow. At the very outskirts of camp, shielded by a makeshift lean-to, Kîzge King and her advisors sat about a small fire, consulting.

‘The scouts have just returned,’ Pallando whispered as he and Truva drew near and joined the others in the weak ring of light. ‘They have seen what they can from a distance, but you know best of all the isle’s layout.’

Truva understood his meaning at once. She swiftly smoothed a patch of earth and drew a map of Cair Andros – Elminas and all – in the sandy soil. One scout immediately bent to sketch a trio of large ovals, indicating where Alatar’s forces had settled upon the eastern riverbank, then jabbed his finger several times at the fortress.

‘Do you know the extent of Gondor’s forces on the isle?’ Pallando asked Truva.

Her mouth opened slightly to answer, to provide every last crucial detail to commanders she had spent but a scant few days with, who led a force that could – for all she knew – be working in tandem with that of Alatar.

And yet, West Rhûn could also be Gondor’s only hope of aid at a time when it was needed most.

‘I can only estimate,’ she replied at last, feeling all eyes upon her. ‘There was a full company of at least five hundreds at the time of my last passing, but that was several moons ago. It could be they continue to maintain the same manpower, or perhaps they pulled some of their number back to reinforce Osgiliath upon hearing of troubles in the south.’

As the others continued their debate, Pallando whispered translations aside: ‘That uncertainty in the strength of their opposition seems to be all that prevents Alatar’s movements. The isle has clearly come under attack even before our arrival; burning wreckages lie in its harbour, and its slopes are pockmarked and fire-blackened. But all is quiet now; our scouts can make neither heads nor tails of what occurred.’

Truva’s head reeled; the air felt suddenly thin. ‘So Gondor has fallen,’ she choked out.

‘Not entirely, I do not think,’ said Pallando. ‘Had the Sutherlands taken Cair Andros, they would have certainly welcomed Alatar and his ranks into its defences. Alatar would not risk spending an additional night out in the open unless necessary; something stays his actions. I cannot guess how it is elsewhere, but it seems Elminas, at least, stands yet.’

‘Then what is your plan?’ Truva whispered, breathless; she still found it difficult to speak in her shock.

‘Kîzge King and Ghazubor Pè debate now whether to attack the Easterlings here, or turn south and hope Minas Tirith has not come under Southron control. Scouts reported only a few vessels sundered in the harbour of Cair Andros; I would hazard the conflict still rages elsewhere, drawing the majority of both armies’ strength away from Elminas. Our best hope of mounting an effective defence against these attacks is uniting with the main forces of Gondor in her most well-protected stronghold – thus making for Minas Tirith.’

‘Relinquishing Cair Andros to East Rhûn in the process.’

Pallando shrugged, not unsympathetically. ‘If there are insufficient numbers between our ranks and those in Elminas to stave off Alatar’s assault, it might be so, regardless.’

‘If we do not defend the north, what is left of the south is sure to fall, as well!’ Truva hissed emphatically, surprised at her own forthrightness. ‘If Alatar becomes entrenched at Cair Andros, he will be able to send wave upon wave of his own forces into Stoningland, wherever the Southrons require his support the most. Meanwhile, we will abandon any such advantage for ourselves, and instead walk blind into whatever conflict the Corsairs have created.’

Pallando pursed his lips a moment before conveying her words to the others, whose typically gruff manner of speaking turned downright frightening as they argued bitterly for several minutes.

When the Wizard finally turned back to Truva, his expression was impassive. ‘It seems the Pè agrees with you, and he – above even the King – has final say in all matters militaristic. We shall march at first light, with intent to attack just as Alatar himself falls upon Cair Andros. I hope it is as you say, and a vast host shall greet us on the morrow.’

And so the company retired for the night – or what little remained of it, for the call to arms came in the full darkness before dawn, far sooner than any would have liked. Though the Uzdígh Orcs were accustomed to minor clashes with their neighbour, sitting upon the brink of fully-fledged war was something far greater; it engendered a sharp tension in the air. Snaps and snarls were more frequent than on previous mornings, and even the most lax amongst them checked his gear thrice.

The host set out in eerie silence. They turned immediately from the Road to trudge through the woodland of North Ithilien, abandoning all pretence of well-organised rank as they sifted through a maze of holm-oak and ash-tree boles. Little by little, the sun broke the horizon and the world grew light about them; mistle thrushes sent forth their morning song, all the more cheerful for the gloom of the army below.

Truva felt, above all else, an incomparable exhaustion of both body and mind. The monotonous march of her feet allowed her mind to wander; her thoughts naturally turned to the encroaching battle, and to the unyielding bonds of duty that circumstance had placed upon her, leaving a chasm in her breast that only grew deeper and wider as she endured horror after horror. Each battle blurred together, death became indistinguishable from life, suffering persisted even in times of peace – and yet it was this indifference Truva feared the most; that the gravity of her actions would become lost to her, washed away on the endless, featureless expanse of an uncaring sea.

But in looking about at the grim, determined faces surrounding her, Truva knew she was mistaken. Apathy had no place in her heart, for it was overrun with horses, bucking and stamping. She had not been called upon to defend Gondor alone, or even the Mark by extension – but the very stability of all the lands of Middle-earth, which struggled to find balance in the War’s wake.

Then, as the host of West Rhûn marched through the early hours of day, their ears pricked up to hear birdsong slowly joined by the sounding of horns and the unmistakable clash of battle. So Gondor did indeed defend the garrison of Elminas still; Cair Andros had not yet fallen!

All at once, Kîzge King’s forces broke from the forest cover. They ascended a slight rise, where the stark morning light streamed down upon the vast lands spread before them. Not far in the distance, the realm of Anórien was visible through a slight haze, Langflood tracing along its eastern border. Just where Cair Andros disturbed the river’s flow lay the shadow of Alatar’s army; already they had begun to assail the main gates of Elminas and manoeuvre makeshift bridges into place along the riverbank. In the rear ranks, several Easterling units plied themselves to the digging of fortifications. They anticipated Kîzge’s assault.

The host of West Rhûn breathed in as one beast, pausing momentarily upon the hillcrest.

‘Sound your horn,’ said Pallando to Truva, ‘so that your brethren may know it is we who have come, and that help is close at hand.’

Even as Truva did so, Kîzge King removed her breastplate and unsheathed her dagger, drawing the blade diagonally across the flesh of her chest. Crimson blood swelled up, black against her dark skin, yet she made not a sound. Each Orc followed in kind, some slashing their breast as well, others arms or thighs or calves. Many bore marks indicating it was a custom not unfamiliar to them.

‘The enemy will never be the first to draw our blood,’ Pallando explained as Truva stared. ‘It makes one rather… wild. But it is a tradition of the Rhûnic Orcs; you needn’t join if it makes you uneas—’

He stopped mid-sentence, for already Truva had unbuckled one Easterling vambrace and pulled the blade of Fréodhel across the back of her forearm. The cut was not deep, and she felt little pain – yet suddenly the horses stampeding through her heart slowed, their powerful limbs prancing in anticipation rather than fear. Truva was overcome almost with giddiness to behold the scarlet splotch seeping through the sleeve of her tunic as she rebuckled the vambrace and inhaled deeply. Electricity thrummed throughout her body; all enervation dissipated into the morning air – windless and still.

Truva shared a swift glance with Kîzge King, and knew the snarl upon her face must match that of the Orc, and of the Pè beyond. At a short word from their King, a small contingent of crossbowmen and archers took up position on the hill. But even as a quarrel broke out between three members, the remainder of the host set out down the hillslope, their pace a mere lope at first but increasing with every step.

For a brief moment, Truva surged ahead of the others. Some spirit compelled her, some impulse beyond her reckoning, to raise the horn of the House of Éofor to her lips once more and sound it. Again and again its melodic tones rang out, joined by the Orcs’ brash trumpeting. Truva longed for nothing more than the thunder of hooves beneath her, the shouts of her brethren upon the wind; but she had no mount, and her companions could scarcely be considered brethren – and so she allowed her feet to carry her at their will, streaking across the land, her own wordless cries springing unbidden from her throat.

As the West Rhûn Orcs came upon the lowlands, their pace easily outstripping Truva’s, they drove towards Alatar’s southern formations, where the river was widest and retreat would guide them away from Osgiliath. Kîzge and her warriors moved as a single body, too small in number and too slow-moving on foot to pose a threat any other way. But this eased the Easterlings’ defence; they pulled in tighter against the advancing wave, forming a veritable wall of hulking shields and soldiers.

Yet this did not intimidate the Orcs; they were driven by bloodlust and the promise of its sating. In one fell motion, they lowered planks across the Easterlings’ incomplete ditch and leapt headlong into these anticipant foes with a ferocity Truva had never witnessed in the Orcs of Mordor, or even Saurman’s Uruk-hai. Animosity engendered by centuries of conflict seethed between the two factions as battle commenced in earnest, and organised chaos reigned.

The Easterling cavalry was swift to ride out in confrontation of this new threat, and soon spied their first target: Agbesh Òrlok’s company, which sought to circumvent the southernmost end of their makeshift defences. But having sallied forth to assail West Rhûn’s flank, these Easterling riders now approached from the rear. Agbesh and his warriors were oblivious to the threat.

‘Riders!’ Truva cried from her position further back, though she knew they would not understand her words. Yet the Òrlok turned at the mere sound of her call and spied the mounted enemy just in time. He rallied his warriors in an instant, their spears prickling.

‘Drive them to the river! To the river!’ Truva shouted again, pointing towards the Langflood. Even as she did so, Kîzge King also spied the danger and made the exact same gesture, sending a division of her own Orcs with long halberds advancing southward in aid of the Òrlok.

But Truva did not see what became of the situation, for she had finally succeeded in passing over one of the precarious boards spanning the ditch – only to immediately find herself face to face with an Easterling captain. As the snarling man dashed forward, Truva sent the curved shield of a fallen soldier up into one hand with a stomp of her foot and thrust its edge towards her opponent’s neckline. His gorget absorbed the blow, but it still left him gasping for a split second – just long enough for Truva to send him tumbling heels over head into the ditch with a sweeping kick to his back. The spare shield she sent spinning towards a mounted Easterling, knocking him off his horse and providing easy fodder for the nearest Orc.

In that very moment, a sharp crack emanated from the fortress of Elminas, giving each fighter upon the battlefield pause. The gates opened ever so slightly; a company of Gondorians perhaps two hundreds strong – some mounted, but many not – slipped through, driving the Easterling besiegers back or into the waters of Langflood as they charged across the bridge.

Even over the din of battle, Kîzge’s growl of frustration could be heard. Truva was wracked with guilt; to have suggested the already meagre support of five hundred warriors, only to be granted no more than two! Yet if this was all Gondor could offer, surely their forces were even more hard-pressed on other fronts, and the need to maintain control of Cair Andros all the stronger.

The roiling mêlée resumed at once, all the fiercer along the riverbank as the new Gondorian forces sought to lay waste to the Easterlings’ improvised bridges. Breathless and disoriented, Truva fell back in an attempt to regain her strength. But even as she strove to assess the battle, the mass of fighters proved impenetrable; the river basin was almost entirely level, making it near impossible to see clearly or to any great distance.

But then she spied a most puzzling sight: slipping through the chaos and delivering tremendous kicks whenever necessary (and sometimes even when not), galloped Roheryn. Truva stared at the shaggy grey beast in disbelief as he approached; not until his whiskery nose nuzzled her face did she comprehend what her eyes saw to be real.

‘I instructed Blackbramble to keep an eye on you!’ she lectured. ‘Then how is it that you have come to be here?’ Despite her chiding words, however, Truva felt only gratitude as she ran her hands along Roheryn’s withers and flank, confirming his condition. His tack was all perfectly in order.

Sudden ease overtook Truva when she leapt into the saddle. The battle was then spread out before her, eddies and whirls of conflict all the more apparent from her higher vantage point. West Rhûn footsoldiers advanced in tight formation towards Langflood as their Gondorian counterparts cut in the opposite direction, driving the ranks of enemy fighters northward – yet they could not clear so far as the main bridge, where the Easterlings had gained full control and assailed the gate of Elminas nearly unchallenged. Siege engines aided in this endeavour, for though Kîzge King had single-handedly brought about the destruction of several, each was replaced by another two.

The Easterling riders – having evaded Agbesh Òrlok’s assault – were now engaged by the Gondorians, whose own cavalry darted about the riverbank like starlings. But it was one rider in particular that caught Truva’s eye as he made directly for her, blue tunic fluttering beneath golden lamellar armour, sturgeon upon his helm.

‘Traitor!’ cried Söldan, the Easterling Noyon, when he drew within range. ‘You dare ride into battle bearing our coat of arms?’

Truva made no response; the battle was too clamorous, each breath too precious. She adjusted her spear as the Noyon continued to bear down upon her, his own lance at the ready.

At a nudge from Truva, Roheryn darted forward as well. The two riders barreled towards each other without any hint of yielding or slowing. In a rote pattern of movements, Truva prepared herself in the way Éomer had taught her all those years ago: spear tip ever so slightly too low, eyes locked on her target. Yet even as she braced for impact, she found herself on the ground, unhorsed and chest searing – though whether it was because the Noyon had struck her, or the force of her own strike had sent her sprawling, she could not say.

But it was the horses that proved most dangerous in that moment. Truva rolled this way and that to avoid their trampling hooves, catching sight of the Noyon as she did so; he, too, was spitting silty floodplain earth. Throwing herself forward, she swung Fréodhel in a desperate strike, but the Noyon was faster. He was standing before her sword even came near, driving a dagger down towards her head. It was a near miss; Truva pulled herself in close and launched herself upwards – right into his chest, sending him stumbling backwards.

After a brief scramble, they were both on their feet, neither having gained control.

The Noyon’s blade flicked in irritation.

Truva did not allow his movements to distract her. She breathed in deeply, loosening each tense muscle, feet shifting ever so slightly, blade passive. Yet the Noyon was as cautious as she, and equally disinclined to open himself to counterattack. Swords extended, each edge tested the other – barely touching, searching for an advantage that was not to be found. The commanders’ styles were frustratingly similar.

Truva struck first, feigning before swiftly darting forward with a thrust to the Noyon’s loosely-held hilt. But he parried and circled away even as Truva attempted a second attack. Rebuffed, she withdrew, which only encouraged the Noyon to press his fortunes and deny her space. He drove her further back with a series of strikes, their blades weaving flashing patterns in the sunlight.

Then, just when Truva became ever so slightly overextended in a counter, the Noyon stepped askance and slashed her upper leg, where the armour did not perfectly protect her thigh. His blade left a score of blood behind.

Though his face was obscured by his helm, Truva could feel a sneer creep across the Noyon’s lips. He, of all people, would of course know best the shortcomings of Easterling armour. But Truva simply turned to him with a perverse grin of her own; it was she who had drawn first blood, not he!

Suddenly overcome by inexplicable fervour, Truva redoubled her attack. The duel, already tense, became a swirl of frenzied action.

Following a lucky glance of Fréodhel, Truva closed in and clamped down on the Noyon’s blade arm. She sent him sprawling with a sweep of her leg – but in the very same instant she dove for the final attack, he caught her with a kick to the chin. Red spots floated before Truva’s eyes; she could not see as the Noyon snatched a handful of river sand and cast it into her face, further obscuring her vision.

Half-blinded, Truva was forced to rely upon sound and feel alone, even as the clangour of battle distorted her senses. She defended against one attack from the Noyon, and then a second – but only just. She failed to establish any kind of contact that would allow her to read the Noyon’s movements through the pressure of his blade; he was far too smart to grant her that advantage. He lingered at a distance, measuring her movements and calculating his opportunities.

A wave of terror flooded through Truva, born of an intense awareness that the Noyon’s skills far outpaced hers. She was wholly at his mercy. Then a sudden thought struck her – a recollection of Pallando’s teachings, of her attempts to control the Elven bow. Rather than attempting to stifle her fear, she gave it entrance into her mind, allowed it to call upon the memories of those she had lost, and the dread that – by her failures – more would follow.

She drew all her strength into her aching jaw as Pallando had guided her to do.

No peculiar sensation, no tingle – nothing did she perceive, save the lurking form of her opponent – and the forewarning of a split instant.

As the Noyon brought his blade down from overhead, Truva sidestepped and deflected the strike, driving the tip of her own sword deep into the eyes of his helm.

Even in her blindness, she saw the Noyon collapse to his knees, then fall fully prone. She bent to his side and confirmed his pulse beat no more, then reached out for Roheryn’s reassuring bulk, feeding off his movements to sense whether any new threat drew near. When she rubbed her eyes, the gritty sand merely dug in deeper.

Just then, terrific shouts across the battlefield grew all the more fervent. Truva wondered whether her hearing had not also been damaged; was she perhaps mistaken in thinking the sounds of combat ebbed? She mounted Roheryn by feel and blinked against the curtain of grime that swum before her vision. Where was the rapid movement of riders? The golden glint of Easterling armour swirling in contrast with the black plates of West Rhûn?

She heard Pallando’s voice rise above all others. He spoke in a dialect of Easterling, addressing Alatar’s forces, then repeated his proclamation in the King’s Orcish. The chaos that reigned then was of an entirely different mood than that which had dominated mere moments before; single-minded aggression was replaced by utter confusion.

‘Alatar has fled, the Noyon is slain,’ cried the Wizard, calling forth at last in Westron. ‘Set aside your weapons, let no more blood be shed!’

Chapter Text

Truva gave rein to Roheryn as he picked his way through the masses. Though the sand in her eyes meant she could not fully see, she could most certainly hear the Easterlings’ grumbled complaints as they were sat upon the ground and their hands bound, or led off to the confines of Elminas. The wounded were treated where they lay or transported to a hastily improvised infirmary for Gondorian, Orc, and Easterling alike.

Unable to be of much use in her half-blind state, Truva bypassed this commotion and made straight for Langflood. No sooner had she dismounted at the river’s edge than a heavy thump upon her shoulder nearly sent her sprawling, the unmistakable voice of Kîzge King growling out an expression of approval – or, at least, what sounded like approval to Truva’s ears. Before she could respond, the King’s bulky figure strode off in the direction of the infirmary.

‘She says she would have slit your throat for misleading us about Gondor’s numbers, had you not put on such a fine display against the Noyon,’ Pallando explained, his sudden appearance equally as startling as Kîzge’s. ‘Though I believe she is rather put out at having been deprived of the opportunity to kill the Noyon herself; their rivalry extends decades into the past.’

‘I would not have resented her for confronting him in my stead,’ Truva mumbled.

‘Yes, well, all things considered, the ability to feel resentment indicates one is alive,’ Pallando quipped, then disappeared after the King.

Truva crouched at the riverbank, sand shifting beneath her feet. When she plunged her hands into the cool waters of Langflood, the current swept between her fingers, soothing the tensions of battle and bearing them off southward. Steeling herself against the chill, Truva held each eye open in turn and splashed wave after wave into her face. A great deal of water dripped into her armour and drenched the neck of her tunic – but only a moderate amount of sand was rinsed from her eyes, and so Truva resigned herself to her fate.

When she rose, a cloth was pressed gently into her hand. Truva fumbled with it blindly for a moment before blotting her face dry. Squinting through the remaining grit, she spied a sight that erased all thought of suffering from her mind:

‘Aragorn!’ she gasped, breath sent skyward.

There he stood: far more the Ranger she had first met than the King she had come to know, for he wore the armour of a common soldier, and his appearance was dishevelled – and yet she loved him all the more for it. But in that very same breath, she held herself back, debating whether to maintain the dignified composure expected of a Marshal or to simply leap upon him in joy. But she was spared from this indecision when Aragorn swept her into his arms.

Allowing her impulses to take over at last, Truva returned the embrace; but even so, she could not shake her sense of propriety. ‘There are many watchful eyes,’ she warned breathlessly, though the very words pained her.

‘And they shall see nothing more than two brethren of the blade, reunited after a long and ill-fated separation,’ Aragorn murmured. Even so, his hold lingered far longer than Truva suspected it would have, were she any other.

‘And Éomer King?’

Aragorn withdrew at last. ‘He and the other Riders defend against the Southrons in Osgiliath; I imagine you will soon have an opportunity to greet him, as well – perhaps with equal enthusiasm, as a Marshal does her King.’

Then, spying the trickle of blood down Truva’s thigh, he exclaimed, ‘You are hurt!’

‘So it is true the Southrons attack so far north as Osgiliath?’ Truva asked – in part out of genuine concern, in part to deflect Aragorn’s attentions; for she did not wish to worry him, and the way in which he looked upon her in that moment caused her heart to ache.

‘And your eyes,’ Aragorn continued, brushing a delicate caress along her cheek, ignoring her attempt at diversion. ‘And here!’ He pointed to bloody fingerprints on her left vambrace.

‘Superficial wounds,’ Truva said with a wave of her hand. ‘I must know what became of you – I heard such terrible things!’

‘I think it is you who owes a far more pressing explanation,’ Aragorn insisted, his kingly air rising once more to the forefront. ‘Come, a council awaits – all your questions will be answered there.’

Taking Roheryn’s reins in hand, he guided Truva southward along the embankment. A pavilion had been erected near where the stream of Hennethír joined Langflood, its flaps and pennants fluttering in a breeze that had sprung up; despite the auspicious nature of West Rhûn’s arrival, the Gondorians were still hesitant to admit Orcs of any origin into their most vulnerable defences. Beneath the shady canopy sat Lord Faramir and the Wizard Pallando.

‘Well it is to see you again, milord,’ Truva said upon spying the Prince of Ithilien; a bow quickly followed. ‘How fare Lady Éowyn and the child?’

‘A fair deal better than we, I reckon,’ replied Lord Faramir with a kindly smile.

‘Do not terrify the Marshal with such poor reassurances!’ Aragorn interjected, only half in jest. ‘Our own circumstances are hardly an encouraging comparison.’

‘Even so, any reassurance is good reassurance,’ said Truva, careful to take a seat only once Aragorn had done so. ‘I see you have met Pallando, the Wizard of West Rhûn, and one of the Ithryn Luin.’

Then, at the approach of West Rhûn’s premier leader, she leapt to her feet once again. ‘And Kîzge, their King.’

The atmosphere amongst those gathered in the pavilion grew strained, even though the massive Orc was yet distant. Muscles tensed and hands shifted towards sword hilts or knives. But Truva’s attention was drawn to the Òrlok Agbesh, who strode dutifully behind his King.

‘What of Ghazubor Pè?’ she whispered to Pallando, who shook his head ruefully in response. Truva’s heart constricted; the Orcs’ losses had not been many, yet they had been great.

Each and every commander held their breath as Kîzge threw aside the fluttering pavilion curtains and stood looming in the suddenly cramped space. Even Truva, whose fear of the Uzdígh residents had abated somewhat in the past several days, fixed her eyes on her own clenched hands, unsure of what mood would strike their unpredictable Orcish King. But then, without a moment’s hesitation, Kîzge fell to her knees before Aragorn, bowing in the manner of her people.

Still, apprehension amongst the leaders was not assuaged.

‘I suggest you respond in kind, milord, should you wish relations between our lands to begin on friendly terms,’ said Pallando – yet the words had scarcely left his mouth before Aragorn, too, had bent in a mirror of Kîzge’s gesture.

‘I welcome you most sincerely to Gondor, King Kîzge,’ he said when he arose. ‘It was with relief immeasurable that we witnessed your arrival in our time of great need – and accompanied by an ally’s commander, no less.’

Pallando’s murmured translations faded into the background as Kîzge replied, ‘Your men fight fiercely; it was a pleasant surprise. Yet I fear our trials are far from over.’

‘Indeed, the city of Osgiliath has already fallen into the Southrons’ hands,’ Faramir interjected. ‘The Swan Fleet and Rohirrim assail that garrison at this very moment, but the enemy is firmly entrenched.’

‘What of Alatar?’ asked Truva.

‘He fled southwards even as I advanced,’ Pallando explained. ‘He rode with nearly a thousand warriors, all mounted. I imagine he hoped to gain the safety of Osgiliath before we could detain him.’

‘Yet another hurdle we must surpass when we go to recapture that city,’ said Faramir with a shake of his head.

A heavy silence filled the pavilion then, for none held any illusion that their victory, hard-earned though it was, would not also be short-lived.

‘We must march at dawn,’ said Aragorn at last. ‘Our warriors are deserving of a much longer rest – it is a day and a half’s hard march to Osgiliath, and into a situation uncertain – but we cannot afford to wait any longer. Our journey would be greatly expedited if our ships were more in number, but alas, we are not so fortunate.’

He glanced around the tent – to Kîzge King, who nodded her approval, as well as Lord Faramir and the newly-promoted Agbesh Pè. Pallando said nothing, but there was no criticism to be had; their paths forward were not many.

‘Very well, let it be so,’ Aragorn continued as several soldiers carried in platters of what little food and drink remained in Elminas. ‘But I believe an explanation is owed – for surely you can understand why I might have believed my lands to have come under attack from two Easterling forces this morn.’

‘We deeply regret having caused you concern,’ said Pallando, speaking for himself at last. ‘Were it possible to ally our forces in any other way, we would have done so. Alas, that our histories – both contentious and uncommunicative – came between us.’

Pallando proceeded to recount the tale he had so recently conveyed to Truva. His Gondorian audience sat transfixed as the sun passed from the east bank of Langflood to the west, shadows pointing ever further towards Rhûn. When at last the Wizard concluded his account, with the occasional explanation from Truva, Aragorn sat quietly a moment, his brows knit together in stern concentration.

‘It is plausible your reckoning is consistent with my own,’ he said at last. ‘For it is true you wear livery dissimilar to any worn by Sauron’s forces during the War, and all that I witnessed in the Sutherlands is easily explained by what you claim. It seems to me the delay Alatar encountered was a result of the Umbarian Captain’s abrupt decision to seek a peaceful conclusion – before ultimately resuming the original plan.’

‘What precisely transgressed in the Sutherlands?’ Truva inquired, no longer able to contain her curiosity.

Aragorn turned his gaze to the ground and inhaled deeply, passing a moment in silence before he began. ‘Perhaps it was a lapse in judgement, or perhaps an opportunity missed – yet for whom it shall prove more fateful, I cannot yet say.’

Both Truva and Pallando leaned in eagerly as Aragorn narrated his own experiences, and those of Éomer King and their company – from Umbar’s surprisingly gracious welcome, to the trek upon kamelback across the desert of Laurinairë, to the city of Herumoros and the double betrayal: the Sutherlands of Gondor, and Undómírë of her father Castamir.

A multitude of emotions roiled in Truva’s breast throughout the telling – fury, most of all, that such forces had conspired to prolong the reign of violence in Middle-earth, so hard upon Sauron’s defeat; yet guilt also, that she had not been able to defend both Aragorn and Éomer when they had endured terrible dangers. Indeed, the very thought that Éomer King still found himself at arms caused her immense distress, and sent her thoughts spiralling and her limbs fidgeting. How could she sit, still and inactive, when her presence was needed elsewhere?

Her restlessness did not go unnoticed by Aragorn. Mumbled words were exchanged – or perhaps they were ordinary words; Truva did not hear them in full, her mind occupied as it was – and suddenly she was being encouraged to stand and dismiss herself from the assembly. Their discussions were concluded, someone vaguely noted. Truva was merely grateful for the excuse to be out in the open air again.

The ruddy hues of late evening were cast upon any corner of the earth not covered in shadow. Several Easterling prisoners, knowledgeable in the healing arts, had been granted permission to care for their brethren under the watchful eye of their captors. Others helped distribute food and drink, while a third contingent aided in the digging of burial mounds. To this latter group Truva gravitated, accepting a shovel from one Gondorian soldier and plying it to the earth.

She was just placing the final riverstones atop the grave of a young Gondorian longswordsman, and struggling to compose words sufficient and worthwhile to mark his passing, when a sight some distance further inland drew her breath up short: that of a warrior clad in blue and gold. Not wishing to detract from the Easterlings’ mourning, Truva observed as the Agdî guard, Óddîr, and a cluster of East Rhûn soldiers climbed out of a hole nearly as deep as they were tall. The Noyon’s body lay supine upon the ground beside them. Their movements were reverent as they proceeded to strip him of his armour and garments – even his shoes – leaving only his helm. This completed, they lowered their commander gently into the grave, head to the north.

Sharp regret filled Truva as the Noyon’s body disappeared into the earth. During the War of the Ring, her enemies had been apparent, unquestionable – servants of evil bent single-mindedly upon the destruction of the Free People of the West. She had faced them with certainty, content in the knowledge that what she defended far outweighed the loss she effected with her blade.

Yet here was not the faceless mask of evil. Truva and the Noyon had broken bread together; she had been his guest, had learned from him of the Easterling culture. Despite their tumultuous introduction, Truva was inclined to say she had even enjoyed his company, for a time. Had the Noyon not been subject to Alatar’s venomous whisperings, perhaps they might have been allies.

Now he was dead at her hands.

But even as Truva was lured by such miserable thoughts, staring ahead with unseeing eyes, Óddîr leapt forward and snatched the Noyon’s blade from the unsuspecting Gondorian guard who bore it. Rather than attack, however, Óddîr darted to where the Noyon’s horse stood patiently beside its master’s grave and slashed the beast’s neck. Before a single Gondorian soldier could react, he shoved the horse into the grave and tossed the sword aside, kneeling with hands raised in surrender.

He fell beneath a pile of Gonorian warriors and was drawn roughly back to the other prisoners, bonds retied. His companions, left alone but under a far more watchful guard, lingered about the grave for a time, though they did not refill it. Eventually they wandered, one by one, back to where Óddîr sat.

‘In death, Man becomes life to others,’ said a voice at Truva’s shoulder. She spun around to find Pallando standing beside her, his eyes also upon the unusual scene that had just played out. ‘The Noyon’s horse will guide his spirit, yet their fleshly bodies will provide for the birds and the beasts.’

Truva repressed a shudder. ‘It seems terrible to think of claws and jaws tearing at one’s limbs,’ she said.

‘As terrible as the Orcish burial, which many in the West consider barbaric?’ asked the Wizard, gesturing towards a tremendous bonfire on the opposite side of the battlefield. A waft of evening wind carried across the distance the acrid stench of scorched flesh, which stirred memories long repressed in Truva’s mind.

‘We have always burned the corpses of our Orcish enemies – those of Saruman and Sauron alike,’ she said. ‘Do you mean to suggest that is the preferred tradition? I had always thought it rather irreverent.’

‘There is no suggestion about it – in all Orcish belief systems I am aware of, it is thought that burning the bodies of the dead sends their spirit skyward as they were in life: unbesmirched by death. There are very few enemies undeserving of an honourable burial, in their own manner.’

Truva pursed her lips in contemplation a moment, staring at the churning column of smoke. ‘And so Ghazubor ascends even now?’

‘If you subscribe to such beliefs,’ said Pallando with a shrug.

The Wizard diverted then to a new topic. ‘You have not eaten – though long has it been since last you tasted anything save Orcish victuals, or that which you foraged for yourself.’

‘I am not hungr—’

‘Marshal!’ The shout came half a moment before Truva was engulfed in a pair of hulking arms. Though she could see nothing but the breast of a grey linen tunic, she knew the voice at once.

‘Blackbramble!’ was her muffled reply.

‘See that she eats,’ Pallando commanded as he disappeared amidst the throngs.

‘Yes, milord Wizard!’ Blackbramble called after his retreating figure, finally releasing Truva from his stranglehold.

‘It is good to see you, my friend,’ she said.

‘And you!’ Blackbramble replied. ‘I must commend you on the timing and nature of your return. Yet there is another who longs to see you even more than I – for he foolishly did not trust in you or your single-minded doggedness.’

‘And whom might that be?’ asked Truva.

But the massive Hidlander merely grinned, dragging her by one arm towards the infirmary tent. Truva’s heart plummeted, fearing to see someone she loved in pain, or perhaps near death – yet it was an uninjured, youthful face that glanced up as they entered.

‘Fofrin?’ Truva whispered. The young sailor beamed back at her, needle and catgut held aloft as he sutured a Gondorian’s leg wound.

‘My lady!’ he cried. ‘You’re alive!’

‘The poor saphead despaired each and every night for a full two moons following your departure from Osgiliath, certain you would perish upon your mysterious journey,’ said Blackbramble with a sly smile.

‘Slander!’ Fofrin countered, indignant. ‘Never would I doubt the Marshal so! But it is a relief to see you alive, nevertheless. I have been tortured by rumours of your return all day, and now I can confirm the happy fact for myself.’

‘Your concern you ought to save for yourself, for I recall having left you in a rather poorer state,’ said Truva. ‘Yet I see you have done quite well for yourself!’ She gestured about at the infirmary tent, and the skill with which Fofrin plied his tools to his patient even as he spoke.

‘I am a merely adequate sailor, and an even worse soldier – yet I can stitch with the best of them!’ he exclaimed with evident pride.

‘Yes, well, apply yourself to healing,’ Blackbramble lectured. ‘I do not wish to hear any talk of your joining the march upon the morrow.’

‘What march?’

‘The one you will most certainly not be going on, as you are needed most here at Elminas, to care for these wounded soldiers,’ Truva replied, in an attempt to dissuade the eager young man.

‘Do not leave me behind, I beg of you!’ he implored. ‘I defended Osgiliath until we were overrun, didn’t I? I can fight!’

‘Aye, you’ve proven yourself in battle, lad,’ said Blackbramle. ‘But a soldier must also demonstrate that he can follow orders, and perform equally crucial yet less illustrious duties. And – if it be glory you seek – the defence of Cair Andros will fall to you, should we fail.’

But Fofrin was unappeased. Leaving the sulking sailor to his work, Truva and Blackbramble ducked back out into the bustle beyond the infirmary tent. A few soldiers still toiled to shift the Easterlings’ siege weapons into Elminas itself, now that the fortress’ gates were cleared, but most had abandoned any attempt to right the battlefield. They milled about on individual tasks, preparing for what little was left of their evening.

Truva heaved a sigh as she gazed out across the maze of campfires, struck against the settling gloom. ‘Thank you for caring for that scamp Fofrin – and for Roheyrn – in my absence,’ she said to her companion.

‘Think nothing of it.’ Blackbramble flashed a smile. ‘In truth, it lent me some sense of reassurance – strange though it seems, now that I put it to words – for I felt you would return all the sooner, the better I cared for them.’

‘Had it been so, my return would have come so hard upon my departure it would have been as though I never left!’

‘Perhaps,’ said Blackbramble, though sadness tinged the cheery gleam in his eyes. He quickly sought a new topic: ‘Now, let us see about the strange Wizard’s orders!’

There was little food to be had, and even less cheer; though Gondor and its unanticipated ally sat on the field of victory, news of what was to come on the morrow had spread. A new day was sure to bring new battles. And so, after they had scrounged up a bowl of pottage and some rye bread each, Truva and Blackbramble pulled their cloaks tight about them and propped themselves up against their packs, hoping for a few blinks of sleep before duty called.

The following morning, Truva was awoken by a gentle shake of her shoulders. She sat bolt upright, only to find Aragorn gazing at her, his grey eyes a reflection of the colourless dawn sky. They exchanged no words; Truva rose and turned to Blackbramble, rousing him from his rumbling snores. In silence, the three sought out Lord Faramir and the other commanders – a network of gentle awakenings, spread across the field until the entire army set about readying for the call to arms.

It came swiftly. Packs were heaved upon backs, weapons were strapped into place, armour was adjusted, and the entire gathering arranged itself company by company upon the banks of Langflood, Gondor ahead and West Rhûn in the rear. Following the sounding of Lord Faramir’s trumpet, the host marched southward, leaving only the most necessary guard to watch over the Easterling prisoners and Cair Andros itself.

Truva mounted Roheryn and rode beside Kîzge King, who – despite being offered her own mount – elected to march instead. Wrens and blackcap warblers greeted the army as it forded Hennethír, horses’ hooves and soldiers’ boots splashing in the stream’s frigid waters; a bridge that once spanned the waterway had not yet been rebuilt. Faint sunlight offered the possibility of drying their raiment, only to disappear behind thin clouds that skittered across the bleak sky. Around midday, a light rain began to fall, casting a dreary pallor across the land and dampening the soldiers’ spirits further. The roar of Langflood became less a soothing constant and more an inescapable reminder of what lay ahead.

As the long shadows of late afternoon transformed into an unbroken grey cast across the land, a scouting party returned. When they approached Aragorn’s position at the head of the Host, Truva’s heart plummeted to spy one unmistakable figure amongst their number: Fofrin! He had, of course, defied her orders and set out under the command of a less discerning officer. The young sailor caught her eye and flashed a smile, but was too distracted in his report to see the frown Truva returned.

It was far too late to send him back. Fofrin best of all was aware of that fact.

Dark descended; the wrens and warblers were replaced by song thrushes and nightjars who sent their calls skyward, ignorant of the warriors’ plight below. But still the Host trudged on deep into the evening, for there was a great distance yet to go before they would come to Osgiliath. When a halt was called at last, not even the Orcs saw fit to begrudge yet another dismal, fireless night – intimately aware of the precarious circumstances surrounding their march as they were.

Truva had just set Roheryn to drink at the riverside when she sensed a figure approaching from behind. She turned with half a heartbeat of hope, only for it to dissipate upon spying Pallando.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Pallando Wizard.’

‘You anticipated another?’ he asked, the hint of a roguish gleam in his eye just visible in the moonlight.

‘Any friendly face is one warmly welcomed in times of strife,’ Truva hedged.

Pallando did not appear fully convinced by her answer, yet he did not press further. ‘The most recent scouts have not yet returned, though there is certain to be news before morn. The commanders gather now to discuss all preparations that can be made in advance – and to await any information that may alter those plans.’

‘Lead on,’ said Truva, following after the Wizard.

Already Aragorn and Kîzge sat about a map of Osgiliath and its defences hastily sketched in the mud, the smallest of lanterns shaded so it cast light only upon the ground. Beside the Kings, Lord Faramir wielded a short stick as he muttered consultations with Blackbramble. The Pè and his remaining Òrlok, Grazud – for Agbesh’s own replacement was yet to be promoted – were likewise deep in discussion, pointing at the map in turns.

What followed was a swirl of proposals and counters, increasingly absurd schemes, frustrated sighs, and an ultimate resignation to postpone final tactical details until the scouts’ return. As several of the leaders rose to make rounds amongst their warriors, Truva settled against the bole of a cedar tree. It was nearly dawn before the rustling of scouts wakened her.

‘It is as you say,’ one whispered to Aragorn even as Truva and Kîzge King both rubbed sleep from their eyes. ‘Captain Maeron camps upon the east bank, and the Horse King upon the west; yet it seems that any vessel still upon the water is in the hands of the Southrons – save a small flotilla of the Swan Fleet berthed within Harlond.’

‘Did you speak with the captain yourself?’

‘No, my lord,’ replied the scout. ‘All this we observed from a promontory still some distance from the city; we feared we would not return before daylight if we proceeded any further.’

The group mused silently a moment before Kîzge King spoke.

‘The King wonders whether we cannot simply lay siege to the city,’ Pallando translated. ‘It seems your forces have already secured the gates. Surely the Southrons cannot sustain themselves infinitely within such a constrained environment.’

‘We control Cair Andros, but only just,’ Aragorn reasoned. ‘Even if we were to divide our ships and transport half over land – opening ourselves up to a concentrated attack in the process – I do not think we have sufficient numbers to patrol both the northern and southern stretches of Anduin, not enough to prevent the Southrons accessing the resources of Ithilien. Combined with all that the river itself provides, and the considerable stores amassed within the city itself, I fear hesitation on our part would only grant them time to entrench themselves even further.’

‘Poison the river?’ was Kîzge’s next proposal.

‘The Anduin in its entirety?’ asked Faramir sceptically. ‘If possible, it could be effective – perhaps overly much so; it would come at the cost of all our lands downstream.’

Kîzge huffed at this, as though she didn’t think it too terrible a loss (they were not her lands, after all), but sat back in resignation.

‘The Southrons anticipate the coming of reinforcements,’ Truva remarked. ‘Perhaps they can be convinced to surrender when it is we who emerge from the north, and not Alatar.’

Her words were met with disheartened silence; none dared to hope that so peaceful a resolution might yet be found – not after negotiations in the South had concluded so disastrously. Even if the Corsairs and Haradrim were willing to sit at the table of conciliation, how could they be trusted, having broken the accords set forth after the War?

Eyes flickered over the hastily sketched map, lips twisted into expressions of frustration, fingers fiddled with tunic hems or dagger hilts, but no further suggestion was made.

‘Let us delay the laying of plans once more,’ said Aragorn at last, ‘and come amongst our brethren at Osgiliath ere a decision is made – and thus make it all the more informed.’

There was a quiet muttering of approval and shifting of bodies. Rising, the captains went to rouse their troops just as the first heliotrope hints of dawn blossomed over the horizon. The previous afternoon’s rain resumed, but heavier than before, fully extinguishing any wisp of hope that may have sprouted in the soldiers’ breasts. They tramped through the soaking grasses of Ithilien, damp earth churning to mud beneath the ranks of booted feet. Farmland and fishing villages passed by on the far side of Langflood, yet all appeared abandoned; most residents had taken shelter within the sanctuary of Minas Tirith.

It was not long after noon when Truva spied Aragorn glancing back over the ranks to where she rode once more between the Gondorian soldiers and the forces of West Rhûn. At his beckon, she urged Roheryn forward and drew alongside him. Faramir soon joined them.

‘What is it, my lord Aragorn?’ Truva asked. But he did not speak, and merely gestured ahead.

The Host stood atop a gentle rise, the land before them falling gently away to the Langflood. From their vantage point, the entirety of Osgiliath and its surrounding lands were visible, though stormy weather obscured Minas Tirith and the Firienwít beyond. Osgiliath’s harbour chains had been raised at last, securing the Corsair vessels within the city’s belly and keeping the Swanfleet at bay. Before both eastern and western gates was camped a modest host, just beyond range of Southron siege engines.

‘Your horns,’ Aragorn said to his companions. ‘Sound them, so that our brethren will know it is friend, not foe, who approaches. Lend them heart, Truva, as you lent heart to us within Elminas. And you, my brother – let the Great Horn of Húrin resound within the borders of Gondor once more.’

‘May we strike fear into the spines of the Southrons,’ Lord Faramir added.

Truva raised the Horn of the House of Éofor to her lips and gave it breath. The surrounding air was muffled with damp, yet still her notes floated high upon the wind to mingle with those of Faramir, drifting far across Langflood to the Pelennor Fields and beyond.

Slowly, as one mass, the Gondorian and West Rhûn warriors descended the slope and approached the encampment just outside Osgiliath’s eastern gate. Amidst a maze of makeshift tents, the soldiers of Maeron’s company went about their tasks with an air of listlessness; having been repelled quite handily by the Southrons, they had subsequently abandoned all attempts at assault and instead resigned themselves to keeping guard over the garrison. It was thus, with head ducked in mild shame, that Maeron Captain greeted these new reinforcements.

‘My lord Aragorn!’ he cried, motioning for the guards to remove several chevaux de frise. ‘I do not wish to imply we ever doubted your victory, but these past several days have been spent wondering what would become of you and the warriors who went north. Yet what beasts are these that follow in your wake? The very servants of Mordor march to the sound of Húrin’s horn!’

‘King Kîzge and the Orcs of Uzdígh are allies, and to be treated as such,’ replied Aragorn. ‘They appeared out of the East unlooked for, brought to our lands in defence of their own, and fought by our side at the very gates of Elminas.’

‘As my King orders, so shall it be done,’ said Maeron, stepping aside to allow the troops entrance.

‘What of Éomer King?’ Truva interjected.

‘Never you fear, Marshal,’ Maeron reassured her with a kindly smile. ‘Though our communication is infrequent, the horselord is as well as ever.’

‘That is a relief to hear,’ said Aragorn. ‘But it is not King Éomer alone we must have news of. Come, let us consult together. I am certain you have a great many questions yourself.’

Blazing fires helped to dispel the rain’s chill as the commanders settled beneath the shelter of a canvas lean-to. They gazed out across the field of milling soldiers attempting to navigate an uneasy peace between two peoples previously thought to be irreconcilable enemies.

‘How is it that these Orcs now come to assail our cities – to our succour?’ Maeron asked, disturbing the contemplative silence.

And so, with Aragorn’s explanation, the remaining Gondorian forces came to know of the conflict in Rhûn, and of the Easterlings that now sat detained at Cair Andros. There was little to tell in return, for after several failed attempts to take the gates of Osgiliath, Maeron and his men had retreated to construct siege engines and begin the lengthy process of communicating a plan of attack between both the Eorlingas and Swan Knights.

‘What of Lord Imrahil and his fleet, that came in rescue of us at Gwathail?’ Aragorn inquired.

‘No sign of them yet, milord,’ Maeron shook his head regretfully.

‘And the forces of Minas Tirith that remained behind when we set sail for Pelargir all those months ago? And the soldiers who escorted the residents of Osgiliath to safety?’

‘Those that do not defend the capital itself are divided between the port at Harlond – where they maintain control – and the gates of Annonaur in the west of Osgiliath, where even combined with Rohan’s forces they have been as unsuccessful as we in their assaults.’

‘Is there no indication of Elfhelm Marshal and his Riders’ coming?’ asked Faramir.

‘The beacons have returned blue, my lord. The Rohirrim have signalled their willingness – beyond that, I cannot say.’

‘Then let us not consider them in our plans, for now,’ said Aragorn. ‘It is best we do not rely on those whose arrival, whilst assured, might be delayed longer than we can afford. Tell me what siege engines you have conjured.’

‘Aside from those we scavenged from our ships, primarily ladders and rams, my lord.’

Kîzge King grunted a comment then, suddenly slicing the blade of one immense, black hand into the palm of her other. Aragorn nodded as if he understood.

‘A swift, secretive attack ought to be our first attempt,’ he said with quiet force. ‘If unsuccessful, only then should we initiate a protracted siege, and look to mines or other means of destruction. Osgiliath has been reconstructed once already; I have no desire to begin anew.’

‘Swift?’ Pallando questioned. ‘How swift?’

‘The Southrons will anticipate a strike hard upon our arrival,’ Aragorn acknowledged, ‘but I very much doubt they believe us capable of mounting one this very night. It might be our only window of opportunity, before the enemy has time to scout and scheme.’

‘They would be right in their disbelief,’ said Maeron, shaking his head. ‘Such a feat is impossible!’

‘With the forces here on the east bank alone, perhaps you are right,’ Aragorn admitted. ‘But if we strain the Southrons’ defences to the fullest, acting simultaneously with the Swan Fleet and also King Éomer’s Riders, there is hope of victory – small, but extant nonetheless.’

‘Even if we ourselves were able to organise within a few short hours, and perhaps even contact our ships in Harlond, there is no means by which we might convey our plans to the Rohirrim in that time,’ Maeron argued.

‘It is easy enough to send a messenger south to the harbour,’ Faramir interjected. ‘The Swan Fleet would be slow in coming, but their aid indispensable once they do.’

‘And what of King Éomer?’ Aragorn asked. ‘How have you communicated with the Rohirrim until now?’

‘We have sent our messengers far to the south – nearly to Harlond itself – before doubling back to Annonaur,’ Maeron explained. ‘But not even our swiftest rider would have any hope of conveying a missive before the night is out.’

The King mused internally a moment, lost in countless calculations. The others joined him, the pensive silence heavy and dispirited.

‘Perhaps we ought to resign ourselves to—’ Pallando began, but was interrupted by Faramir.

‘There is one amongst our number. A sailor. He is slight – no more than a boy – and might be able to pass undetected under the Southrons’ very noses.’

‘No,’ Truva murmured, surprising her own self, although it did not appear any heard – until Aragorn sent her a peculiar look.

‘A sailor, you say?’ he asked, eyes still upon Truva.

‘An exceptionally strong swimmer, even amongst others of his profession,’ Faramir continued. ‘If he follows the city walls, he might pass from the east bank of Annondû to western Osgiliath without much trouble.’

Aragorn hesitated then, giving Truva a second glance. It was with no happy expression that he said, ‘Then let him convey this to Lord Éomer: that in the very last hour before today’s dawn, the King willing, the Rohirrim shall assail the gate of Annonaur with all the raucous pandemonium they can muster.’

‘And if this child should fail?’ Pallando translated for Kîzge, though scepticism was apparent on both their faces.

‘Then we shall have to wait for the Swan Fleet’s arrival, and convey our intentions to the west bank forces through them – sacrificing both the element of surprise and the cover of darkness in the process. But the attack must be made.’

‘I will go speak with the boy now,’ said Faramir, rising, but Truva leapt to her feet also.

‘Please!’ she begged. ‘Allow me to speak with him. I know to whom you refer: the sailor Fofrin. I shall present to him the task in terms most neutral and, if he is not amenable, will go in his stead. I am a Marshal of the Mark, after all; it is only fitting that I bear the message to my King.’

Aragorn regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, the pain on his face deepening. Then, lips pinched tight, he nodded and said, ‘If you feel so compelled.’

With a bow, Truva ducked out after Blackbramble (who had taken it upon himself to make the race to Harlond) and went in search of Fofrin. Along the dark, muddy paths, she dodged various companies of Orcs as they bickered over where to pitch their tents, some less than happy to be positioned nearest the Gondorians. The two factions continued to eye each other with equal distrust.

At last Truva spied Fofrin, sitting amongst a quartet of healers who had secured themselves a goat for roasting. She gave a low whistle and the boy came running.

‘I hate to disturb your dinner—’ she began.

‘It is of no consequence, milady!’

‘—but I have a request, though even that might be too strong a word.’ She gave Fofrin a look askance, perturbed by his overeager attitude. ‘It is not an order; on that point I wish to be perfectly clear.’

‘I shall do your will!’

‘No, Fofrin, you must think carefully and do your will,’ Truva reprimanded gently. She lowered her voice to no more than a whisper as she led him away from where any might overhear. ‘Aragorn King makes plans to attack tonight—’

‘This very night!’ he cried.

‘—and to have any hope of victory, we must act in tandem with the Eorlingas.’

‘You wish for me to secret across the river and convey these intentions to King Éomer.’

‘You are a smart lad,’ said Truva, more than a little ruefully. ‘And so you must make a decision only after thorough consideration—’

‘I will go,’ said Fofrin without hesitation, grim determination upon his face.

Truva closed her eyes tightly, a sigh slipping past her lips. ‘Very well,’ she murmured. ‘Take only what you most desperately need—’

‘I have my weapons already upon me.’

‘—and keep to the walls of Osgiliath; if you are fortunate enough to arrive without incident, deliver this unto the King: that he is to attack at the very final hour before dawn, and create a tremendous diversion.’

‘I shall give him your greeting, as well, and inform him that you are alive and well.’

A grim smile passed across Truva’s lips. ‘Good lad,’ she said, throwing an arm about his narrow shoulders and drawing him through a gap in the chevaux de frise. Beneath the cover of bog-rushes they crept towards the outer walls of Osgiliath, pausing to observe the Southron guards’ activity.

‘Would that I could go in your stead,’ Truva whispered after a time.

‘You are not nearly as strong a swimmer as I,’ said Fofrin with a twinkle in his eye.

Then he rose suddenly and darted forward, having spied the torch of a guard passing upon the battlements. Even knowing he was there, his figure was soon lost to Truva’s eye, for the darkness and rain soon obscured him. There was no final goodbye or wish of good luck.

‘Helm keep him,’ Truva murmured.

She returned slowly to the commanders’ lean-to, unheeding of the preparations that whirled about the camp. Her ears did not hear Aragorn’s rousing speech, her eyes did not see soldiers sharpening blades or counting arrows, her nose did not smell their final meals, heart did not feel the tension near palpable in the air. As the forces from Cair Andros took the opportunity of a brief respite, and Maeron’s soldiers – far more well-rested as they were – readied siege engines or took to watch duties, Truva nestled a short while in the shelter, eyes closed in a poor mimicry of rest.

The hours trudged by. Watches were exchanged. A few Orc squabbles – heightened by the nervous energy in camp – were quickly stifled. Truva abandoned all attempts at rest and sought out a slight rise from which she could observe the Southrons’ movements below. That was where Lord Faramir discovered her.

Chapter Text

‘Terribly sorry to disturb you, Marshal,’ murmured Lord Faramir, his voice quiet even in the stillness of camp. ‘It is time to go.’

Instantly alert, Truva rose and followed the Prince back down the hill. Darkness was still thick about the camp as Gondorian and West Rhûn forces roused themselves – though the bustle that typically accompanied such activities was absent, for fear of alerting the Southrons. Fires were left to burn, scattered amongst the tents; soldiers injured in previous assaults lingered beside them, to give the illusion of activities undisturbed. The remaining warriors amassed on the western edge of camp and slipped through the barriers into the fields beyond.

The bulk of the host, led by Faramir and Pallando, inched forward to take a position directly in front of the city gates, pushing several covered rams ahead. A company under Maeron’s command diverted southward in the meanwhile, just as those under Aragorn and Kîzge banked towards the north. The warriors of these contingents crawled silently through the underbrush with ladders borne on their backs, dividing into small groups that took cover at intervals all along the moat, just a short distance from the very walls of Osgiliath itself. There they sat, staring up at the immense, seemingly impenetrable battlements.

Freshly-hewn granite, so recently a symbol of security and shelter, now proved a daunting menace.

When Truva peered into the darkness, the flicker of Southron movement was evident all across the ramparts. Discouraged, she crept to where Aragorn crouched beneath a shrub of spindle.

‘Their watch does not appear nearly as thin as we might have hoped,’ she whispered. ‘Perhaps they suspect an imminent attack, after all. Perhaps they intercepted Fofrin as he made his way to the Eorlingas.’

‘Many guardsmen does not guarantee many attentive guardsmen,’ Aragorn muttered in response, though the clench of his jaw suggested he was equally as tense as she. ‘Let us not despair just yet.’

Before Truva could gainsay his assertion, Kîzge interrupted. There was no Wizard to translate, but the Uzdígh King’s meaning was clear: it was time to make their assault.

Indeed, from far across the Langflood drifted sounds – faint at first, then increasingly distinguishable: the indications of a charge, of metal upon metal and wood upon wood, and of Eorling horns quavering in the air.

So Fofrin had succeeded in his task, after all!

Horses stampeded through Truva’s heart. Fraught energy mingled with crushing lassitude to form a sensation that hung heavy on her arms and eyelids; she knew not whether she wished to take on a Gorgoroth Troll or simply sleep a moon away. Chest palpitating, she returned to her small brigade of warriors, all of whom looked to Kings Aragorn and Kîzge, eyes squinting against the dark.

The breathless suspense was short-lived. In a matter of moments, a storm of Southron lanterns swept towards the gatehouse and disappeared.

Aragorn gave a sharp wave of his hand. The northern contingent made for the walls of Osgiliath in response, moving stealthily across coverless ground to drop into the defensive moat. Its stream of water – augmented by recent days’ rainfall – rose up near to Truva’s chest and threatened to sweep her off her feet. Another, far lighter soldier drifted by, and would have been carried all the way off to the main river had Truva not snagged his quiver strap with the tips of her fingers. It was only by passing one another from hand to hand that each member of the brigade was able to gain the moat’s far bank.

Still no assault came from above. No shouts were to be heard, no arrows rained down. Even as the northerners’ ladders were raised against the battlements of Osgiliath like a series of trellises in preparation for summer vines, there was no sign of tumbling rocks or sand or boiling water. Aragorn had been right, after all; the Southrons’ attention and strength was focused wholly upon the Eorlingas’ attack.

But there was no need to tempt fate, nor any time to be wasted. Mounting the ladder first, Truva scaled its crude, splintery rungs with all the alacrity she could muster, shield clutched tightly overhead. A stream of warriors came up behind her, and up the ladders to each side.

Distracted as the Southrons were, however, their posts had not been entirely abandoned. No sooner had Truva reached the ladder’s top and peered over the parapet than she came face to face with one very startled Corsair. Quickly recovering himself, the sailor leapt at her, slashing with his scimitar. But Truva met blade with shield; her hand struck out in a flash, catching the unbalanced Corsair by his gorget and sending him tumbling down to the earth far below.

She didn’t even have time to scramble up any further before a second threat rose up to replace the first. Hands and feet slipping on the ladder’s rain-slick rungs, Truva clung with desperate grip as she deflected this new Corsair’s strikes and thrusts from above. One blow sent her lower half dangling over black nothingness for several precarious, heart-racing moments before the Gondorian soldier below caught one ankle and helped her regain footing. Then, with a final, well-placed thrust of her shield to his shoulder joint, Truva knocked her assailant back and created just enough space to gain the wall herself.

But this Corsair was especially stout-hearted; not even when his back was pressed against the opposite parapet did he relent. And so Truva met his determination with her own. Taking advantage of the distraction another pair locked in combat offered as they tumbled by, she charged the Corsair’s legs and sent him flailing over the inner wall.

Risking a quick glance after him, Truva peered down into the streets of Osgiliath below. Already the Southron forces flocked back towards Annondû, having discovered the ruse. They flowed like the Langflood itself, a multitude of streams converging upon the lower gatehouse entryways and inner-wall stairs.

‘The gatehouse!’ Truva cried, rallying the soldiers who poured onto the wall-walk behind her. ‘Prevent the entry of reinforcements! Archers, look below!’

A contingent of Gondorians took up their bows against the returning Southron warriors while others established formations to defend these archers in turn. At that very same moment, Aragorn brushed past Truva, making with all haste in the direction she had indicated.

‘The Orc King holds steady against the Southrons posted at the northern river gate,’ he said. ‘Come, let us take the eastern one.’

Truva dashed after him, yet their progress was excruciatingly slow. For each merlon gained, another Corsair or Haradrim soldier sprang up; and though Gondorians continued to clamber up over the battlements and engage this enemy, still Truva found herself assailed by adversary after adversary, the Southrons’ ferocity born of desperation.

At long last, the gatehouse drew near. When its defenders realised they had been well and truly overwhelmed, they sped along the wall, fleeing before the wave of advancing Gondorians – yet the tower doorway had been barricaded from within by their brethren. Finding themselves shut out, the Southrons chose to fling themselves over the parapet rather than mount a final assault.

A battering ram was brought forth. Its size was not great, but Truva seized it alongside several others, heaving it against the gatehouse’s great oaken door. Again and again they threw their weight into the attack, gauntlets scarcely able to fit into hastily-hewn handholds or keep a grip on the ram’s drenched hides. Grunts of exertion and shouts of encouragement sounded in their ears; rain poured down through the gaps in their armour and sapped them of energy. But still the door would not yield.

Each time a soldier grew tired, he was immediately replaced by another, who was in turn replaced by another himself. Through several cycles of warriors, the might of the Gondorians proved insufficient, until at last – with a terrible jolt – the mighty iron hinges were sundered from their frame.

Truva and the other Gondorians leapt back to evade a sudden shower of arrows that sped through this new opening. Turning the gatehouse door upon its side, they used it as a shield and advanced into the guardroom. A group of Corsairs had taken cover behind an upturned dining table shoved against the opposite wall, cutting off access to the stairway beyond. Yet even as the Gondorians readied their own bows to attack, Aragorn stayed them with a hand.

‘Warriors of the Sutherlands!’ he cried out from a position half-hidden by the door. ‘You are but mere soldiers, errand-boys to your Captain’s beck and call; but you needn’t die for such base purpose. We will show you mercy, should you—’

The King’s appeal was cut short by a crossbow bolt sent unnervingly close past his ear.

The Gondorians did not hesitate to press forward at this answer, loosing their own volley of arrows in return and covering those who raced across the guardroom floor in pursuit of the Corsairs. A clatter of feet could be heard retreating down the spiral staircase beyond, but no sooner had Truva and the others reached the inner doorway than they were beset upon once more by arrows from the enemy, who were tucked just around the bend.

‘The ram! The ram!’ called Aragorn. ‘Bring the ram!’

When it was brought forth from behind, he sent it tumbling down the stairwell with a sharp kick, giving rise to a cacophony of shouts from below and a momentary cessation in the hail of arrows. Seizing this fleeting opportunity, Aragorn dashed down the stair, blade flashing as the tailing Corsairs disappeared around the next spiral.

Truva followed in the flood of Gondorians who descended after him, but stopped abruptly on the next landing as the others continued to rush past her. ‘The windlass, I’ve found the windlass!’ she cried, peering into an unoccupied room that housed a portcullis winch. The Southrons had not so much as bothered to barricade the space, let alone defend it!

But Truva was not three steps past the threshold before half a dozen Corsairs leapt out from behind the door. Hoping to evade detection, these adversaries had slipped into the first available room, leaving the door open rather than taking the risk of shutting it and drawing the attention of an entire company of northerners. But to their misfortune – and Truva’s – their only route of escape had been a tactically significant one.

They now fell upon Truva with all the fervour of a last stand. Terribly outnumbered, it was all she could do to put them in each others’ way and keep as many as possible at bay for as long as possible. Truva barreled shield-first into the nearest, sending him crashing into the Corsair behind him. But even as she ducked below the wild swings of the next assailant, she was knocked to the ground by a sweep of the third’s staff. Unable to regain her feet under their onslaught, Truva attempted to crawl back to the stairway, only to find her way blocked by yet another Corsair—

—who suddenly sprouted a spear through his neck. A swarm of Gondorians had heard her cry and come rushing back up the steps, just as more Southrons clattered down from the guardhouse’s upper floors. The two forces converged in the winch room, swirling eddies of weapons and strikes and footwork.

Truva leapt up and darted through the tumult to throw her weight against the windlass spokes. Several Gondorian soldiers gathered about in defence as, little by little, the chain wound round the beam until there was no more chain left to be wound. Ensuring the winch was secure, Truva lunged towards the outer wall and peered through one arrow loop. Even through the heavy rain, she could see the drawbridge also being lowered across the moat.

‘The bridge is down, the first portcullis is up!’ she shouted over the clangour. ‘Reinforcements are coming!’

But it was not the Gondorians alone who heeded Truva’s words. Hearing her cry, each and every Southron throughout the gatehouse reconciled themselves with defeat and abandoned their attack at once. The northerners in the winch room found themselves suddenly unopposed as all Corsairs and Haradrim beat a hasty retreat down to the gatehouse entrance – where they encountered Aragorn’s forces. Any Southron who did not disappear beneath the roiling masses fled westward.

Truva continued to stare out into the fields beyond, where the shapes of Faramir’s soldiers and the Orcs led by Pallando emerged from the darkness. They held their shields aloft against the barrage of arrows storming down from the southern battlements, where Maeron’s forces had not yet succeeded in securing those stretches of the wall, but otherwise faced little opposition to their advancement; the Southrons were in full flight.

‘You five,’ said Truva, turning to the Gondorians who stood about the windlass. ‘Stay here and defend the portcullis. The remainder of you – half will go up to the topmost floors and start their sweep from there. The other half will come with me to search the lower rooms.’

With a chorus of ‘ayes’, the soldiers went about their assigned tasks. But scarcely had Truva and the others cleared the neighbouring armoury (which was a swift process, as it was now empty) than they stumbled upon Aragorn and several of his company in the room that housed the second portcullis.

‘The south wing is clear,’ he informed Truva without a beat to spare.

‘I have soldiers sweeping the north wing even as we speak.’

A wry smile flashed across Aragorn’s face. ‘The first of Faramir’s forces have already arrived in the courtyard. Let us go to him and see what can be done about these Southrons who took off after their brethren. More than I would care to admit managed to slip through our fingers.’

‘Divide yourselves further,’ said Truva to her accompanying soldiers. ‘Finish your sweep, then post here.’

At these words, Aragorn’s company made for the winch room door, Truva following close behind. But even as they descended the final staircase to the gatehouse passage, Aragorn slowed his steps ever so slightly and drew close to her.

‘Good work,’ he murmured, so quiet no other could hear.

Truva looked to him with brows raised. ‘The woods’ eaves are yet a good ways away, milord,’ she said.

The grim cast of Aragorn’s expression suggested he needed no reminding. Together, they raced after the other soldiers and spilled out into the courtyard to greet the incoming troops, who continued to march over the drawbridge with fresh, eager faces.

Lord Faramir soon appeared between the regimented ranks. ‘Who could have anticipated overtaking the battlements with such ease!’ he exclaimed. ‘See how quickly the Southrons draw back!’

‘They make for Annonaur,’ said Aragorn through gritted teeth.

‘Then let us ensure they do not gain it,’ Faramir replied. ‘I do not fancy the effort it would take to extricate the Southrons from West Osgiliath, should King Éomer’s own assault be met with less success than ours.’

A contingent of warriors was sent at once to reinforce Maeron’s company on the southern battlements, but the remainder marched through the streets of Osgiliath, bearing down upon Langflood with all haste. As they passed each major byway, small parties broke off to sweep the streets for stragglers, but the main host encountered minimal opposition – that is, until they came to the Lonnas Ram: a defensive wall dividing the main city and its harbour, though indeed it was more arch than wall.

Here the Southrons mounted their final, halfhearted defence. They trapped the northerners under a barrage of arrows and spears, forcing them to take cover around ornate corners and behind marble columns of the grand capitol complex. Yet no sooner had Truva and the others sent their own volley in return than the Southrons’ assault began to wane.

During a brief lull, Truva peered cautiously over a low garden wall. Through the archways of Lonnas Ram she spied a handful of Corsairs fleeing towards Annonaur. They sped over bridges or leapt onto black dromunds now making for the opposite bank, or simply dove into Langflood itself and swam across. Another wave soon followed their compatriots, and then another and another. The tide of Southron arrows thinned further.

Truva glanced across the street to Aragorn – too far. She darted instead to where Faramir had positioned himself behind a column just ahead.

‘Milord, if we delay any longer, there will be no Southrons left whose retreat we might prevent,’ she insisted quietly.

Faramir did not hesitate one moment before giving a sharp nod. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘I will cover you.’

Even as he spoke, the lordly Prince of Ithilien leaned out from behind the column and loosed an arrow. One Haradrim warrior tumbled from the Lonnas Ram as a result.

Motioning silently for a company of Gondorian soldiers to accompany her, Truva snuck along the capitol perimeter and across the flagstone street to the nearest wall stair. Step by step, they crept up until they were positioned just out of sight below the wall-walk. Truva slowly extended her neck to take stock of the Southrons’ position – only to discover the Lonnas Ram totally abandoned, littered with the burning wreckage of catapults and other siege engines.

Truva was joined by Aragorn and Faramir but moments later. Picking their way through the refuse, all three stood behind the parapet and looked out across the city and its surrounding lowlands. The first glow of dawn had begun to crawl down the sides of Hǽwenheáf, peeking through rain clouds clustered about the Ephel Dúath and revealing to the northerners the tremendous task that lay ahead:

The Eorlingas had not breached the gates of Annonaur.

Firmly entrenched upon the western side of the city were all the Southron forces. The last remaining stragglers were gaining the safety of the opposite bank in droves. Their ships darted to and fro, unopposed all along the waters of Langflood – for though the northern span had been opened by Kîzge and her warriors, Maeron continued to struggle. The defensive chains were still raised in the south; even if the Swan Fleet had arrived from Harlond, their effect would have been limited in scope.

Then, even as Truva and the others looked on, a tremendous boulder arced from the battlements of Annonaur, cutting a swathe through the periwinkle sky. It fell into the river with a tremendous splash, but the Southrons’ intent was clear: it would not be by bridge that the Gondorians and their allies crossed into the city’s western sector.

When a second boulder hurtled through the air – this time landing far closer to the centremost bridge connecting the two halves of Osgiliath – Aragorn turned to Faramir and Truva. ‘Let us see what delays Captain Maeron, and prevents our control of the southern archway of Menelrond,’ he said. ‘Lord Faramir, I entrust to you the defence of Lonnas Ram, and the keeping of peace between Gondorians and Orcs.’

‘When you return, you shall find us quieter than a sleeping babe’s crib, my lord,’ answered Faramir.

And so, joined by a substantial battalion of warriors, Aragorn and Truva made for the Southrons’ last holdout in the east. Yet even as they rushed along the quay, another catapult launched a third projectile, which fell upon the central bridge with a terrible crack of stone upon stone. A pile of rubble collapsed into the river; the pathway was hewn in two.

The company hurried on. The instant they drew near the southeastern reaches of Osgiliath, pandemonium overwhelmed their senses. In an attempt to access the bridge of Menelrond, where the harbour chain windlasses were located, Maeron’s forces had thrown themselves upon the gatehouse – both at the upper rampart entrance as well as the gate at ground level – to no avail. This was the first position the Southrons had gained upon their initial attack; and as it was the position by which they could control the movement of their own ships, as well as that of the northerners, they rightly considered it the most crucial; thus it was also the position they devoted the greatest effort in retaining.

‘I will guide our efforts on the ground,’ Aragorn said to Truva. ‘Climb to the walls’ heights and see what result you might effect there.’

With a bow, she and a small troop of Gondorians spun about and ascended the inner stair, keeping tight against the wall. At the top, they were greeted by further chaos. A battering ram, pushed to its limits, splintered in the soldiers’ hands even as they charged forwards in another attack. Ladders had been drawn up from below and used to scale the gatehouse face, where several Orcs had rent a breach between the eaves and stone exterior and now hurled roof tiles with abandon down upon the embattled Southron defenders in the guardroom below.

‘Relieve the ramsmen!’ Truva ordered at once, but those under her command had no need to be told; the words hadn’t even left her lips before they leapt to seize the damaged bole from the flagging warriors who wielded it. In the same moment, Maeron emerged through the mêlée.

‘Marshal!’ he cried. ‘What news?’

‘All other Southrons have fled Annondû,’ Truva shouted over the din. ‘They are now entrenched upon the western bank.’

‘If only these would follow their brethren,’ Maeron bemoaned.

‘Have you no other siege engines?’

‘I fear not!’

‘How many Southrons defend the gatehouse?’

‘I know not!’

‘What of the opposite entrance?’

‘It is accessible only via the gatehouse or Menelrond – both of which are controlled by Southrons.’

Truva surveyed the tower in the dim light of early morning. Its sides rose up from the waters of Langflood itself to soar several stories overhead, arrow loops the only break in its even facade. Yet its sides were not so sheer as a cursory glance might indicate; dips and crevices pockmarked the wall, a holdover from the still-incomplete period of reconstruction.

Safely securing all her weapons upon her person and refilling her quiver with arrows from a supply barrel that had spilled across the wall-walk, Truva leapt up onto the parapet, balancing along its crenels to evade the thrashing ramsmen. When she came within reach of the tower, she ran her hands over its smooth, wet stone. Even in the finest weather, her task would be no easy feat.

She eased her fingers over the near-featureless surface of the tower façade, searching for a purchase. After several moments of frantic groping, she found one – little more than a vertical crack between two bricks. Truva thrust her fingers into it anyway, bracing with her thumb.

Then came her toe, creeping, creeping steadily across the slick surface.

‘Are you mad?’ cried Maeron when he turned his gaze from the battering ram to discover her intentions.

His shout startled Truva, nearly causing her to slip, but she clung to the stone like a weed battered by the elements. ‘Verily!’ she shouted in return, although the wind whipped her voice away; she was not sure whether the Captain heard her or made any reply.

As she felt for her next hold, the faint hint of dawn light faded, shadowed by the sun rising behind a layer of dark storm clouds that gathered upon the horizon. With her head tucked tight against the tower, Truva could not see the approaching front of heavier rain – but she could most certainly hear it.

With renewed urgency, she braced her first leg against its tenuous hold and steeled herself. Now came the most treacherous step: removing her final anchor from the ramparts’ assured safety. Heart fluttering, Truva’s second foot scraped along the wall until it came to a precarious rest upon a slight lip of stone, leaving her to cling unprotected above a dizzying drop.

Little by little, grip by scant grip, Truva made her way about the tower, drifting downwards along its face all the while to hide her approach behind Menelrond’s ramparts and hopefully evade the Southrons’ notice. The tower’s curved shape gave her slightly more leverage than she might ordinarily expect from a flat wall, but still the process was excruciatingly slow and strenuous. It felt an eternity before she finally drew near the opposite side, where she spied a dozen or so adversaries milling about the bridge deck in front of the guardhouse entrance: those less eager to engage the mass of northerners who pounded upon the door opposite.

Yet even as Truva curled her fingertips about the bottom edge of an embrasure, hanging out of sight just beside the gatehouse’s outer wall, a flicker of movement caught her eye. There, crawling Gollum-like up a stone pile halfway across the river, was Fofrin.

Truva nearly lost her grip in surprise. She could only watch in equal parts relief (to find the scamp still alive) and horror (to guess his plan) as Fofrin crept over the parapet and slunk into Menelrond’s central rotunda, which housed one of several windlasses controlling the harbour chains. Its guard of Southrons had their backs turned and were clustered about in apparent argument, and so did not see the young Gondorian’s deceit.

Different strategies battled in Truva’s mind. Ought she to remain hidden and allow Fofrin to work surreptitiously, or was it better to launch her own assault, drawing the Southrons’ attention away from him – yet risking his exposure at the same time? A momentary glance might reveal his presence in either circumstance.

But then Truva thought of Maeron Captain and his soldiers, and of Aragorn below – those who threw themselves upon the gatehouse entrances in an attempt to secure every last possible advantage against an enemy who sought to usurp their very home. The significance of the battle for Osgiliath superseded any one individual.

Truva vaulted over the parapet and struck down the first guard before he had so much as learned of her presence. Seizing the fallen Southron’s battle-axe, she used the hook of its crescent blade to drag a second guard sharply forward, tripping him over his prone companion before driving the axe into his exposed features.

An additional pair of guards fell upon her then – for a handful of others simply hung back in fear, and the remainder dashed towards the safety of the gatehouse, where they observed through a crack in the door. The braver of the two Corsairs charged with a sequence of flashy bladework just as the second, taking advantage of Truva’s momentary occupation, circled behind and leapt upon her back. The force of the impact drove Truva to her knees, giving the first Corsair an opportunity to aim a savage kick at her face, though she caught his leg and sent him crashing into the flagstone deck with a twist of his knee and a well-placed axe swing.

But the adversary on Truva’s back continued to cling more fiercely than any limpet, thrusting at her helm with his dagger. Truva rose shakily to her feet and caught his arm, clutching it close to her chest. Then she suddenly bent low and swept his feet off her midsection with her free hand, tossing the Corsair clear over her shoulders and into the parapet. With a final kick, Truva sent him hurtling down towards the river far below.

When she turned to face the remaining Southrons – who, in witnessing their companions’ failures, had become even less eager to engage – Truva glanced further along the wall in an attempt to find Fofrin. He had somehow succeeded in lowering the first harbour chain, only to move on to a second windlass and repeat his actions; for the rotunda guards there were wholly engrossed in watching the fight at the gatehouse unfold, and had concern for little else.

It was this very glance, however, that alerted the Southrons to Fofrin’s presence. The Corsair nearest Truva gave a shrill whistle and gestured towards the windlass. Truva tackled him in an attempt to obfuscate his movement, but the Haradrim within the rotunda were not so easily fooled; they spun about to discover Fofrin unwinching the chain link by link.

Even as they leapt upon the hapless sailor, Truva moved without conscious thought, extricating her bow and loosing an arrow in the direction of the first Haradrim warrior to reach out. But Pallando’s lessons were still in their earliest stages, and there was much yet for Truva to learn; she had no real control over her power. There was no tightening of her jaw, no tingle of energy, no additional force behind her shot – the arrow merely glanced off the sturdy Haradrim armour and clattered harmlessly to the flagstone deck.

That very guard did not spare Truva a moment’s attention before spearing Fofrin with the point of his tabar once, then twice. Fofrin’s hands came up in a futile attempt to defend himself, clutching at the wooden shaft as the Southron twisted the weapon’s short blade in his exposed chest – for the foolish lad had abandoned his armour, so that he might swim more freely.

Upon the Southron’s third thrust, Fofrin’s arms fell limply to his sides.

Truva could only watch helplessly as the guard withdrew his tabar and spun it expertly around, using the butt end to thrust Fofrin’s body over the parapet edge. The boy’s slight frame seemed to hang for an eternity as he plummeted from the heights of Menelrond, dark hair streaming in the wind, tumbling head over heels until he crashed into the dark Langflood waters with a soundless splash.

Wind ripped painfully in Truva’s throat – yet there was no space to grieve, no time to berate herself for having failed yet again, for choosing the course of action which resulted in the very outcome she had most desperately wished to prevent – for simply watching Fofrin’s death unfold from afar, just as she had when Théoden King was slayed by the Witch King.

No, these thoughts existed as nebulous emotions, crammed into the back of Truva’s mind to confront later – if she were fortunate enough to see such an end; for already the Southrons swung at her with scimitar or tabar or even fists, emboldened as they were now that her companion had been struck down.

But their newfound mettle mattered not. Seeing Fofrin’s lifeless body fluttering through the air had provoked in Truva a vehement rage, the likes of which she had not felt since the War, standing before the Black Gates with Bron’s twitching form at her feet. Even so, she did not allow wrath to control her, and instead allowed its force to wash the last traces of weariness from her limbs. She fell upon the Southrons in a whirl of desperate fury, dispatching them all in short order – for not even an entire company of adversaries could suppress the fire that now blazed in her breast.

When a sea of Southron bodies lay littered about her, Truva looked to where the gatehouse guards rushed to shut the last defence against her. She selected a spear and hurled it at the door, preventing it from fully closing, and rushed to capitalise upon this advantage. It took no more than a few swift hacks to pull the door outwards, for upon seeing the incensed Marshal, many of the enemy guards had retreated further into the gatehouse. Those that stood against her did not do so long, for in a storm of blade and body they either fled or fell.

And so it was that Truva came upon the inner staircase, down which many of the Southrons had disappeared. Far below, the sounds of a tremendous conflict roiling at the front gate could be heard; perhaps Aragorn’s forces had broken through at long last!

But Truva focused instead upon the second guardroom door, barricaded by a tangle of furniture and barrels and lumber. Shoving these materials aside, she cleared the entrance to admit the masses of Gondorians who still led a barrage against the opposite side. They poured into the guardroom just as a stream of Orcs descended from above, having come through the hole they had hewn in the roof. These northern forces drove the Southrons before them – including those that raced upwards, away from the fallen lower entrance – until they formed one terrified swarm retreating across Menelrond to Annonaur.

In that very moment, the white sails of the Swan Ships appeared upon the river.

Chapter Text

‘A score of soldiers to each windlass,’ Aragorn King ordered, standing tall and commanding upon the deck of Menelrond, surrounded by the commanders of the northern Host. Just to the south, the flock of white Dol Amrothinian sails dipped and fluttered as a terns do upon a sea breeze. But Aragorn looked to the west, where the Corsairs and Haradrim had halted Gondor’s advance across the bridge, and were now firmly entrenched within the defences of Annonaur.

‘Two full companies at the furthest rotunda,’ Aragorn continued. ‘Watch over the far gatehouse; any attack is sure to come from there. Keep the harbour chains raised to prevent any attempt on the Southrons’ part to flee or turn upon the Swan Fleet, but lower them should they attack the eastern bank, to allow our own ships access.’

And so the forces of Gondor and West Rhûn settled into an uneasy lull following their long, wearying night of battle. The infrequent but unceasing splash of rubble into water as the Southrons sought to destroy the fourth bridge between Annondû and Annonaur faded into the background. Defences were reinforced, the fallen buried, the wounded tended to, stock of supplies taken; then those with a spare moment found nooks and crannies where they might sleep, for in their exhaustion they could not be troubled to seek out real beds.

There was, of course, no rest for Truva or any of the other commanders – a group which now included Prince Imrahil and his son, Admiral Elphir, so recently disembarked from the Swan Fleet; but absent still were Éomer King and the Eorlingas, who lingered before the city’s western gate, preventing the Southrons’ escape.

The gathering descended upon the capitol complex and trudged up the steps of its foremost building: Teluelin, the sole tower that had evaded destruction during the War of the Ring. The statehouse’s domed roof of white marble soared high – a symbol of bold, indomitable will against the dark sky which continued to pour rain upon the hapless warriors below.

One by one, the commanders slipped into the entrance hall, boots whispering upon the black and white rayed star of polished stone underfoot. The clank of armour and weapons echoed in the stillness. When they mounted the steps at the hall’s far end, the vaulted inner dome revealed itself to them, painted with the stars themselves. Wide grey columns arced high overhead, boasting terminal figures of Gondorian kings of old. Upon the sable floor was inlaid the emblem of the White Tree.

Truva scurried behind Aragorn as he strode across these tiles, ignoring staircases upon each side which led to northern and southern wings. He made instead for an immense set of doors straight ahead, painted white yet carved with the full crest of the Kings of the line of Elendil, Silver Crown displayed prominently at its peak. These doors Aragorn threw aside.

Within the chamber beyond, panels of stained glass curved overhead to create a sun room of sorts, though it was currently cast in gloom. A singular table stretched from wall to wall, and though Aragorn was swift to draw a chair and offer it to Kîzge King, she refused, electing to sit with her back to a wall with no entrance. The Rhûnian warriors all sat about her as the remainder of the company took seats wherever the mood struck them. Truva glanced between the two factions, unsure of where she belonged, before taking a position directly between the two groups, beside Pallando.

Aragorn swiftly launched into discussion: ‘A messenger has been sent to the Rohirrim at Annonaur, to appraise them of our situation and inquire as to how they fared,’ he said. He did not look at Truva as he spoke, though she knew he made this comment for her sake; the others merely grunted in disinterested acknowledgement.

‘I fear it will be no easy feat to dislodge this infestation of Southrons from the west bank,’ said Lord Faramir. ‘Already their siege engines have destroyed three of the five bridges spanning Anduin, and their defences show no weakness. The Southrons are nothing if not tenacious.’

Kîzge grumbled suddenly, and Aragorn rose to his feet in response, thrusting his head out into the hallway beyond before returning to his seat. ‘It will come momentarily,’ he said to the Orc King, who nodded appreciatively. Whether they truly understood each other or it was merely a fancied connection remained a mystery, perhaps even to the speakers themselves. The others merely looked on in confusion.

‘We gained all the advantage we could with a surprise attack,’ said Maeron, breaking the strange mood. ‘But even with the addition of King Kîzge’s forces, it seems unlikely we have sufficient strength to launch a full-scale assault. What must our next move be?’

‘The Southrons are confined within Annonaur, and no longer have free reign of the river,’ said Aragorn. ‘They will not be blind to the inevitability of a protracted siege, for while an outright attack would be immensely risky, our numbers are undoubtedly enough to keep the Southrons hemmed in. If they will not join us at the table now, they are sure to do so when their stomachs have gone three weeks without bread.’

‘Conciliation has failed with the Sutherlands – twice now,’ interjected Prince Imrahil. ‘For years they have harassed our lands, and each peaceful overture on our part is met with betrayal on theirs. They cannot be trusted.’

‘What would you have me do?’ said Aragorn. His voice was calm as ever, yet frustration at their circumstances seethed beneath the surface. ‘Shall I eradicate each and every one of their warriors? Sail south and set ruin upon their cities and decimation unto their people? Not even upon the conclusion of the War did we do so – not even to the Orcs.’

All eyes flickered to Kîzge and her advisers, whose faces remained impassive as Pallando whispered the translation of Aragorn’s words to them. A strained silence fell; though the West Rhûn Orcs were not (for the most part) those Gondor and its allies had faced in the War, still a hint of discomfort seeped into every interaction between the two peoples.

Kîzge spoke then, and this time even Aragorn turned to Pallando for explanation.

‘She says an antagonistic neighbour will never cease to compound upon your problems,’ the Wizard explained. ‘For centuries, we believed our conflict with East Rhûn to be little more than a regional squabble – yet look what has come of it.’

In that very moment, a bevy of soldiers ducked in bearing flagons of ale and foodstuffs, making clear the earlier exchange between Aragorn and Kîzge. The commanders were granted a momentary reprieve from their considerations as cups and bowls were passed amongst them. When at last the edge of their hunger and thirst had been sated, Imrahil picked up his train of argument once more.

‘I am not suggesting a massacre,’ he insisted, ‘merely that we do not offer the Southrons peace. Attack as though they had rejected such an offer, without ever making it in the first place.’

Swallowing a shaky breath (for the gathering was of many fine, august figures), Truva offered her own assessment: ‘Any loss the Southrons endure could easily be matched – or surpassed – by our own,’ she said. ‘We have no hope of emerging unscathed, if we choose to engage.’

‘And yet concessions with the Southrons have historically brought loss also,’ Elphir Admiral argued. ‘We have not emerged unscathed, even when we engaged with words alone.’

‘My Lord Aragorn, you know me to be a man of peace,’ Lord Faramir cut in, his voice subdued. ‘I wield the sword only because I must, and had dared to hope I laid it down with finality when Sauron fell at last. I wish for nothing more than to raise my newborn son without a cloud of fear marring the skies overhead, and to live out my days beside my wife in the lands of Ithilien.

‘Yet failing to subjugate Umbar and Harad in the past has resulted in unending discord between our lands. That discord threatens not only my own dream, but the very same dream many Gondorians and Rohirrim – and Rhûnians, I see now – share. Though the conflict ebbs and flows, it never truly dies, and will not – until we put a definitive end to it. I fear it is only by the blade we shall effect such an end; and if that be so, I will unhappily wield mine to see it done.’

Following this entreaty, many commanders wished for their own perspectives to be heard. Arguments drifted back and forth until they became a cyclic repetition of the same notions, over and again; when discussion fell into a lull, a new member would chime in, only to reignite the conversation in a wearying loop.

Aragorn sighed deeply. Fatigue hung heavily upon each of the participants, yet it was he whose shoulders drooped most steeply. At long last, after Maeron reiterated the same point a fourth time, Aragorn intervened, saying, ‘My friends, if there is one thing it seems we are in agreeance on, it is that we are in no rush to act. And there is yet one more perspective we ought to consider: that of King Éomer. Let us await what news comes from Annonaur and the Rohirric forces there; then we shall make the most informed decision, after we have had some rest.’

There was a grumble of consensus amongst the commanders then. Sensing all discussion was indefinitely concluded, they took final swigs of ale from their tankards and exited the chamber in twos and threes, continuing their arguments all the while. But as Truva roused herself from contemplation and followed after Pallando, the tail of whose robes was already disappearing through the doorway, she heard the soft voice of Aragorn behind her:

‘I beg of you, do not make me ask you to remain behind.’

Truva halted with hand upon the door. She glanced back to where Aragorn leaned against the table, alone in the chamber save herself. Rain pattered against the stained glass, a gentle whisper in the wake of the commanders’ spirited debate.

‘I cannot in good faith command your presence as Marshal,’ Aragorn continued, ‘for it is not the Marshal with whom I wish to speak. Yet it is only as Marshal I can rationalise such a request – and so I beg of you, please stay of your own accord.’

Truva’s breath came short. ‘But I cannot in good faith stay of my own accord as Marshal, for it is not as Marshal that I wish to linger.’

Aragorn rose then and drew close to Truva in a single stride, wrapping his arms about her and clinging to her as though she were a life raft and they were adrift upon the Great Sea of Belegaer. Truva returned his embrace, drawing him even tighter to her and reassuring herself with an ear pressed to his beating chest. She was sorry when Aragorn withdrew ever so slightly, but then he bent to press his lips to hers, gentle yet sure. For a breathless moment, Truva allowed her heart to soar, content to simply exist in the present, enshrouded by fleeting peace.

Just then, several soldiers burst into the chamber to clear away empty trays and tankards of ale. Startled, Aragorn and Truva leapt apart.

‘I suppose that might pressure the Southron forces to capitulate,’ Truva improvised in an attempt to construct the pretence of counsel.

‘I shudder to think of the troubles we shall face if they do not,’ Aragorn replied, warily eyeing the soldiers as they piled the tableware high then slipped back out the door. The instant they were gone, he returned to more personal matters: ‘I have wished to speak with you in depth ever since you returned from Rhûn, yet it has always been duty that separates us.’

‘Wartime seems poorly conducive to illicit romance,’ Truva quipped.

‘Tell me of all that you learned during your travels,’ he pressed. ‘I have heard the history of Rhûn and the Wizards’ conflict, but you have not yet spoken of your original purpose: that which Gandalf prompted you to seek.’

‘I will, in good time – but not now,’ said Truva, lowering her gaze. ‘I would prefer to discuss it when we are free of our current worries and can talk uninterrupted.’ She inhaled sharply before adding, ‘In truth, I fear the story will turn you from me, and taint your opinion of me.’

Seeing tears well in her eyes – born not only of fear, but of sheer lassitude, and of loss – Aragorn drew her close again. ‘You could be the daughter of Sauron himself and I would love you no less,’ he murmured. Truva buried her face against his chest at these words.

‘Come,’ he said, stroking her hair. ‘You must rest.’

‘But there are countless tasks yet to be done—’

‘And they shall be done,’ he said firmly, allowing Truva time to surreptitiously wipe her eyes before guiding her from the chamber. ‘And done, in all likelihood, by soldiers who have not endured nearly as arduous a journey as you.’

‘What of Éomer King—?’

‘I will, of course, send word if I so much as sense our messenger’s return.’

He turned up the southern staircase and led her along halls of marble, stopping before a simple door tucked away in the southwest corner of Teluelin. Even as he opened the door to reveal a simple, austere chamber beyond, Truva looked up at him with concern.

‘And you, milord?’

Aragorn gave her a reassuring smile, though it did not reach his eyes. ‘I shall follow shortly.’

‘See that you do,’ she said, making no attempt to conceal the doubt in her voice. When she closed the door behind her, she could hear his footsteps rushing off – assuredly to some additional matter that could not wait.

It seemed that no sooner had Truva shut her eyes than she was roused in the hazy light of a new day by raucous shouting outside. Darting to the window, she looked out into the streets below, for fear the Southrons had regrouped and launched a counterattack – yet what she saw instead was a great number of Gondorians climbing onto the high places of the city. Those that did not stand upon the Lonnas Ram, or on roofs or balconies, raced to positions where they could see out across Langflood.

Black dromunds did not sail across the river. Nothing stirred at the gates of Annonaur. No hint of assault crept across Menelrond – which was now the only remaining bridge not sundered by the Southrons. Truva could discern no sign of enemy movement, yet even as she scanned the city, the sounding of many horns drifted through the misty rain – not those of the Haradrim, or of the Corsairs, but tones that sent her heart racing: those of the Eorlingas!

Far out over Annonaur, beyond the western gate of Osgiliath, a shadow streaked across the land. At its forefront tumbled a wave of Riders, churning in their desperation to be rejoined with their King.

Truva was still strapping on the last of her armour as she bounded along the hallways of Teluelin’s southern wing and down the stairway to the Dome of Stars. There she came upon Maeron Captain, who had similarly been roused, and together they tumbled into the council chamber. Already Kîzge King and the other Orc leaders had gathered, and Lord Faramir followed soon after. They were all standing before the stained glass windows, peering through lighter panes at the ever-nearing army, when Aragorn and Pallando entered.

‘Rohan has answered our summons!’ Aragorn informed them at once. ‘They ride nearly fifteen hundred head strong, and join now with their brethren outside the western gates of Osgiliath.’

‘Surely we have sufficient forces to overcome the Southrons now!’ Maeron exclaimed.

Uneasy glances were exchanged by all.

‘Or perhaps they might be even more willing to capitulate,’ said Imrahil, in a subtle endorsement of Aragorn’s initial suggestion, for he had spent the night in deep thought, and come to Teluelin with heart changed.

Kîzge King burst forth with a rather lengthy speech, which caused Pallando’s brows to knit as he translated: ‘The King wishes for nothing more than to completely eradicate the potential for any future threats – from both the South and the East; yet she hopes even more fervently for an understanding between West Rhûn and Gondor. To that end, she will yield to whichever decision your highness finds most appropriate.’

Aragorn turned his gaze upon Truva. ‘Well, Marshal?’ he said. ‘As the Rohirrim’s lone representative, what say you?’

Truva glanced about at all the eyes directed towards her. Being last to express her opinions on such a highly contentious decision was not a position she enjoyed overly much. She cleared her throat several times before speaking.

‘Allow the Southrons’ own actions to guide our response,’ she advised. ‘If they will treat with us, then let us meet them squarely in negotiations; otherwise, if they refuse, then we shall mount the siege in our own time.’

There were general noddings of agreement in response; what few scowls to be seen were the result of those who wished that such circumstances were not necessary in the first place.

‘Are there any words to be said contrary to this course of action?’ asked Aragorn.

There being no objection, a white bedsheet was raised above Teluelin to hang limp in the light rain. The entire sector of Annondû watched the opposite bank in breathless anticipation, equal parts optimism and fear seeping into their whispered predictions. Had that dromund begun to pull away from the dock? Were adversaries gathering upon the far side of the second bridge? Was the Host of the North’s offering of peace to be met with the death throes of a defeated army – for even in its sunset hour could the fangs of a serpent effect Man’s end?

Hands unclenched from sword hilts and bow grips loosened with a relieved sigh as a similar white flag was hoisted upon the Lonnas Ram of Annonaur. Onto Menelrond emerged a party of Corsairs and Haradrim, the Ploíarkos of Umbar and Yüzbashı of Harad at their helm. Tharbadír and Nubol walked with slow movements, hands raised, each clutching an additional white kerchief.

As the northern commanders gathered at the bridge’s eastern edge, Aragorn bade them lay down their weapons; thus with empty hand, the company stepped onto the bridge as well. The guard was dismissed from the westernmost rotunda of Menelrond, nearest the gatehouse controlled by the Southrons, and there the two factions met. White columns arched overhead to join with intricate latticework into a dome, though it did not shelter the twoscore representatives from the rain; they stood in protracted silence as water trickled down their armour. Each member eyed the other envoy with suspicion, muscles tense, ready to leap into action should the accords prove to be no more than a ruse.

It was Aragorn who spoke at last: ‘Your reinforcements will not come,’ he said, voice ringing clear. ‘We have vanquished Alatar’s forces even as they amassed before the gates of Cair Andros.’

Tharbadír spat upon the ground. ‘Good riddance,’ he growled.

The northern host remained impassive, yet Truva was sure she was not alone in the sudden racing of her mind – for either the Ploíarkos was an inordinately skilled bluff, or Alatar was not amongst their numbers; but if he was not in Annonaur, then where could he possibly be?

‘We harbour a similar sentiment towards your presence here in Osgiliath,’ Maeron Captain quipped. The Southrons did not take kindly to this statement.

‘You have heard our woes,’ the Yüzbashı scowled. ‘Our people suffer greatly under the terms set forth in negotiations following the War – and indeed they were not accords, so much as an exacting punishment.’

‘Not sufficiently exacting to prevent you from raising an army within a year of such an agreement,’ said Prince Imrahil.

‘We are entitled to the defence of our people, lands, and livelihood,’ Nubol insisted.

‘As are we,’ said Aragorn. Not once did his calm demeanour alter, or the volume of his voice rise; he remained collected, as though discussing which herbs of his garden he most preferred. ‘And yet, not only is it we who find ourselves under your attack, the responsibility of seeking a peaceful conclusion falls to us yet again.’

‘We wish for there to be reparations,’ declared Tharbadír, boldly squaring his shoulders. ‘And for trade rout—’

‘All contact between Rhûn and the Sutherlands will be severed,’ Aragorn persisted, interrupting the Ploíarkos. ‘There will be no messengers passing back and forth within Mordor; for though I think you will subsequently find the East rather less hospitable to your overtures, still there are shadows that lurk in the far reaches of that land, and I will not see you harness them to your ill will.’

With this, Aragorn looked to Kîzge and Pallando. ‘I hope I can depend upon your cooperation in this matter.’

‘If it is for the peaceful stability of Rhûn, you shall ever find our interests aligned, my lord,’ replied the Wizard.

‘We deeply appreciate your abetment,’ said Aragorn before turning his searing gaze once more upon the Southrons, who stood fuming before him. ‘Gondorian liaisons shall be established, both within Umbar and Herumoros, who will report to me all political and militaristic movements within your states. All your warships shall be forfeit to us – to the very last oar – and not one foot north of the Harnen shall your armies step, with the understanding that should you violate these terms, your forces shall at once be disbanded.

‘No tributes or feorms will be levied, in the interest of ensuring the wellbeing of innocent lives within your borders; but no offer of trade with northern lands shall be extended, and the fishing grounds of Umbar are not to extend north of the Núrnered, or west of Tolfalas.’

‘We can scarcely venture beyond the shallows of our shores under such restrictions!’ Tharbadír exclaimed, yet Nubol laid a hand upon his shoulders to temper him.

‘And if we do not accept these terms?’ asked the Yüzbashı.

‘Then we shall come down upon you with the full combined might of Gondor, Rohan, and West Rhûn – the forces of which surround you even now.’

Aragorn allowed this declaration to hang upon the air; it felt tenuous, fragile – as though even the mist drifting down from the clouds above fell with sufficient force to shatter the illusion of choice, and yet it simultaneously bore the brunt of Aragorn’s unyielding resolution.

Tharbadír took a slow, deep breath before replying at last: ‘We cannot accept your terms.’

Pandemonium was instantaneous.

Maeron was the first to leap across the distance and become interlocked in a grappling match with one of the Haradrim, and while none of the company ostensibly bore weapons, it was not Kîzge alone who reached for an expertly concealed blade. Any who chose to look closely might have spied Pallando’s lips muttering indistinctly, and Truva found herself fending off a Southron’s staff with all the artful footwork she could muster. Even Aragorn was called upon to parry several strokes of an audacious Corsair’s attack.

But as the two factions fell upon each other, the Ploíarkos continued to shout over the hubbub. ‘We cannot accept your terms,’ he cried, ‘for it is not we in whom such power lies.’

Just as swiftly as it had begun, the tumult ceased.

‘What mischief and falsity is this?’ Imrahil demanded, chest heaving.

‘We are mere emissaries, captains of our lands,’ said Nubol. ‘The exalted Ephor Herfoth and his Umbarian counterpart remain in the Sutherlands – not for fear, but for the part they played in this campaign.’

A slight crease appeared between Aragorn’s brow; the closest indication of a frown he would give in such a situation. ‘Have you not the authority to speak in their stead?’

Tharbadír beckoned to one Southron soldier, who bore a wicker basket strapped to his back. From a top compartment the Ploíarkos drew writing implements and offered them to Aragorn.

‘Write what you will,’ he said. ‘Though I caution you to be circumspect; your words shall colour all our subsequent interactions.’

‘More than the Sutherlands’ unceasing aggression upon our borders has coloured our interactions?’ Maeron retorted, but Aragorn silently accepted pen and the thinnest of papers as the northern commanders gathered about him in an unsuccessful attempt to keep out the rain. It was a rather splotched letter he returned to Tharbadír.

The Ploíarkos accepted the paper, then proceeded to pull from the soldier’s wicker basket a thrashing pigeon. He shoved Aragorn’s tightly-wound letter into a tiny canister strapped to the bird’s leg, then tossed it high into the air. It flapped off southwards along the river, grey feathers nearly indistinguishable from the overcast sky, until it truly disappeared from sight. Discomfort reigned as the warriors stood about after the bird’s departure.

‘When might we expect a response?’ Lord Faramir ventured.

‘Three, four days perhaps,’ shrugged the Ploíarkos, the epitome of nonchalance. ‘Perhaps longer.’

Aragorn turned on his heel in an instant and strode back towards Annondû with no concern for the Southrons left upon the bridge. One by one, the members of the northern delegation followed, frequently glancing over their shoulders to ensure they did not fall victim to a surprise attack, yet it was in safety they gained the eastern bank.

‘Their insouciance perturbs me,’ Aragorn murmured before the company had so much as gained the seclusion of Teluelin’s council chamber. The crease between his brows grew infinitesimally deeper and his long strides obliged Truva to jog in order to draw apace with him.

‘My lord, if I may,’ she began in a voice rather timid, daunted by Aragorn’s fervid brooding. He paused, allowing the others to overtake them with promises to reconvene shortly in the statehouse.

‘What is it, Marshal?’ he asked, though his eyes spoke as though it was not by her official title he wished to address her.

Truva swallowed hesitantly. ‘I request permission to cross over to the western bank and join the Eorling cavalry there. We have both witnessed the éored’s arrival; I long to be amidst my brethren, and to confer with Éomer King regarding all that has transpired.’

‘You are the foremost Rohirric commander present in this company,’ Aragorn replied, his eyes falling away. ‘You do not need my permission. Speaking as King, I would advise it behoves both Gondor and Rohan to have an envoy from your lands in my counsel’s midst, yet your presence would serve equally well before the gates of Annonaur as upon the east bank. If – as a leader in your own right – you were to inform me of your departure, I could not justly oppose it.’

Truva fought a pained grimace. ‘Then I shall take my leave this very afternoon, following the conclusion of our deliberations,’ she said, unable to look upon Aragorn’s carefully crafted expression of composure. It took Truva’s entire will to prevent herself from enveloping him in an embrace; yet even in that moment a band of guards passed by on unceasing errands.

‘Helm keep you,’ Aragorn whispered, drawing a fraction nearer.

‘I give you the promise of a safe return,’ said Truva. A smile curled at the corner of her lips, an expression soon reflected on Aragorn’s own. They turned and walked side by side (at a far slower pace than before) as they made for Teluelin.

And so Truva found herself upon the southernmost quay of Annondû several hours later, Roheryn at her side. The council’s discussion had been extensive, for not only was there great concern regarding the location of Alatar, but also a particularly heated debate had arisen over whether an authoritative ban of slave labour ought to be included in negotiations, or whether it would be overplaying Gondor’s hand, and that changes ought to be enacted by the Southrons themselves – particularly by a princess by the name of Undómírë. The topic was suspended when no agreement could be reached after several rounds of argument.

But otherwise, Gondor’s protracted siege tactics were well-established, and – hindered as they were by lack of bridges – there was little the forces upon the east bank could do save prevent the Southrons’ retreat across the river. Responsibility fell upon the Swan Fleet to meet the Corsairs in naval combat, should it become necessary.

These were mere preparations – or so it was purported – and yet a jittery energy arced from warrior to warrior throughout Annondû. The docks were abustle with a small fleet of skiffs ferrying supplies and warriors upriver from Harlond.

It was into one of these skiffs Truva climbed, leading Roheryn down along the sloped launch and into the water. The grey pony took to the current at once, allowing it to propel him along the Langflood with Truva close behind. They soon came upon Menelrond, where only the nearest chain had been lowered to allow the passage of Gondorian ships. Roheryn and the tiny skiff passed easily through this archway before continuing downriver, keeping tight to the eastern bank and ensuring they were ever out of range of the Southrons’ bows.

No sooner had they drifted around a slight bend than a hastily-constructed landing came into view on the western bank. A trio of small figures leapt to their feet. Though the distance was still great, the glint of metal weapons being unsheathed was more than apparent.

‘Be not afraid!’ Truva cried out in Eorling. ‘It is I, Truva, Second Marshal of the Mark, returned at last.’

‘The Marshal, the Marshal!’ came the ebullient response. ‘The Marshal has returned!’

Truva nearly wept to hear the tongue of her people once more, and to spy her captain Gamhelm amongst their number. The skiff was soon moored beside an improvised bollard and Truva leapt onto the bank to embrace him.

‘You wear such strange raiment, Marshal,’ said Gamhelm with a laugh as Roheryn emerged from the shallows with a flounce and gave his shaggy coat a great shake, drenching the Eorlingas in river water. ‘We nearly sent a volley or two in your direction!’

‘Well I know it – and it would have been justly deserved, had I given no warning!’ said Truva. ‘But a long and peculiar journey it has been, my friend, and you must excuse my dress. How fare the Eorling defences?’

‘As well as could be expected, all things considered – yet there is news I am sure Éomer King wishes to share with you, and vice versa. You had best be off to make your report, Marshal.’

‘Most certainly,’ said Truva, then added, ‘Keep a sharp eye.’

With a final salute, she withdrew Roheryn’s tack from the skiff and led him off in the direction of Osgiliath’s western gates. Already a faint path had been worn in the grass, and Truva followed this until she came within sight of the northerners’ camp. The sable flags of Gondor fluttered above the pavilions and standards nearest Minas Tirith, but it was towards the tents sandwiched in between these and Annondû that Truva made – those marked by the emerald pennants of the Mark. Even as she crossed a series of ditches and drew near the barricade, the guard greeted her:

‘Hál, Truva Marshal of the Mark!’ came the cry of one.

‘Well met, soldier,’ she replied. ‘I see you are not fooled by my uniform.’

‘It would take a great deal more than strange armour to obfuscate a face we most desperately yearned to see,’ said a second guard, though he was interrupted by yet another voice:

‘Truva!’ Éomer’s bellow deafened all within range, and Truva promptly found herself engulfed in his embrace. ‘I see you return only now that we have licked those upstart Southrons!’

‘I think perhaps your victory is due in no small part to the contributions of those I was with,’ Truva remarked, her voice muffled against Éomer’s arms.

‘Did you know the scoundrels had the audacity to lure Aragorn and myself into a trap, only to propose some peculiar attempt at rapprochement, then ultimately betray us?’ Éomer continued with incredulity, ignoring Truva’s quip. He passed Roheryn’s reins to one guard and pulled Truva in the direction of the pavilion serving as the central command post.

‘So I heard,’ she said. Éomer threw aside the tent flap and thrust her into a seat. Bread and ale already awaited, and only then did Truva realise how entirely ravenous she was.

‘Elfhelm comes anon. It was he who rode in this morning, and even now his company settles into our camp,’ said the King. ‘In the meantime, eat, eat – and fill my head with wondrous tales of your exploits. What is this I hear about allying with Orcs?’

‘It is a tale rather long in telling,’ said Truva, mouth half full of bread. ‘Perhaps you might instead describe to me wha—’

‘Truva!’ exclaimed Elfhelm as he materialised in the pavilion. ‘Thank you for not riding to your death, and thus sparing me the effort of searching out your replacement; it was not a task I was anticipating with any degree of enthusiasm.’

‘There are a great many accomplished Riders who could easily have stepped into my place,’ said Truva, exchanging a hearty embrace with the First Marshal.

‘Gnats, the lot of ’em,’ said Elfhelm dismissively. ‘What news?’

‘There was a parley held this very morning, even as you rode in,’ said Truva. ‘The terms Aragorn King offered were stringent but not unkind; yet upon outlining our stipulations, these Captains of the South pronounced they were not at liberty to accept them – for the respective leaders of Umbar and Harad alone could do so.’

‘And where be these leaders?’ asked Éomer, the muscles of his jaw straining.

‘Away in their fortresses.’

‘Those devilish rogues!’ exclaimed Elfhelm.

‘Word has been sent via pigeon—’ (The King huffed at this.) ‘—yet even as we await their response, Aragorn King asks that we make ready for whatever answer they might give.’

‘Aragorn is wise,’ said Éomer, ‘for while it is possible the Southrons act with sincerity, the delay might also simply be an artifice by which they hope to garner more time for their own attack. Yet his highness needn’t have fretted; already we have begun the construction of siege engines and the digging of mines – though progress is, of course, quite slow.’

‘We have stockpiled pitch and brimstone, also,’ said Elfhelm, ‘and continue to gather projectiles – though that is no easy task; anything that might be of use is so far afield, having been cleared after the War.’

Truva nodded. ‘Well, perhaps we might chance upon a stroke of luck, and all such preparations will be rendered unnecessary by the Southrons’ surrender.’

Silence fell momentarily amidst the three; none wished to gainsay such a sentiment, though they knew it to be unlikely. Truva masked her discomfort with several voracious bites of roast chicken.

‘Now tell us, what of Rhûn?’ asked Éomer again in an attempt to divert the subject.

Wondering how many times she would be called upon to recount her experiences, Truva sped through the story as quickly as such things allowed; yet even after she had long finished her meal and begun to follow Éomer and Elfhelm about on a tour of the Eorling camp, she continued to recount the warm reception that turned sour beneath the Lonely Mountain, and her interactions with the West Rhûn Orcs, and the deceitful nature of Alatar.

She was careful, however, not to mention any details with which Éomer might stitch together an underlying story. The knowledge of her parentage still sat lodged in Truva’s chest, pressing painfully against her ribcage, threatening to constrict her throat; she had not yet come to terms with its possible ramifications, and there was another with whom she first wished to share it.

But this omission did not go unnoticed by Éomer.

‘And what of your second purpose in travelling East?’ he asked quietly when Truva at last finished her tale. Following a long, meandering path, the trio had eventually arrived before a series of siege towers hidden amidst a copse of firs. They now stood observing a team of carpenters as they set about hewing yet another.

Truva glanced at Elfhelm and the carpenters, but could not look her King in the eyes when she mumbled, ‘Might I speak of it some other time? I must admit it came as quite a shock to my own self.’

‘Certainly,’ said Éomer, a soft smile appearing. ‘You needn’t tell me if you haven’t the mind to.’

‘I can at least assure you it has no bearing on the current conflict,’ Truva rushed to add.

Éomer chuckled gently at her sudden enthusiasm, and for the briefest of spells Truva felt transported back to when she had first met the horsemaster – back to years before the War, when each bore their own scars but were untouched by the grave tragedies yet to come, events now irreversibly etched into their hearts and features. Back to a time when their weightiest burdens were their own, and not those of great nations and of evil and death.

In silence, the trio returned to camp and settled into the monotony of simply waiting. Two days of sheer inactivity passed, then three and four. Rain came and went, either pouring or threatening to do so. Hushed discussions were held regarding the logistics of shifting siege engines through deep mud, and precisely where they ought to be positioned. Rumours of movement in the northern reaches of Annonaur meant a contingent of Riders was posted in that area, but otherwise the camp lay still – tense, but hushed.

When not in council with the King and First Marshal, discussing what little news came through from Annondû, Truva found ways to occupy herself – whether aiding in the construction of yet another ballistae or crafting a replacement chair for one Éomer King had splintered (for in his frustration following yet another day of monotony, he had thrown himself a bit too heavily into a delicate camp chair).

To alleviate her boredom, Truva often sought out Roheryn. They would ride out with patrols or ferry supplies from the Rammas Echor, where the merchants of Mundburg transferred foodstuffs and weapons into small carts bound for the encampment. It was on one such latter trip that Truva nearly dropped a crate of apples on her toe upon hearing her name shouted through the archway.

‘Truva!’ came the enthusiastic cry as a newly-arrived cart rolled up.

Truva turned to spy a familiar face she had not expected to encounter again for quite some time. ‘Aerin!’ she exclaimed with delight. Long had it been since last she visited the seamstress’ shop in Minas Tirith, or worn their exquisite dress; the silver pool of fabric still lay tucked reverently away within the trunk at the foot of her bed in Edoras. ‘What brings you here? How fare the others, and the shop?’

‘That is several questions at once, Marshal!’ the young woman laughed. ‘The others are quite well, thank you, and the shop has been flourishing, thanks in large part to Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn’s wedding. As for why I’m here, I have brought clean linens of all kind – and you seem to be in dire need,’ she added, eyeing Truva’s deplorable state of dress. Not even a quick wash in the river nor extensive mending had made the warrior’s tunic or hose fit for anything save the battlefield; and while functionally adept, Truva was certainly not the most accomplished sewer.

‘We thank you kindly once again for your generosity,’ she said, setting down the apple crate and accepting a bundle of cloaks from Aerin.

‘And once again, it is the least we can do to thank you for fending off those who would subjugate our lands and people.’

‘The Southrons are not yet defeated,’ Truva reminded her.

Aerin’s grin was infectious. ‘I suspect that soon they shall be, and then you will come into the newly reforged walls of Minas Tirith and dine amongst us again!’

‘I could hope for nothing greater. Thank you for your words of encouragement, my friend.’

‘Yes, well, go now and spread that sentiment to the others – or at least try to smile on occasion as you work yourself halfway to death,’ Aerin chided, shooing Truva away. ‘And best make sure you return in one piece – otherwise it would be such a waste of one dress I’ve been working on in particular.’

And so, with a disbelieving shake of her head but spirits lifted, Truva returned to camp and set about organising supplies with renewed vigour. Yet there were only so many duties to be executed, and as there were a great many soldiers to execute them, Truva spent several days wandering aimlessly about the camp in search of work to be done.

With so little to occupy her time (and being expressly forbidden by Éomer King from keeping night watch) it was the first time in a long while – perhaps even since her departure from Aldburg – that Truva was able to fully rest. She even succeeded in sleeping from dusk until dawn two nights in a row. Thus she was deep in slumber, in the third hour past midnight, when the cacophony of horns roused her.

Truva was on her feet with sword in hand before she was fully awake. Thrusting her head through the tent split to discover the commotion’s source, she spied Éomer racing towards her in the darkness.

‘The northern activity was a ploy,’ he shouted. ‘The Southrons make for Harlond – you shall need your horse.’

The faster Truva strove to buckle her armour, the clumsier her fingers grew. With an aggravated grunt she slid her helm over freshly-braided hair and dashed towards the horse picket. Even in the chaos, Roheryn remained composed and serene; where Bron might have been pulling at his lead, anxious to join the fray, the northern pony stood unperturbed, and did not move an inch as Truva’s hands flitted about, tacking up.

Within moments, she had thrown herself into the saddle and spun Roheryn around. Firefoot darted about just ahead, Éomer upon his back barking commands to the Eorlingas. Beside them rode Elfhelm. Truva urged Roheryn forward as many Riders fell in behind.

‘They poured over the city walls during the lull of middle watch,’ Éomer called to her. ‘I’ve no notion of how they came by so many ropes and ladders; they are more numerous than summer mosquitoes along the Entwash! Our Riders alone cannot stop them, and the forces of Minas Tirith are only enough to come behind and prevent their retreat back to Osgiliath. We must slow their progress until the forces at Harlond can muster a defence.’

‘I know not whither these Corsairs and Men of Harad think they will go,’ exclaimed Elfhelm. ‘Surely they do not believe they can slip past the harbour on foot!’

Yet even in that moment, the full scope of the Southrons’ plan was laid bare before them: the black prow of a Corsair dromund peeking forth beneath the arches of Menelrond. Rather than catch upon the harbour chains, however, the bowsprit inclined upwards until nearly half the vessel was visible. Then, in that very same moment, the bow began to shift downwards, lifting the stern and freeing it from the chains, as well. This vessel was followed by another, and another.

Corsair skeleton crews propelled the dromunds; the remaining Southrons had fled West Osgiliath to race along the banks of Langflood under the cover of darkness, seeking to board their ships some distance downriver.

‘I myself witnessed the fleeing Haradrim’s passing,’ said Elfhelm. ‘How is it they have already vanished from sight?’

‘They will continue southwards,’ said Éomer grimly as he spurred Firefoot on. ‘They have no other choice. We must come upon them before their ships do – it is their dromunds against our Mearas!’

In one swift motion, banks of oars protruded from the dromunds and splashed down into the water, driving the ships forward past the Swan Fleet – which sat moored upon the opposite side of Langflood, defending the single lowered chain. The sailors of Dol Amroth scrambled to cast off, yet already the Corsair dromunds pulled further and further ahead; not even a hail of arrows from Gondorians upon the deck of Menelrond slowed their progress.

On, on – on into the dark the Eorlingas rode, the lights of Osgiliath fading behind them. Their eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, but still it was not easy to discern what lay ahead; the gathering mist further obfuscated friend and foe alike.

The splash of oars continued to chase the Riders as the sound of retreating footfalls continued to evade them. Many frenzied minutes passed, the tell-tale splash punctuated only by the horses’ snorting breaths. Even as the Eorlingas strained their eyes and ears, the Corsair droumunds seemed to pull ahead – yet still there was no sign of the forces on foot.

Then Gamhelm, more keen-sighted than his compatriots, sent up a cry from the éored’s right flank: ‘The Southrons! The Southrons!’

A series of small, shapeless masses appeared, dark against the inky hillscape and sable Langflood waters. Clusters of Haradrim were strung out along the riverbank as they ran, as many in number as there were dromunds.

‘Elfhelm, take the western position,’ Éomer commanded. ‘See they do not flee to Minas Tirith. Truva, swing southwards and cut off their advance towards Harlond. I shall attempt to drive between them and the river, preventing their convergence with the ships. If we are lucky, Stoningland foot soldiers will box them in from the north.’

‘Aye, my lord,’ replied the two Marshals, each raising their horn to their lips. Upon hearing the Horn of Eofor, those Riders assigned Truva’s éored galloped after her as she and Elfhelm arced westwards, bypassing the knots of sprinting Southrons. Yet even as Elfhelm slowed in drawing even with the middle-most companies, Truva pressed on.

The instant her éored began to circle back, an arrow whistled past her left ear. The nearest cluster of Haradrim closed ranks against the approaching Riders, releasing another smattering of arrows, and then a whole volley – one of which struck Truva squarely in the chest, only to leave a small dent in her Easterling armour.

Even as she and the other Riders fell upon the Southrons, Éomer’s horn rang across the water. The shadows of his Riders splashed through the shallows of Langflood, chasing after adversaries who struck out towards the foremost dromund drifting down the current.

The Eorling King’s horn was echoed by that of Elfhelm, then of the Gondorian forces – though they still lay a great distance off. Truva lent the Horn of the House of Éofor to the chorus, regrouping her Riders as several Southron companies combined to form a stronger line of defence. The Eorlingas charged forwards regardless, knocking improvised pikes aside as their foes fell away – only to reform the line in a position slightly to the south, following the movement of their dromunds down the river.

This pattern became an exhausting cycle, more Southrons slipping away each time to swim towards their escape. In a moment of chaotic confusion, Truva found herself unhorsed; she struck blindly upwards against an enemy who blended seamlessly into the night sky. Some vital point must have been struck, for he fell beside her, no longer moving.

As Truva remounted, she discerned with immense relief the tramp of Gondor’s ground forces in the distance, and the Swan Fleet sails – white visible even in the darkness – approaching from the north. But her joy was contrasted with the Haradrim’s despair; the ferocity with which they fought increased tenfold, and chilling howls rose up from their ranks when the Corsairs, sensing the snare closing in, plied their oars to the water once more. The dromunds were suddenly propelled forward rather than kept steady, leaving any ill-fated soldier still fighting upon the banks to fend for himself.

Truva drew her bow. Past tribulations suffered by Gondor at the hands of the Sutherlands flashed in her mind: Pelargir in flames, the betrayal of Aragorn and Éomer in favour of Alatar, the death of Fofrin – and then she considered all the cruelty the Southrons might still inflict, if not defeated and bound by the terms set forth by Aragorn.

Perhaps it was her base emotions that controlled her, rather than calling purposefully upon inner strength when needed, as Pallando had taught her; yet Truva moved with intention as her jaw tightened and limbs jittered. She breathed in deeply, aiming as best she could in the darkness, and loosed a single bolt.

One dromund burst immediately into flame, a second soon succumbing to the conflagration as well. Masses of Southrons leapt overboard, those who had only so recently swum for the ships now striking out towards shore. The Swan Ships fell upon the remainder of the Corsair fleet, blocking both the retreat to Osgiliath and the escape southwards, and swiftly boarded the near-empty decks. Upon the banks of Langflood, the Eorlingas shepherded dripping Southron soldiers back to their compatriots who, in seeing themselves abandoned, laid down their arms.

Thus ended the Conflict of Reparations.

Chapter Text

A watery dawn rose upon the bustling banks of Langflood as captive Southrons were ushered back into Osgiliath and imprisoned within gaols scattered throughout the city. Thorough sweeps of Annonaur upturned a fair number of straggling Corsairs and Haradrim, who were swiftly sent to join their brethren, as were those picked up by Gondorian patrols sent out in search of any adversary who may have evaded notice in the night. Thus, full control of the garrison in its entirety was reestablished, long before high noon brought the sun’s determined attempts to break through persistent cloud cover.

Messengers upon the swiftest of horses were sent far afield to apprise various lands of the conflict that had raged in Gondor, and to deliver news of victory; they made for as near as Minas Tirith and Cair Andros, to as distant as the Riddermark and Dol Amroth, the kingdoms of Rhovanion and even the Hidlands. Official summons were dispatched also to the Sutherlands, demanding the attendance of Captain Castamir and Ephor Herufoth at the new accords’ ratification – for there would no longer be any hope of negotiations for these aggressors.

Yet the most startling of missives was sent in the opposite direction, and received by the commanders of the Northern Host as they reunited after the morning’s skirmish. No sooner had they sat down together for conference in Teluelin, joined at last by Éomer King and Elfhelm Marshal, than an Eorling Rider tumbled through the chamber door and crumpled into a bow.

‘My lords,’ he gasped, short of breath after a breakneck race across the land.

‘Bide your time, Rider,’ said Aragorn. ‘Break your fast at our table. Here is water for you.’

The Rider – one Truva had seen on occasion in Edoras, and knew by the name of Fleófót – grabbed the goblet Aragorn offered and poured equal parts into his mouth and upon his hauberk. Slowly, his breath began to even and his hands trembled less.

‘Six days it took Théoden King to lead the éoherë to battle before the gates of Mundburg during the War,’ he said. ‘I have done the same in four.’

‘What is it that drove you with such urgency?’ asked Éomer, his voice sharpening to an edge.

‘An attack—’ Fleófót began, but no sooner had he spoken these words than Éomer, Elfhelm, and Truva all leapt to their feet, followed immediately by Kîzge – who had not quite gathered the full nature of events, but was swift to action nevertheless.

‘An attack?’ Éomer exclaimed. ‘We must ride at once!’

‘No, my lord!’ said Fleófót. ‘All things are well now – though they were not always so.’

‘If your words were but a little more obfuscating, I would think you a Wizard,’ said Éomer. ‘Tell me straightforwardly what has happened!’

‘Well, milord, it was with great surprise that we in Edoras spied the beacons aflame, for the summons came so long after your departure, and we had heard little news in the meantime. But Elfhelm Marshal gathered about him as many Riders as could be spared and departed with all haste.’

‘Many Riders joined us at Aldburg, for they too had seen the beacon of Halifirien, and were ready to ride out,’ Elfhelm addended. ‘But we did not leave a large guard, for the last communications we received had said the assault was small and had come from the south; we thought it unlikely our cities would be in any great danger, particularly if we rode out to confront this threat. And yet we came under attack – how can that be? I did not spy any enemies upon Hérweg.’

Fleófót’s eyes grew wide; he stared sightless through the chamber windows’ vibrant panelled glass. ‘They appeared on horseback before the gates of Edoras not two days after the Marshal and his Riders were gone.’

‘Who?’ asked Éomer.

Each of the leaders leaned in with rapt attention, even Pallando as he murmured in Orcish to the West Rhûn contingent.

‘Easterlings, or so they said, though their livery was like nothing that I witnessed during the War. They rode at least a thousand strong – with a Wizard at their helm.’

‘Alatar,’ Truva murmured.

‘He must have turned westwards once beyond my vision,’ said Pallando.

‘Perhaps the promise of an undefended Edoras proved more attractive to him than truly allying with the Southrons,’ said Aragorn. ‘Or perhaps that was his intention all along – to leave Osgiliath to be split between Umbar and Harad, and take Rohan for himself.’

‘What followed?’ Éomer asked of Fleófót.

‘The Wizard claimed to be a diplomatic emissary, seeking an alliance against the Southron threat. And though we knew relations between Stoningland and the East to have been somewhat eased by resolutions following the War, we did not see fit to trust them, and thus refused them entrance.’

‘I should like to hope they subsequently departed without protest or commotion,’ said Éomer. ‘Yet I suspect this is not so.’

‘They attacked,’ Fleófót confirmed. ‘With many men and horses and fire that could not be extinguished, they attacked. For two risings of the sun we fought, milord, and bitterly; every warrior and citizen who remained in the capital did their part, yet these adversaries were too great in number – too powerful, too well-trained.’

Éomer closed his eyes and rested his head between thumb and forefinger. ‘What needless waste, what condemnable slaughter,’ he sighed. ‘Yet you say all is now well in Edoras? How is this possible?’

‘Any news bearing tidings of lost brethren is ill news, it is true,’ Fleófót acknowledged. ‘But you would not believe it, my lord! Even as the Easterlings poured over our defences, Gríma Wormtongue – yes, Gríma, the disgraced advisor doomed by his own actions to live the remainder of life in servitude to the Eorlingas – that very same Gríma leapt from the battlements onto the Wizard below! There was a brief flurry and tumble, and neither was to rise again.’

Stunned silence filled the chamber. Truva stared uncomprehendingly at the still-breathless messenger, several beads of sweat trickling down his temples. Even Pallando, often the embodiment of composure, appeared a storm of emotions.

Disconcerted, Fleófót babbled on in the lull: ‘Following the death of their leader, the Easterlings continued to battle for a time, yet their strength waned and it seemed they lost their will to fight, and were soon overcome.’

‘You were right, in the end,’ said Éomer, turning to Truva. ‘He who once sought to destroy the Mark has in turn saved it – thanks in part to your speaking on his behalf. I did not think Gríma capable of redemption, yet I see now I was wrong.’

‘I was not alone in advocating for Gríma,’ Truva said, her words muddled. ‘Aragorn King also saw fit to spare him.’

Éomer merely pursed his lips at this comment; perhaps his thoughts, like Truva’s, were suddenly flooded with memories of Théoden King and his bold confrontation of Saruman at the steps of Isengard all those moons ago. The congregation fell into a contemplative quietude once more.

‘Traitors redeemed, enemies become brothers in arms, allies turned against allies,’ said Faramir after a time, shattering the dazed atmosphere. ‘It is clear, now more than ever, that we cannot assume the true nature of our fellow Man.’

‘Or beings of any race,’ Maeron added with a nod to Kîzge, who grunted in agreement.

‘What of you, Wizard?’ asked Aragorn of Pallando. ‘Your countenance is unusually pale; perhaps some wine to fortify you?’

‘If you will forgive me,’ said Pallando, inhaling a rattling breath. He appeared decades older than he had mere moments ago. ‘For many turns of the sun did I fight against Alatar; and yet I once called him brother, and sought to defend the Free Peoples of Middle-earth against Sauron with him, standing side by side. It grieves me that he strayed so far from that course, and we are thus parted – perhaps for eternity.’

‘Not even Wizards are spared the vile cruelties of war,’ said Faramir, regret thick upon his voice.

Aragorn shifted in his seat. ‘Let each man to his own grieving of those who are gone, and elation for those who live yet, when we are done with our counsel,’ said he, ‘and so let us be brief. King Éomer, you may of course move as mood suits you, and so I would not begrudge your removal to Rohan if you so choose – particularly with consideration for the startling news we have just received. Yet were you to remain in Osgiliath, we would gratefully accept your assistance during the accords, when the Southerland lords come.’

‘With Fleófót’s assurances that all is well in Edoras, I would be more than happy to lend my services to the Stoningland,’ said Éomer. ‘Indeed, your strength is the Riddermark’s, in turn.’

‘Lord Imrahil,’ Aragorn continued, ‘the Southrons’ coming gives me pause, though they were left with no more than a handful of dromunds when we fled those lands. Can I entrust to you the task of escorting the emissaries north – from Pelargir at least, if not Tolfalas?’

‘If you made no mention of it, I would have proposed the notion myself,’ the Prince replied.

‘Very well; I leave to you the determination of how many ships will be necessary. As for Rhûn,’ said Aragorn, turning to Kîzge and Pallando, ‘there is a great deal left to discuss between you and I regarding the nature of our lands’ relations going forward. But let us not bore our compatriots – for I imagine we shall have many positions to discuss at length – and adjourn this gathering for the time being. Our troops must be regathered, and our defences rebuilt as much as possible before the Captain and Ephor’s arrival; we haven’t much time.’

With that, all save the West Rhûnians rose from their seats and exited the chamber. Under Éomer King’s direction, the Eorlingas set about the labours of putting a city back to rights. Truva herself spent a greater portion of the day clearing rubble from the streets of Annonaur before joining Maeron in the surrounding fields, where many engines of war had fallen prey to the Southrons’ projectiles. Ladders, siege towers, and battering rams were extricated – still intact, where possible – from the dry dike surrounding the western battlements.

The sun was already below the horizon when the dike was once more clear of debris, but still there were tasks to be done. Even as campfires and torches were lit about the Eorling camp, Truva put herself to use in the mess tent, peeling barrels of potatoes before applying herself to the rapidly accumulating dishes. She was standing out behind the tent, sleeves rolled up and elbow-deep in a tub of murky water alongside a pair of young Riders who had been caught taunting a Corsair sailor, when Aragorn appeared. Rather than greet her with joy, however, the King’s expression was one of utmost seriousness.

‘The Wizard Pallando has posited that I ought to speak with you before any decision is made regarding the future of Rhûn – particularly with regard to the ruling of the East Sea region,’ he said quietly, so as not to be heard by the two Riders; their attempts at eavesdropping were far from surreptitious.

Truva pushed the sweaty wisps of hair clinging to her forehead back with one arm. ‘What has he told you?’ she asked, her caution plain.

‘Very little,’ Aragorn reassured her. ‘He seemed to consider it a personal matter. Do his concerns perhaps have any relevance to your secondary purpose for travelling within those lands?’

‘Yes.’

Truva said no more. Allowing the bowl in her hands to slip back into the water, she laid the rag across the tub rim and gave the nearest Rider an encouraging clasp on the shoulder. When she stood, however, her knees wobbled momentarily beneath her. Aragorn was quick to slip a steadying arm beneath her elbow; and though Truva swiftly recovered, he continued to support her as they made their way to the tent assigned the Second Marshal.

‘You ought to rest, not flit about both city and camp, exerting yourself beyond measure,’ he chastised as they ducked into the tent and Truva felt about for the lamp. ‘Our leaders are no good to us when they push themselves beyond the brink of exhaustion.’

‘Do you speak such words as Aragorn, High King of Gondor – or as Aragorn, Ranger of the North; the man whose Star I keep even now?’

The lamp’s glow flickered into existence, revealing Aragorn’s tousled locks and careworn features. His grey eyes glimmered in the light. ‘Must I choose?’ he murmured.

Truva had no answer. She took a seat on the very edge of the camp bed and allowed her gaze to drift around the cramped yet spartan tent: the low stool Aragorn now sat on, her rucksack, and little else. Gentle rain began to patter on the canvas, mingling with the muffled sounds of camp supper just beyond. Truva’s mouth felt suddenly very dry, as though she had walked the entirety of the Laurinairë Aragorn had described in his tales of Harad.

‘I spoke to you of my coming to Karkürem,’ she began, ‘and of Alatar’s ultimate betrayal – yet I gave no reasoning as to why the Wizard might expect a captain of his enemy’s forces to so easily abandon their own people and cause.’

‘I must admit, I thought it odd he offered a stranger the opportunity to join his ranks,’ said Aragorn. ‘Yet the conceit of some men is so acute it cannot be overestimated.’

‘It was not merely conceit that drove Alatar’s actions, though he held it in abundance.’ Truva’s breath came shallow and stuttering now, but her eyes were clear and her determination unfaltering. ‘No, there was another reason. You see, it was not merely a conflict over resources that created the rift between East and West Rhûn, or – more importantly – the two Wizards. In his greed and desire for power, Alatar took the King of the Easterling clans as his wife, and sired a child.

‘Yet in finally discerning the Wizard’s true intentions, the King fled north, taking her daughter with her. There the King died, and her daughter fell into the hands of Dwarf traders bearing east to the Hithaeglir, and to the Hidden Lands beyond.’

Silence consumed the tent as Aragorn parsed her meaning. ‘So you are, in all technicality, the King of East Rhûn,’ he stated.

‘I was born of the Wizard Alatar and the Easterling King Ezele,’ said Truva, her tone even and uninflected. ‘Beyond that, I cannot say; I do not even speak their languages, nor has any official overture been made – and I am not sure I would or could accept it, even if it were.’

Aragorn’s lips grew thin for a time as he pondered the full breadth of influence this realisation might have. At last, he sat up and declared, ‘Let this be clear: if you feel you must lay claim to the throne of Rhûn in order to consider yourself my equal, and worthy of the engagement between us, set all such thoughts aside.’

He drew his stool nearer, sitting before Truva to peer deep into her eyes, searching, wondering. ‘I cannot lie and say it would not be easier to forge a political path if you ascended to such an eminent position as King of Rhûn; yet the people of Gondor know you to be a warrior of the most elite calibre, from the Rohirrim’s highest ranks – a beacon of the brightest light. I know they would accept you without hesitation, regardless of illustrious titles. You are, in and of yourself, enough – not only to myself, but to my people, as well.

‘In truth, when first we met, I thought you timid and unsure,’ he whispered, caressing Truva’s cheek, fingertips just barely grazing her skin. The furrow between his brows grew deeper. ‘But I could not have been more wrong; you are steadfast and strong, a fixed star when all the sky is obscured by cloud. How blind I was to not see your passion, your vehemence – for who else is so thoroughly devoted to a land not originally their own? Were you to grant me just a fraction of that ardour, it would sustain me until the end of my days.’

‘Therein lies the greater problem,’ Truva cut in, voice full of anguish. ‘I am merely Peristar; it seems I have inherited some small modicum of magical ability, yet perhaps not the unimpeded skills a full Istar would ordinarily expect.’

‘I will love you regardless,’ Aragorn insisted.

‘And I too shall love you until the very last breath is gone from my breast,’ Truva whispered, tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. ‘Yet who can say when that may be, how many years after your own passing? For even mixed with the blood of an Easterling woman, that of an Istar is sure to elongate my life beyond measure.

‘Do not mistake me!’ she hastened to add as Aragorn pulled back, hand falling from her cheek. ‘I am more than willing to make the same sacrifice Arwen once promised you; as you once said, all the years of eternity I could endure in exchange for spending the most fleeting of moments at your side.’

‘Then what is it that gives you pause?’ Aragorn’s countenance was stormy, his brows drawn sharp together in hurt and confusion.

A single tear tracked down Truva’s cheek. She brushed it away, yet took several moments for her to collect sufficient courage to say, ‘There are other sacrifices I do not think I can possibly bear to bring upon myself.’

‘Namely?’

Truva’s voice was scarcely audible when she said, ‘The conceiving of an heir.’

Aragorn leaned fully back. Even as he spoke, he did not appear to fully comprehend her words. ‘But you would make the most wonderful of mothers!’

‘Perhaps – though I have never had a mother figure of my own, and the thought that I might not have so much as a sliver of nurturing character terrifies me,’ said Truva, eyes falling to her lap, where Aragorn clutched her hands so tight her fingertips had gone white. She returned the gesture in kind, equally desperate to cling onto that which she longed for most intensely.

‘No, being an unfit mother is not what I fear most – though I most certainly do fear it,’ she continued. ‘What I fear most is that I shall prove to be a wonderful mother, as you say; and that I shall love my children as deeply as I love you. I fear that I shall fail to pass down my longevity in full, and thus watch each of my children die before me – perhaps even my children’s children, and their children, as well. So many generations gone, and I will be left as dust, a mere shadow of hearts broken by the passing of all whom I love. That is a torture I could not bear!

‘But you are King, and there are expectations placed upon you that extend beyond your own desires, yet even outside of expectations, I imagine such desires include an heir. I cannot justly ask you to make the same sacrifice I wish to make; I merely sit before you with no expectations, laying the reality of myself before you, at your feet.’

Aragorn stared at her a long while, knuckles clenching and unclenching. Indecision gripped him, pulling at the corners of his mouth. Then he stood abruptly and said, ‘You must excuse me.’

In a flash he had strode from the tent, lamps extinguishing in a gust of wind as the flap closed behind him.

Left alone in the dark, Truva sat half-stunned, half resigned. Then quite suddenly she fell upon the camp bed, tears bursting forth uncontrolled and unbidden.

The one man who had peeled back her façade of quiet reservation, who had seen her for all that she was, and helped her to see it in turn! He who had not pitied Truva for a history that was beyond her control, had not looked down on her for being some strange misfit amidst the Eorlingas! It was Aragorn who had shown her the humanity within herself, the person beyond the warrior, while simultaneously revealing to her the leader he believed she could become.

He had become to Truva a source of respite when all the tides of the world set her adrift, yet now he had let go – it was he who had set her adrift.

The rain mimicked her tears, growing heavier and strumming down upon the tent. Hour dragged on into hour, sometimes hinting at the freedom of sleep, only for Truva to be pulled back into wakefulness each time. Unable to escape the burning shame of Aragorn’s rejection – predictable though it may have been – it was the wee hours of the night before the cycle of insomnia subsided and Truva was at last lulled into slumber.

When she awoke the following morning, still the rain poured down. Truva lay in the grey half-light of dawn, staring up at the canvas roof, pulled taut against the rivulets of water. Thoughts of Aragorn immediately crowded her mind; and the more desperate she sought to banish them, the more intensely they swam before her eyes.

There was nothing to be done save rise and endure the day. But even as Truva sat up on her camp bed and spied the stool Aragorn had sat upon, her hand reached automatically for the Star pinned at her hip. She unfastened it, examining its gleaming features in the dusky tent. With a heavy sigh, she placed it beneath her pillow, determining to return it to Aragorn – perhaps by some contrived method in which she would not have to face him.

Standing suddenly, Truva made for the exit – and yet the Star burned into her back. She paused at the tent door, locked in hesitation for one moment, two. Then, in one impulsive motion, she snatched the Star from under her pillow and repinned it beneath her tunic.

Even so, it was burdened by no small air of despondency that she ducked out of her tent and sought out the simplest of breakfasts, feigning as though nothing were amiss. Expertly though it was prepared, the honeyed pottage offered in the mess tent was thick and ashen in her mouth, rendered tasteless by her disaffection for all things that passed before her.

And so Truva set to work like any ordinary day, eager to keep her body busy in hopes that her mind would likewise come to be occupied by thoughts of anything other than Aragorn. Gathering a contingent of Eorling Riders and a handful of Rhûnic Orcs, she descended upon the streets of Annondû, which were still cluttered with the refuse of conflict. And yet it seemed fate was both in her favour and yet not; even as she toiled, Truva caught the briefest glimpses of Aragorn as he strode along the ramparts in inspection of the main gatehouse. Perhaps she imagined it, or perhaps he was equally eager to avoid her as she him; his gaze slid past her when he descended the battlement stairs, and he did not draw near.

Nor was it Aragorn who approached, long after darkness had folded around the motley company and sent them scampering off to their various taverns and dining halls and mess tents. Untempted by the prospect of yet another torturous meal (or the possibility of encountering Aragorn during it), Truva had taken up a position on the heights of Menelrond. She cast her gaze southwards to the distant lights of Harlond, which shimmered through the gentle curtain of rain, superseded only by the towering city of Minas Tirith off in the west.

She fought against the urge to look down, to where Fofrin’s limp body had splashed into the waters of Langflood; for fear the sight would draw her in too strongly.

‘I was led to believe you were verboten by Éomer King from both organising and conducting night watch,’ said Pallando as he appeared as if from nowhere and settled in beside her. The rain was undeniably lessened in the Wizard’s presence, as though he were protected by an expansive, unseen cloak.

‘I serve no official capacity here,’ Truva replied. ‘And Elfhelm Marshal is perfectly capable of organising watch himself.’

Pallando laughed gently. ‘Yet I have heard it is the Second Marshal who has an especial knack for grouping soldiers best able to keep each other awake in the long hours of middle watch.’

‘You must learn not to take Elfhelm Marshal’s compliments on faith, as they often mask his underlying intentions: in this case, to convince anyone other than himself to take a duty he most desperately despises.’

Tepid smiles blossomed, only to quickly fade. Both Marshal and Wizard allowed the river’s roar to fill the silence that followed, each harried by their own individual ruminations. Behind them, the march of guards was unceasing; the sounds of revelry drifted up, as well, along with the tantalising scents of roasting fish and fowl.

‘I am terribly sorry about Alatar,’ Truva spoke at last. ‘It is one thing to lose a father I have never known, but another entirely to lose a lifelong friend – regardless of how embittered that friendship became.’

Pallando gave a gentle hmm but said nothing further, his eyes narrowed in thoughts she could not guess. ‘I very much doubt it is Alatar’s death that grieves you now,’ he remarked.

When Truva turned to scrutinise him, the Wizard’s profile flickered in the light of torches. ‘Whatever do you mean?’ she demanded.

‘I had come tonight with the intention of resuming your training, now that the immediate threat of war is ended,’ said he. ‘I was very much struck by the feat you displayed upon the Southrons’ escape, and wished to explore it – yet it seems to me there is something more pressing that occupies your mind.’

Truva shifted uncomfortably. ‘I must admit, I do not believe myself to be in the right spirit to devote much energy to our research, such as it is.’

But something about Pallando’s implied question sent Truva’s thoughts reeling. She felt certain, now more than ever, that it had been wise to keep knowledge of the affection between herself and Aragorn a secret. Yet only in that moment did she finally allow herself to truly contemplate the prospect of a future without Aragorn.

Could she remain a dutiful Marshal, guiding the Eorlingas throughout the ages, watching over each King in succession? Or perhaps she ought to assume the role granted her by birth, working in tandem with those who knew what secrets her past held, and what trials she was yet to face? Yet if she chose such a path, it was surely not due to any affinity for the youth she had been deprived of, or a sense of connection to the person she had failed to become.

Truva’s chest grew tight at the thought of a life that never was, which continued to rob her of a life she so desperately desired.

‘I do not think I shall ever wish to know the name given to me by Alatar and the King,’ she blurted suddenly, surprising even herself; yet if the Wizard was startled by this unexpected shift in conversation, he gave no indication. Nor did he push her for any further discussion.

‘As you wish,’ was all he said.

They lapsed once more into silence, allowing the river to fill the space between them even as they retired for the evening.

Another day dawned with equal melancholy. Following another sleepless night, Truva sat in the Eorling mess tent, glowering at her half-loaf of bread and spoonful of preserves. It was in such an absent state that Maeron Captain discovered her.

‘Your rations will be snatched from beneath your nose if you continue on like that,’ he said, both smile and voice exceptionally cheerful.

‘If the others are so hungry, let them eat to their contentment,’ Truva replied, offering the loaf to the Rider beside her, who accepted it with enthusiasm. When she rose and exited the mess tent, Maeron hastened to keep stride.

‘Will you and several of your company not deign to lend assistance to my endeavours today?’ he asked, flitting about in Truva’s wake as she made for the main city. ‘We must shift a great amount of debris at Menelrond, and more hands would be greatly appreciated. The King’s advisor Aphadir has said the efforts of your team have been unparalleled, and there is little left to accomplish in the streets of Annondû.’

One corner of Truva’s lips drew down; the eastern sector had scarcely begun to be cleared. But she merely nodded in wordless acknowledgement of Maeron’s request, and banked southwards and crossed Menelrond. Upon spying Gamhelm and a score of Eorlingas on the eastern docks, preparing for the day’s labours, she gave a short whistle to alert them. They all converged on the recently-besieged bridge guard tower, where they were joined by a company of Gondorians and West Rhûn Orcs, as well as Lord Faramir.

Thus the northerners began to repair the destruction that had been wrought of their own hands. Long brigades of soldiers passed roofing tiles from hand to hand, or cleared refuse from within the tower and lowered it over the ramparts into the streets below. Freshly-hewn doors were mounted onto newly-forged hinges, doubly reinforced in the hopes that they would never be on the opposite side again.

So caught up in their work were they, that all were blind to the approach of travellers out of the southeast. It was Lord Faramir, pushing through the industrious sea of workers, who first alerted Truva to the caravan snaking its way along the road from Ithilien.

‘Milady!’ he cried as he leapt down the battlement steps three at a time.

Squinting her eyes against the rain, Truva discerned Éowyn riding within the foremost wagon, sheltered beneath a canvas top and swaddled in the finest furs and silks. She abandoned her pulley at once and sprinted in the opposite direction of Lord Faramir, through the streets of Osgiliath and on to the Eorling camp beyond Annonaur. She ran and ran until she burst through the flaps of Éomer King’s pavilion.

‘My lord, Lady Éowyn has come!’ she exclaimed breathlessly.

Éomer wasted no time on words. Maps and chairs were sent flying as he darted from the tent, Truva close on his heels. Back they raced across Menelrond to the gate of Annondû, just as the caravan pulled across its drawbridge. Already Lord Faramir sat in the foremost wagon, Éowyn and the baby Elboron both wrapped tightly in his arms.

‘Sister!’ Éomer cried.

A bright smile flashed across Éowyn’s face as she beheld her brother. ‘You rapscallion!’ she chided as Faramir vaulted down and held out a hand to assist her, though she merely passed him the baby instead. Once on the ground, she veritably levitated into Éomer’s arms, but did not slacken her verbal assault: ‘How dare you worry me so, disappearing into the south for months at a time with nary a word! I was half determined to go in search of you myself!’

‘I am rather astonished you restrained yourself,’ Truva quipped, finding herself the next recipient of Éowyn’s embrace.

‘There was very little restraint involved,’ said Captain Beregond of the White Company, who sat upon his horse just beside the wagon. ‘Of all those who lingered behind once Lord Faramir was called away to defend Osgiliath, milady was the most fiery in her defence of Ithilien; we begged her to seek shelter with the young Prince, yet she was the first to draw her blade against those Southrons who came to plunder our yet-humble settlement.’

Éowyn did not see fit to look abashed. ‘Though I have chosen to live out my days as a healer, nurturing all things that grow and are good, still I cannot set aside my old ways, and leave to others the safeguarding of what I hold dear.’

‘The hands of a healer are often those most calloused by the sword hilt,’ spoke a low voice, and the company turned to spy Aragorn emerging from a northern byway. Truva’s chest constricted painfully, yet Aragorn did not look to her but instead to the newly arrived caravan. ‘Both death and life are intrinsic to the path of a warrior.’

Éowyn bowed her head in greeting to the King. ‘Thank you for ensuring the safety of my husband, and the return of my brother, alive and well.’

‘I believe Éomer and I owe each other our lives several times over – which is no less true for Lord Faramir,’ said Aragorn.

‘I see it was not I alone who took unnecessary risks,’ Éowyn replied, shooting a mocking glare to her brother. Éomer’s expression suggested he very much wished to deny any involvement in such dangerous circumstances as the Sutherlands had brought.

‘I hope you can afford him a momentary reprieve from any admonishment,’ said Aragorn, ‘and instead grant me an audience, for there is a rather delicate – yet urgent – matter I wish to confer with you and Lord Faramir regarding.’

Éowyn and her husband exchanged a glance.

‘Most certainly,’ said Faramir, even as Éowyn took Elboron back into her arms.

No sooner had they come than they were gone; Aragorn swept the family off towards Teluelin, failing to acknowledge all others in doing so. Truva was left to stare after his retreating back, consumed by a tumult of emotions she could not disentangle. Not until Éomer laid a hand upon her shoulder did she stir.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘There is work yet to be done.’

Perversely motivated by dejection, Truva redoubled her efforts along the wall, toiling until the deepening gloom called for work to conclude. But even then, she was not yet willing to subject herself to the empty, haunting night hours that faced her; and so she lent her services to final rounds in the infirmary, and to tidying Éomer King’s maps (which were always in such a state of disarray), and to the mucking of the Eorlingas’ makeshift stables. Any task that was to be done, she sought it out.

So deep was the night that only the sparsest of torches burned when Truva returned to her own tent. She collapsed at once onto the cot, back turned stubbornly to the entrance, willing the outside world to fade into nothingness.

Yet sleep would not come easily. Unwelcome thoughts intruded upon Truva’s mind, trapping her in wakefulness; each toss and turn saw unease sink deeper and deeper into her bones. She had, of course, anticipated Aragorn’s reaction – for the duties expected of him were in clear conflict with this new understanding of herself. There was no blame to be placed; they were simply not so harmoniously matched as they first believed themselves to be.

Even so, Truva had not believed Aragorn would revert to taciturn detachment so suddenly, to be so cold and so callous. The recollection of indifference upon his face as he turned from her at the gate that afternoon caused her heart, her throat, her eyes to sear in anguish.

Lost in these ruminations, Truva paid little mind to the sound of her tent flap opening and closing. She feigned sleep in the hopes that the intruder would leave her undisturbed; in all likelihood it was Elfhelm, come to request help organising the next night watch yet again. But Truva felt no compunction for her failure to acknowledge the Marshal; she pressed her eyelids tighter together at the sound of the stool being placed near her camp bed, dreading any words that might emerge.

Then Aragorn spoke in the darkness.

Chapter Text

Aragorn’s steps stilled just as soon as the flap of Truva’s tent fell closed. Indecision gripped him; he turned around once, twice, again. His fingers reached out to the leather flap, then froze. How long he stood there, he knew not – minutes, perhaps, or hours. Then, with a sudden rush of determination, he strode away, off through the Rohhiric encampment, over the dike and through the western Gate, cutting south along the streets of Annonaur to Menelrond then back north again. He did not even pause to converse with the guard, as was his habit.

But once he gained the seclusion of the King’s chambers in Teluelin, still Aragorn’s restlessness did not abate; indeed, it increased a great deal. Round and round he paced, from door to window bank and back again, bed to washbasin, over rug and tile and rug and tile.

His thoughts were scattered, incoherent even to himself. Disconcertion was not a sensation he was overly familiar with, and it frightened him. He had known uncertainty, to be sure; but even in his darkest days, he had always seen a path forward even if he feared to walk it, calculated an action he could take even if he feared to take it. Never before had his sense of duty conflicted so insurmountably with the desires of his heart.

Never before had he felt so utterly lost.

That was in part what had driven him from Truva’s tent – that, and sheer panic.

How thoughtless he had been! How inconsiderate, how cavalier! He had only ever assumed – he was King, after all – there were expectations beyond his control – Truva herself confirmed she had not been blind to such things – it was that very sense of duty that had initially drawn him to her – they had been so perfectly aligned –

Oh, how he had longed to bear all the burdens of their lives together, only to discover it was she who would receive the brunt!

And he had reassured her with words from his own mouth – all those many moons ago, before she ever embarked on that fateful venture. ‘You could be the daughter of Sauron himself and I would love you no less,’ he had said! Ha! If only it were so simple; for while the child does not take on the sins of the father, she would in all likelihood take on the traits of his physical being.

Aragorn came to a standstill before one window overlooking the half-reconstructed city of Osgiliath. He gazed upon the river that clove it and the Fields beyond. The dark bulk of Mindolluin loomed in the distance, punctuated by the fading torches of Minas Tirith just barely visible through a thickening curtain of rain. Drops lashed against the windowpanes and trickled down their diamond cames.

Aragorn closed his eyes in shame. He had left Truva ever so cruelly, without a word, to wonder and worry in her Marshal’s tent. But even he had been surprised by his own actions; how could he possibly express to her the thoughts and emotions he himself could make neither heads nor tails of?

She could be the daughter of Sauron himself.

His words were just as true as the moment he spoke them; he loved her no less.

But the blood of his ancestors, noble and true, flowed in his veins. Aragorn turned his mind to each in turn, as Elrond had taught him in his youth: to Arathorn II and all the Chieftains of the Dúnedain, Arvedui and the Kings of Arthedain, and those of Gondor and Arnor, and all the Lords of Andúnië.

Not even in the years following Isildur’s death, when the House of Elendil was weakest, had this line failed. How was it to be sundered now in peace?

But then Aragorn thought of Truva, and all that she had come to represent: true, unadulterated love, a steady hand of guidance, a haven from the world’s burdens. She was both a warrior brazen in battle and a pragmatic counsellor, empathetic yet wise in ways unknown to kings. Where her knowledge was found lacking, she was willing to devote herself to study; and while it could not be said that she was a natural leader, she took each task as it was thrust upon her, always surpassing expectations. And her association with Rohan and the Hidlands – and potentially Rhûn – was a political benefit most unexpected.

She was, without a doubt, worthy of sitting upon the throne of Gondor.

And Aragorn loved her.

He loved her.

Could he abandon her as abruptly as he had abandoned her tent that evening?

But a thought struck Aragorn then: a way in which he could lighten Truva’s burden, perhaps enough for her to bear. It was an almost blasphemous notion, one which he had not until that very moment had the gall to conjure. And yet! And yet!

Did he dare? Aragorn resumed his pacing, wracked with indecision. It was unheard of, and surely a risk for a kingdom the renewal of which was still in its infancy. But then again, it was not a situation entirely without precedent.

Aragorn paused before his chamber door. Perhaps he ought to begin by proposing the idea to Truva. He cherished her insight, after all – it was one of the many reasons he loved her, and sought to secure her guidance for all his days as King. They could discuss the idea’s merits together, either confirming his ingenuity or clearing his head of this lunacy.

Aragorn was more than halfway to the entrance of Teluelin, eager steps echoing in the marble corridor, when he came to a halt once more.

It was not his choice to make. It would not be he alone who would shoulder the extra weight. There were others he must counsel with before ever speaking a whisper of false hope to Truva; and yet, while hope remained, nor could he fully abandon the last threads that bound them.

Aragorn returned to his room, sullen and dispirited, to watch clouds pour their contents down upon the land he had sworn to protect. Gradually, the last hours of night passed. Sable clouds lightened and the insistent rain abated just enough to go about the day’s duties.

And yet Aragorn hesitated. He knew Truva all too well; whatever emotion it was she felt – whether sorrow or relief, confusion or anger – she would be sure to temper it with industry. He feared that no matter where he went in the garrison, he would find her at work on some bridge, or behind some pile of rubble, or around some corner. She would inquire after his bizarre behaviour and, unable to answer with any degree of honesty, Aragorn would be forced to manufacture some excuse for his sudden departure.

But he was granted no reprieve. No sooner had watery sunlight begun to battle against the rain than a frantic knock sounded at his chamber door.

‘Milord!’ cried the voice of Aphadir from without. The assiduous advisor had, upon Gondor’s victory in Osgiliath, wrapped up any outstanding business in Minas Tirith (or elsewise delegated it to others) and made with all swiftness to his King’s side.

Aragorn sighed heavily and donned a cloak, opening the door even as Aphadir went to knock again. ‘It would not do to delay, I presume?’

‘No, milord, it would not,’ Aphadir agreed, somewhat out of sorts. When Aragorn set off with long strides down the corridor, he scurried after.

Perhaps Aragorn’s luck had turned at last. He did not spy one glimpse of Truva’s chough-coloured braids as he and Aphadir spent the morning in conference with larderers taking stock of all the Southrons had consumed during their brief occupancy of Annonaur – which was considerable. (Indeed, it seemed as though they had spent more time eating than defending their last remaining stronghold.)

Aragorn spoke also with the guards who watched over the Southron prisoners, though there was little to report on that front despite a slight thawing of animosity between several Corsairs and their captors.

‘I haven’t been able to garner much information, save that you’ll likely find less unity in Harad than you might expect,’ one guard reported.

‘That illusion has long been shattered,’ said Aragorn. ‘Keep a sharp eye.’

But his luck ultimately proved not to hold. Just as he climbed up the battlements of Annondû to inspect the destruction wrought by the Uzdígh Orcs upon the southeast guard tower roof (with an unapologetic King Kîzge muttering explanations nearby), Aragorn allowed his attention to be drawn down towards a company of soldiers labouring at piles of rubble in the streets below.

His heart plummeted.

There she was, tunic and hose soaked through by the intermittent rain, bearing off a ceiling beam without any aid. But even as he looked on, Truva’s eyes drifted upwards to find his – to bore into him, to assail him for an excruciating half-moment.

Unable to bear her pained expression, Aragorn’s gaze slid away, back to Kîzge and the hewn guard tower roof. But still he felt Truva’s observation, was acutely aware of her presence, struggled to focus on the task in front of him for the figure below. It took all his might to keep his eyes averted when he descended the battlement stair to join in conference with Pallando in Teluelin.

Even after many hours, when the sky once again grew dark and the Wizard had exhausted the full history of Uzdígh’s involvement (or, more accurately, the distinct lack thereof) in Rhûn’s sorties into Ithilien and north Gondor, still the earthen pools of Truva’s eyes lingered in Aragorn’s mind. And so he set his steps to wandering – first along the rubble-strewn streets of the eastern sector, and then across to Annonaur on one skiff among the night fishermen’s fleet.

Aragorn’s path was aimless, his thoughts preoccupied; he paid little attention to his surroundings. And so it was that he found himself without the gates of the city, footsteps trodding the sodden grassy outskirts of the Rohirrim’s encampment.

Panic rising in his breast, Aragorn glanced about, fearful of spying the one figure he was so desperate to avoid. But he saw only the outline of tents illuminated by campfires, and the indistinct form of guards half-hidden by shadows. And yet, even as he guided his steps back towards the city, he heard a voice hail:

‘Aragorn!’

He spun about to spy Éomer emerging from between the nearest tents and drawing near, cloaked in the clothes of a common man. Aragorn breathed a surreptitious sigh of relief. ‘Good eve, my friend.’

‘What brings you here at this hour? No ill news, I hope!’

‘No news at all, save my inability to pass the nightly hours as they ought.’

‘In that, you are not alone,’ said Éomer. Even in the dark, weariness hung evident upon the Rohirric King’s stature. ‘Not until all this business with the Southrons is concluded will I be able to sleep again – and even then, I suspect it shall never be as restful as it once was.’

Aragorn said nothing in response. Whether it was due to their ever-increasing age, or simply the ever-mounting tribulations and responsibilities of their positions – or some combination of both – he did not doubt Éomer faced precisely the same barrier to the realm of dreams as he.

For a long while the two Kings stood in silence, observing as the bass fishermen’s lanterns bobbed along the stretches of Anduin just north of the garrison. But to Aragorn, this scene was overtaken yet again by a vision of Truva, tears welling in her eyes, tracking down her cheeks.

Consternation burgeoned in his breast; imagined or not, the sight was not one he was accustomed to seeing – not from the stolid Second Marshal, renowned warrior of Rohan. But he had a wisp of hope: a plan by which he might cleanse any sorrow from Truva’s brow, might fulfil the promises he had made, might grant her the future she desired – the future he, too, had come quite suddenly to desire, in learning her heart.

So ensnared was Aragorn in such thoughts that it took him several moments to perceive the approach of two Rohirric guards. When they came before Éomer, they stopped and bowed low, once for each king in turn. ‘Milord, Aragorn King,’ they exclaimed softly before continuing on their rounds, disappearing back into the hazy darkness.

A nebulous thought came to Aragorn’s mind in that moment, one which he knew he ought to share with Éomer, though he did not know how to breach it. For a brief while, he pondered all the ways in which he might ask the impossible of his friend and counterpart.

‘Your men are loyal,’ he remarked after a time, with a nod in the direction of the departed guards.

‘As are yours – and, even more admirably, not to a fault,’ said Éomer, who seemed to take Aragorn’s feigned offhandedness as genuine. ‘Your Captain Beregond spilled the blood of his own brethren in order to preserve the life of Lord Faramir, and now that very same lord serves under you with equal – if not greater – devotion.’

‘Their deeds are rivalled only by those of your own Marshals, who would follow you to whatever end.’

Aragorn paused to breathe deeply and consider his words before forging on: ‘It is good fortune indeed to have emerged upon the other side of the Southron conflict without any great loss amongst our commanders. So heavily did I depend upon the likes of Faramir, Imrahil, Maeron, and even Blackbramble that I fear our fortunes would not have turned so favourably had they not been amongst our ranks. I dare not imagine a world in which I did not have the benefit of their succour.’

Aragorn felt more than saw Éomer’s scrutiny in the dim light of distant campfires. There was no means of discerning the Rohirric King’s expression, hidden as it was by darkness; grief at the thought of losing those most valuable to him? Confusion at this sudden turn of conversation? Suspicion at Aragorn’s true aim?

‘Aye, it is by those nearest us we gain our strength,’ Éomer said at last, turning once again to the fishermen’s lanterns.

Aragorn did not dare push further, did not dare put his exact intentions into so many words. He lapsed into silence and waited for Éomer to be the one to break it.

‘If neither of us have any intention of closing our eyes,’ said he, ‘then let us make use of these night hours, and detail more thoroughly our plans for rebuilding Osgiliath.’

And so the two Kings retired to Éomer’s tent and spent the quiet breath before dawn detailing which secondary projects ought to be begun after concluding those that were already underway. But when the sounds of a waking camp – and thus the duties of a new day – grew more insistent, Éomer stayed at his account books as Aragorn set out into the grey morning light.

It was not long before the ubiquitous Aphadir appeared, and followed shadow-like as Aragorn lent a hand in taking stock of the Southrons’ salvageable armour and weapons. But come high noon, every last shield, spear, and helmet had been sorted, cleaned, catalogued, and stored away in Osgiliath’s impressive armoury; thus Aragorn and (the rather less helpful) Aphadir found themselves very politely dismissed by a harried and exhausted armourer.

After briefly observing Dol Amrothinian shipwrights hard at work repairing the Corsairs’ new dromunds – which required a skillset far beyond his capabilities – Aragorn ignored Aphadir’s insistence that such work was beneath him, and contented himself scrubbing the battlements free of the more gruesome signs of war.

His efforts were eventually aided by a light rain, though he had been on hands and knees for several hours, labouring alongside an industrious but quarrelsome horde of Orcs, when a commotion was heard down below. Concern of another attack mounting, Aragorn peered over the battlements to spy an approaching convoy. But his fears were assuaged at once; already Faramir raced across the drawbridge to greet the golden-haired Lady Éowyn at the convoy’s head.

It was the very scene he had awaited most desperately!

Out of the corner of one eye, away to the south, Aragorn also glimpsed Truva dashing off in the opposite direction – towards the Rohirric encampment and to Éomer.

Without so much as pausing to tidy his filthy appearance, Aragorn strode along the wall-walk and descended the inner stair, gaining the gate of Annondû even as Éowyn embraced Éomer and Truva.

Aragorn knew that he spoke, but not what words came from his mouth. The sight of Truva so near – her expressive eyes so carefully controlled, her face a well-practised mask of indifference – rendered his mind entirely white. It was not until he led Faramir and Éowyn through the streets of Osgiliath and into Teluelin that his senses returned to him. He made straight for the council chamber and shut the doors tight.

His companions sensed something was amiss at once.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ asked Faramir.

‘Is something wrong?’ Éowyn pressed, clutching Elboron tight to her.

‘Wrong?’ said Aragorn, still struggling to organise his thoughts. He had spent each waking hour of the past two days preparing what to say in that moment, but now that it had come, every last word had fled his lips, abandoning him to his uncertainty.

Rain pattered against the darkened stained glass in the silence.

‘Yes, I suppose you could characterise coming under attack from the united forces of West Rhûn, Umbar and Harad as “something wrong”,’ Aragorn continued, once he had recovered his train of thought. He turned to Éowyn. ‘I know of my own events, and have heard from Faramir the tale of Osgiliath, but I would have you tell me what befell Ithilien after he departed, milady.’

‘Oh, there is little to tell,’ Éowyn shrugged. ‘Having dealt with roving bands of Orcs all winter and spring, Captain Beregond had had the foresight to establish Emyn Arnen’s own secretive outpost, like that of Henneth Annûn, which might serve as shelter in emergent circumstances. It is little more than a shallow cave amidst a thick copse of pine-trees, walled off with rock save a narrow entrance, and stockpiled with all the weapons and foodstuffs we could spare – but it was enough, or so we thought.

‘As you know, Faramir and the others marched to Osgiliath immediately upon receiving news of the Southrons’ assault. Those who remained behind set out for Feleg Thŷn soon after, but we never had any hope of reaching the outpost.

‘We were passing along the saddle between two hills when a company of Southrons tumbled down the slopes to assail us from both sides. They were not many in number, but neither were we. Captain Beregond was soon overwhelmed – though he succeeded in breaking through the enemy ranks to allow our weaker members an escape.

‘But how could I go with them, when our warriors were in need and my sword was sharp at my side? Nor was I granted the opportunity to entrust our little Princeling to another before we were cut off from those who fled. I did what I must.’

‘Save leave when presented the opportunity,’ Faramir chided gently. ‘Beregond and his men would surely have staved off the Southron attack without risking unnecessarily the life of his Ithilien Princess and her young babe.’

‘Perhaps, or perhaps not. Did I ask you to abandon Osgiliath to its fate, no matter how acutely I feared losing you? No, I did not; and so you ought not ask the same of me. I had the utmost faith in Beregond, yet neither was I over eager to leave such things to chance.

‘We gained the security of Feleg Thŷn having lost only one among our number,’ Éowyn continued. ‘There we stayed until we received word of Gondor’s victory. And now here I am, safe and sound, for better or worse.’

If either Faramir or Aragorn noted the discrepancies between Éowyn’s recounting of events and that of Captain Beregond, they made no mention of it. Faramir, having already heard the tale, was far more occupied with doting upon his son, and Aragorn was once again adrift in his own thoughts.

‘That was terribly dangerous,’ he remarked absentmindedly. ‘Risky.’

‘Certainly not any more risky than confronting the Witch King on the fields of the Pelennor,’ Éowyn quipped in return.

‘Gave you no consideration to what might have become of Elboron, had you not been so lucky?’

Éowyn bristled at the perceived questioning of her abilities and decisions. ‘I thought only of what might become of my son, were he to fall into the Southrons’ hands,’ she insisted.

Aragorn’s perceptiveness came back into sharp focus under her glower. ‘Ah! You mistake me, milady. I do not condemn your actions, but admire them, rather. You faced adversity undaunted, whilst I myself was plagued by fears I had never previously considered.’

‘Milord?’ questioned Faramir.

‘Whether at Helm’s Deep, Minas Tirith, or Morannon, I harboured no fear for my own wellbeing during the War of the Ring. Why should I? As a mere Ranger, I gave only the most cursory consideration to what might be expected of me in the future. If death in battle – thereby securing peace and prosperity in the lands of my ancestors – was to be my end, then so be it.

‘But now I am King, and no longer benefit from that same freedom. I see now that I was rash to run off to Harad, and to battle, without first securing my line. Even as I fought off the Southrons’ advancements alongside you, my dear Faramir, and alongside King Éomer, a terrible foreboding overcame me. You shall one day be succeeded by your son Elboron, and Éomer might yet call upon Lady Éowyn to rule in his stead should dire need come knocking. But I am alone, the very last of my line – the one surviving branch of the White Tree. What would become of Gondor and Arnor, should I fall in battle?’

‘But such trials are over, milord,’ Faramir reassured him. ‘The South has been subdued, as has the East. We face no more dangers.’

‘Or perhaps our trials are only just begun,’ said Aragorn. ‘Even now, on the very precipice of striking accords with Umbar and Harad, the potential to fail is too great, the likelihood of reignited discord too strong – my death too possible. With no heir of mine to crown, shall the Stewards ascend once more; for all eternity, or until the Reunited Kingdom falls, the line of Elendil having not only been sundered, but extinguished entirely?’

Faramir’s eyes fell to the flagstones. ‘You doubt me.’ The hurt was palpable in his voice.

‘I do not doubt the fervour of your heart,’ said Aragorn kindly, ‘only the resilience of your body, as I doubt the resilience of my own. You came even closer than I to death; I can see you are still pained by the harm wrought upon you by the Southrons’ assault. There must be one who can take up the call, should all the lords of Gondor succumb to an inauspicious fate.’

‘No.’ Éowyn’s whisper was scarcely audible. She had discerned Aragorn’s intent.

‘There are many wise Men amongst my council who would guide little Elboron until he is ready,’ Aragorn reassured her. ‘Captain Beregond, or Aphadir, or even Blackbramble. And you would, of course, be always at the Princeling’s side, milady – though I fear your association with the Rohirrim might spark concern should you engage in any overt influence.’

‘He is only a babe!’

‘If you do not wish it, I will press no further,’ Aragorn relented. ‘Though I fear Prince Imrahil and the House of Dol Amroth will be occupied with the South for many years, there is otherwise a long line of deserving leaders – commanders, advisors, captains, warriors – to whom I might turn. But they are ambitious, and the rank among them not clearly delineated; indeed, how can one compare a military tactician to a financial advisor or social scholar? No, the further we deviate from the line of Kings, and from the House of Stewards, the more we invite malcontent and dissent, and the instability of leadership in Gondor.’

A silence followed Aragorn’s entreaty. Rain continued to pelt the stained glass; a brief squall passed, then abated – but still there was no answer from either Faramir or Éowyn.

‘And if you were to be wed, and sire an heir of your own?’ asked Faramir at last.

‘All such notions of Elboron’s ascention would be abandoned,’ Aragorn confirmed.

‘Lady Lothíriel is quite handsome, and has lately come with surprising frequency into the northern lan—’

Éowyn cut her husband off with an exacting glare. ‘And Elboron will be cared for? Seen to? Called upon only in the most exigent circumstances?’

‘Be given the education of a king, and treated as such,’ Aragorn reassured her.

Éowyn and Faramir exchanged meaningful glances.

‘May we speak privately?’

Aragorn answered Éowyn’s request by striding out the door at once; he feared what would emerge from his mouth if he allowed it to speak. For a brief, uncertain moment he considered returning to his chambers, but instead chose to linger in the rotunda in the hopes that he would learn of their decision all the sooner.

But that very same thought caused trepidation to sink in. They had not rejected him outright, which was more than he had expected. But how long would it take them to come to a decision? Surely not minutes. Hours? All night? Aragorn paced from the base of the east wing staircase to that of the west. Days? He dared not think of how much longer his deference to Faramir and Éowyn would torture Truva. Weeks?

What if their decision was to shield Elboron from the responsibilities and dangers of the throne?

He could not fault them, if that was to be their choice. The noble line of Elendil had been renewed, and so the House of Húrin had likewise resumed its advisory role; neither Éowyn nor Faramir had any cause to suspect Aragorn would actively seek to upset that balance so recently after having restored it.

Day drifted into the even deeper darkness of nighttime outside Teluelin’s rain-lashed windows. The circling path of Aragorn’s steps extended up the staircases themselves before he summoned calmness within, falling into the familiar ways of peace and serenity Elrond had shown him when he was a boy. Drawing near one window, Aragorn stared out onto the glimmering puzzle of lamps in houses and along streets, bobbing fishermen’s lights and the torches of those wandering about even in such inclement weather. He allowed his heart to be soothed by the knowledge that behind each light was the story of its bearer.

There were no raised voices within the council chamber, only the quiet clink of guards’ armour as they passed on their rounds. Aragorn once again considered confessing at least some small part of his plan to Truva, but he could already imagine the subsequent conversation: in telling her he had contrived a plan, she would ask what it was, and he would say he could not tell – no, it was better to say nothing at all, until he could say it all.

But for how much longer?

Many midnight hours had passed when one council chamber door opened. Aragorn leapt to his feet in an instant, for he had taken to sitting cross-legged on the marble tile. But when Faramir and Éowyn emerged, looking rather dispirited, his heart fell. The pair drew near, though they did not speak until yet another guard clanking past was out of earshot.

‘Promise that either I or one of the Princes of Dol Amroth shall be allowed to ascend in Elboron’s stead, if we are in a position to do so,’ said Faramir.

Aragorn’s eyes flew wide in recognition. ‘It would have always been thus,’ he reassured them.

‘And that he will not be crowned – regardless of circumstances – until he is of full age,’ Éowyn insisted.

‘It is done.’

‘Then let it be so,’ said Lady Éowyn.

Aragorn stood motionless for a handful of moments, rendered immobile by astonishment. Then he bowed low in acknowledgement and deep gratitude. He must have made some parting greetings to the Prince and Princess of Ithilien, but already his mind was racing far ahead of his feet as he departed Teluelin and sped along the marathon-like distance between himself and Truva.

Before long, he hovered outside the Second Marshal’s tent, hand extended in midair. Aragorn could not bring himself to announce his arrival; it took several attempts before he summoned the courage to enter.

It was dark within. Not even a single candle or lantern was lit to illuminate the tent’s interior. Aragorn stumbled about until his shins met a low stool, which he drew to the approximate location he knew Truva’s cot to be, and took a seat.

‘I cannot say I was not surprised,’ he said at last, voice low. If Truva moved at all, he was not aware of it, and yet he continued. ‘I suppose this is the very reason Gandalf insisted you venture East – for I am certain he had suspicions as to what complications might arise, following the discovery of your parentage.’

Still Truva did not answer. After a brief pause, Aragorn pressed on.

‘I must admit I did not wish to accept your words at first,’ said he. ‘My line is long and illustrious – for I am the son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, Elendil’s son, and can trace my ancestors to Eärendil himself, and beyond. It is my duty to bring together the realms of Gondor and Arnor, and to restore these lands to their former glory. This I have done, and will continue to do; the preservation of the Reunited Kingdom shall be my life’s work.

‘Yet as I sat deep in thought these past nights, devastated by the words of the woman I love most ardently, I wondered whether my duty might not end here – whether the lands of my forefathers could be safeguarded after my death through some other method beyond my progeny alone.’

Truva shifted slightly at these words. Aragorn, encouraged by this sign, forged on. ‘I apologise for departing so abruptly the other night, and for my distant behaviour these past few days. You must have been startled – yet I could not inform you of my ideas without first confirming with both Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn.’

Truva sat up then, her knees nearly colliding with Aragorn’s, so close to the cot did he sit. Rising briefly, she set a flame in the lamp, and light soon flickered to chase shadows into tent corners. The heavy groove of a frown marred her face, indicating she was not yet ready to speak; but even so, it appeared she was listening as she returned to her bedside. Aragorn had not moved so much as a hair’s breadth.

‘I spoke naught of our position to either Lord or Lady,’ he continued, ‘saying only that recent events had inspired in me a fear of my passing before any heir was born, or some such similar circumstance. I merely inquired as to whether they would be willing to allow their newborn son to be declared my heir, and crowned prince should need arise,’ he finished, breathless.

Truva’s gaze pierced Aragorn then. Her frown eased somewhat, or perhaps it only grew deeper. ‘Do you speak in jest?’ she asked, voice raspy.

Aragorn, taken somewhat aback by her distrust, reached out to take her hand. He pressed his thumbs into her palm, massaging away the gnarly knots that had formed there in recent days, and over many a year.

‘I speak with all sincerity,’ he professed. ‘Duty comes above all else – but in declaring young Elboron my heir, I shall be able to execute my responsibilities whilst living joyously beside the woman who brings me happiness and constancy, and whose guidance never leads me astray. Does this not please you?’

Tears coursed down Truva’s cheeks, but Aragorn was swift to wipe them away. ‘I am so terribly sorry!’ he exclaimed. ‘Had I known how much grief this idea would bring you, I would never have proposed it.’

‘No, no!’ cried Truva, throwing herself in his arms. ‘It does not grieve me; indeed, it brings me far greater joy than you could possibly imagine!’

Aragorn’s heart ached at the way her shoulders shook in an attempt to suppress her sobs. Drawing her even tighter into his embrace, he rested his cheek gently upon her head and waited until her tears slowly abated.

‘I could never have dared ask so great a sacrifice from you,’ she said, voice still choked with emotion and breath coming in uneven gasps. ‘For, as you say, your lineage is illustrious, having persisted throughout the ages. Still I do not understand how you are satisfied to allow its sundering to be your doing.’

‘There have been many kings before whose lines were broken, and suffered naught for it,’ said Aragorn.

‘Twice has the House of Eorl deviated, I suppose.’

‘And no Rohirric King is any less distinguished than the one who came before.’

After a moment of contemplation, Truva’s face fell. ‘But the line of Elendil is not amongst those sundered.’

‘Nor was that of Eorl the Young, until the passing of Helm Hammerhand.’

To this, Truva gave no retort. Aragorn planted a gentle kiss upon her locks, thumbs sweeping soothing fans upon her arms. They sat in the deep silence of past-midnight, each content to linger in the peace of the other’s embrace, their anguish eased for a time.

Yet Aragorn did not allow the serenity to remain undisturbed long. Only a few minutes passed before he took several deep breaths as if to speak, each dissipating back into nothingness.

‘There is something that perturbs you yet,’ Truva prompted.

‘A kingship without an heir is a far easier fate to accept than an eternity with no discernible end, spent absent the presence of one’s true love,’ he murmured. ‘Are you certain you will not regret your decision?’

Truva withdrew from Aragorn’s embrace, turning her gaze upon him. It bore into his innermost thoughts.

‘I consider it my good fortune to assume that burden from your shoulders, and relieve you of its torment,’ she said, the soft tones of her voice belying its power. ‘It is the slightest gesture I can give unto you in return for the unfaltering strength you have shown me, the unexpected tenderness of your care, your trust in me.’

A smile blossomed at the corners of Aragorn’s lips then. He sighed as he bent towards Truva, lips so near he could feel his own sweet exhalations upon her cheek. Still, he hesitated to utter his greatest desire, his words no more than a whisper:

‘And you will be my Queen?’

As often as he had imagined declaring such words, to speak them into existence was an undertaking infinitely more wondrous. His head reeled with euphoria.

Truva’s answer was more subdued even than the inquiry. ‘So long as you will have me.’

‘For all of eternity,’ Aragorn breathed.

Truva’s kiss sent his heart soaring. This was no sweet, airy brush of the lips, nor even the passionate ministrations that had followed their reunion in Ithilien – no! This was the seal of destiny, the promise of everlasting love and devotion, the very intertwining of both spirit and being.

When the lovers at last parted, they were left in sheer astoundment at having been so highly favoured by fate, each believing themselves to be the more blessed of the two. Yet even as Aragorn wove his fingers through Truva’s hair, he knew their bliss must be short-lived – albeit soon to be renewed.

‘It brings me no joy to speak such words, but it was terribly improper of me to intrude upon a lady’s private quarters,’ he said, ‘especially at so late an hour, and without official business. I had best depart – and soon – for once the others are informed of our intentions, I suspect we shall come under far stricter scrutiny.’

When Truva closed her eyes in disappointment, Aragorn brushed a sympathetic kiss across her forehead and leapt for the exit, hoping to be gone before she opened her eyes and drew him back in once more.

Chapter Text

When Truva rose just after dawn the following day, the oppressive cast to the sky had lifted ever so slightly, though a thick fog drifted over river and field alike. No sooner had she emerged into the grey light, stomach still atumble from her conversation with Aragorn the previous evening, than a passing guard exclaimed, ‘Felicitations, my lady!’

‘Not a lady,’ Truva replied automatically, struggling to shake the wafting tendrils of sleep from her mind.

‘Perhaps not yet,’ was the guard’s answer before he disappeared off towards the camp blockades.

Mystified by the Eorling’s behaviour, Truva made in the opposite direction. She was met in the same manner more than once along her path to the mess tent: congratulations, fortuitous regards and auspicious blessings from all corners. She responded to each in kind – with a noncommittal nod as she supped on a light breakfast, inspected the guard, and subdued an argument that had arisen between several Riders and a West Rhûn Orc who had wandered into the camp in search of shores for the reconstruction of a belltower.

All tasks seen to and unable to evade the inevitable any longer, Truva at last sought out the destination she most dreaded: Éomer King’s pavilion. Even as she stood just outside the entrance, a cough caught in her throat. She imagined all the ways in which he might react to news of her engagement to Aragorn – whether fury at her lack of regard for the position of Marshal, or disappointment that she might perhaps no longer call the Mark home, or the most cutting: cool indifference. Innumerable scenarios flashed in Truva’s mind, each less pleasant than the previous.

Summoning her courage, she raised her voice: ‘Second Marshal to see you, milord.’

‘Enter,’ Éomer called from within.

When Truva slipped through the tent flaps, he sat alone at the tactical table, a bowl of pottage cold and untouched before him. He pored over a ledger in his hands, preoccupied.

‘Have you come with the morning report?’ he asked without glancing up.

‘There were no lapses of the guard in the night, and all is quiet upon the defences,’ Truva answered, feigning nonchalance.

Éomer nodded as though he had heard but not listened. Then, quite suddenly, his attention diverted from the ledger and came to fix intensely upon Truva. She shifted from one foot to the other as he scrutinised her with eyes narrowed.

‘Might you have any insight as to why Aragorn King came to me the other day, inquiring as to how I might feel were one of my Marshals to fall under his influence?’

‘Did he ask such a thing?’ Truva asked, eyebrows raised; it was now innocence she feigned.

‘And does his query in turn have any relevance to your journey East – the finer details of which you have not yet shared with me?’

‘Did he tell you what I discovered there?’ Truva’s voice was a mere whisper.

Éomer gestured for her to sit down, expression unreadable. ‘He did not. Aragorn is a man most circumspect, and insisted such information ought to come from you alone.’

Truva absentmindedly traced her finger down the ledger’s neat lines (and Éomer’s rather less tidy figures) as she wondered how best to begin. On one hand, she was thankful Aragorn had left her the opportunity to explain, yet some small part of her wished he had taken the task upon himself, and thus relieved her of the agony.

‘It was Alatar – the Blue Wizard himself – who sired me, and the King of Easterlings who bore me.’ The words tumbled from her lips one right after the other, their momentum unable to be stopped once the first had been spoken. Éomer’s face remained impassive; Truva struggled to discern what he made of this news.

‘So you shall lead a tremendously long life, many years longer than that of any Man,’ he concluded after a time.

‘There are no certainties,’ said Truva, shaking her head. ‘No precedent upon which expectations might be based.’

The King’s lips twitched ever so slightly. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Yet what I cannot fathom is why you saw fit to discuss such things with Aragorn – dear though Gondor’s allyship is – before seeking my own counsel.’

‘I—’ Truva began, unsure of what to say. Did she perhaps detect a mischievous twinkle in Éomer’s eye?

‘It could not possibly be due to the fact it was not your service but your hand that he desired, surely!’ he exclaimed.

Truva’s mouth fell open in surprise. ‘Please allow me to explain!’ she exclaimed, but Éomer had already devolved into gales of mirthful laughter.

‘I would have expected it from any other save you, Truva, Second Marshal of the Mark! Not one of us suspected a thing, so scrupulous and mild-mannered as you are! You hid it well, this illicit courtship of yours; but never fear, I hold Aragorn equally responsible. Harbouring the audacious desire to steal away my most promising Marshal – imagine!’

Truva continued to stare, flabbergasted at the King and his shaking shoulders. ‘So you will not grant me leave to marry Aragorn?’ she asked quietly.

‘I do not believe I have the authority to deny you any such desire,’ said Éomer, his laughter subsiding and his tone gentle. ‘Your departure will be a sore loss to our Muster, but you came to us unlooked for, and have served in a few short years beyond what many of our most renowned Riders have done in their entire lifetimes.

‘Moreover, the union can only serve to solidify the alliance between the Riddermark and Stoningland; even in your leaving, you render one final service to your people, for which I am eternally grateful.’

‘I do not like to think of it as leaving, and cannot imagine it shall be the final service I render the Mark,’ said Truva, though Éomer merely gave a subdued hem in response. ‘Have you told the others? Is that why so many have spoken such odd greetings to me this morning?’

‘I myself have said nothing,’ said Éomer with mock affront, ‘yet Elfhelm, on the contrary, is a notorious gossip; I suspect he gathered wind of this news far sooner than I, and spent the greater portion of yesterday evening exchanging rumours for pints.’

Truva sighed heavily and rose from her seat. ‘In that case, I suppose there is not a soul in camp still ignorant of the news.’

‘In camp, and most likely beyond,’ Éomer chuckled. ‘As reticent as Aragorn King was with me this morning, it seems he was not so tight-lipped the evening last. In sharing the news with his most trusted advisors, they in turn saw fit to speak of such things to their closest compatriots, and so on and so forth. I very much doubt you shall be able to evade the renown you have brought upon yourself.’

Truva grimaced. ‘It is one thing to consider the inevitable attention brought by association with Aragorn King, but another entirely to experience it,’ she remarked. With a final bow, she ducked out of the pavilion – only to be startled by a deafening ‘congratulations!’ from a passing soldier.

Joining a mixed company of labourers, Truva worked throughout the day to restore the bridges of Osgiliath, most of which had been hewn only in small portion to prevent easy crossing, although the piles of one had collapsed beneath the Southrons’ assault. But Truva could not evade attention so easily; as a mason directed the team’s construction of falsework for the centremost bridge, salutations continued to stream forth with equal enthusiasm from Gondorian as from Eorling. Even a handful of Orcs gave deafening barks that Truva could only interpret as congratulatory.

Once afternoon replaced morning, however, the shouts took on a different tone:

‘A feast!’ came the rumours. ‘A feast is to be held in the name of victory against the Southrons!’

‘No, ’tis in the name of milord’s engagement!’

‘How might a feast be so swiftly prepared? In a day? Ha!’

‘What does it matter, so long as there is a feast?’

Helpless against the rising tide of excitement and quickly fading diligence, the supervising mason sent the labourers off long before the sun had fully set. ‘You’d best go put on your finest raiment, milady,’ he advised Truva as the others vanished into the swelling crowds.

And so it was in her cleanest tunic and hose – provided by Aerin or one of the other tailors of the city – Truva allowed the crowd’s flow to carry her to the steps of Thamelen, just south of Teluelin. As many revellers as could fit uncomfortably had crammed themselves into the magnificent banquet hall of the sons of Elendil; Orc bumped elbows with sailor and Rider and soldier alike, all come to celebrate both victory in battle and the betrothal of Isildur’s descendant and an Eorling Marshal.

Exuberant song and dance enveloped Truva as she stepped into the hall. A clamour of merry voices rose high up to the lofty vaults, the sounds brighter than the torches burning in a thousand sconces. Even muffled by rich tapestries hanging above and spread below, the boisterous atmosphere could scarcely be subdued.

Still, the shout of ‘Truva!’ could easily be heard over the bustle. In an instant, Éomer King emerged from the chaos and snared Truva, ushering her towards a cluster of tables where the Eorlingas sat, piled upon benches far too small for their numbers.

‘Hearty congratulations!’ Elfhelm exclaimed as the two approached. His sentiments were echoed by the other Riders, whose ‘hear hears!’ were raucous and clearly influenced by several tankards of ale – yet no less sincere for their drunkenness, and perhaps a great deal more so.

‘I beg of you, do not abandon me, dear, sweet, valiant Marshal!’ said Gamhelm, mimicking deep, wracking sobs as he clutched at Truva’s arm.

‘You would mourn the loss of your Second Marshal, while your First Marshal lingers yet?’ asked Elfhelm with mock affront.

‘Aye, that is the very crux of the problem!’

‘Do not despair, I am not gone yet,’ said Truva, accepting a tankard from Éomer, who had wedged himself into the small gap between herself and Gamhelm. But even as Truva shared in a toast with her brethren, she found her eyes unwittingly scanning the chaos of the hall.

Éomer King gave a knowing grin and leaned in close. ‘If it is Lord Aragorn you seek, he is not here – not yet, anyway.’

‘It is little matter,’ Truva replied. ‘Far greater is the victory we share this night.’

Éomer did not appear convinced, although her words were not entirely false; Truva was more than content to linger amongst the Eorlingas for a time. She knew not how long she would remain in their company, after all.

Nearly an hour passed before Truva spied Aragorn slipping surreptitiously into the hall, though he did not go unnoticed by the others for very long at all. He too found himself herded in a very similar manner as Truva – but in the opposite direction: towards the Gondorians’ tables by an insistent Lord Faramir. Even in such deeply personal moments, their lives were not their own.

As her gaze swept back towards her Eorling companions, Truva laid eyes upon Éowyn, tucked away beside a roaring fireplace in the corner of the hall nearest Lord Faramir, Elboron cradled in her arms. Setting her tankard of ale down (though it was soon picked up by the nearest Rider), Truva excused herself and set out across the hall. She was forced to sidestep and lunge in time with the hordes of dancers, her progress slowed even further by the constant stream of congratulations along the way.

‘You are the last I’d have expected to be the cause of such ado,’ Éowyn remarked with a teasing smile as Truva fell into a seat beside her.

‘In that regard, you and I are the same,’ Truva replied wryly. She reached out to relieve Éowyn of the squirming infant, to which Éowyn gratefully acquiesced before immediately falling upon the pheasant and other delicacies Faramir had prepared for her.

‘He is such a terrible fuss!’ she said between mouthfuls. ‘I cannot put him down for more than a second without his charging off. I am convinced he crawls faster than that golem creature!’

Truva smiled and gave the gurgling infant a bounce on her knee. ‘Of the many peaceable children I have met, it is true I would not consider little Elboron one. It is fortunate he bears the endearing beauty of his mother!’

‘On that very same subject,’ said Éowyn, suddenly far more circumspect, ‘if you will forgive my forwardness, perhaps you might prove illuminative on the oddest of requests put to me by Aragorn only yesterday. At first I thought little of it – save the intensity with which it was made – but upon hearing of your betrothal that immediately followed, I could not help but think it very peculiar.’

Much to little Elboron’s chagrin, Truva grew very still as she considered how best to broach a subject she felt certain would find little sympathy in the Princess’ ear. Yet her unease was alleviated – and her heart launched skyward to flit about a tapestry of Anárion at the Battle of Dagorlad, hung at the very peak of Thamelen’s rafters – when Aragorn suddenly appeared beside them.

He bowed in acknowledgement of Éowyn, but his eyes lingered on Truva. ‘A word, if you will?’ he asked, just loud enough to be heard over the feast’s hubbub.

Truva did not return Éowyn’s inquiring look as she returned Elboron (whose yawns now came swift and thick) and followed Aragorn along the walls to the servants’ entrance at the rear of Thamelen. Few eyes were upon them; the revellers’ attention was fixed intently upon the bevy of bards vying for adoration in the very centre of the hall. Even as Maeron set into a lively reel upon his set of pipes, Aragorn glanced quickly around before ducking into the tiny doorway.

‘We ought to inform Lady Éowyn and Lord Faramir of the full breadth of our intentions,’ he said, voice still quiet as he strode along a series of narrow passageways. ‘That it is not simply a matter of if, but when little Elboron shall ascend to the throne.’

‘Even if we speak not a word to any other, it would not be right to keep them in ignorance,’ Truva concurred, though she fell silent as a parade of bustling attendants streamed past.

When they were alone again, Aragorn drew her into a secluded alcove and waited for a second trickle of attendants to come and go. ‘Do you wish for me to speak with them?’ he asked.

Truva shook her head. ‘I will confer with Lady Éowyn, for it is due to my own personal misgivings that such a situation has arisen in the first place, and she is like a sister to me. She can bring the matter privately to Lord Faramir. It is no easy decision, and should not be made lightly or with undue influence.’

Aragorn nodded, though he had a faraway look in his eye. ‘I will abide by whichever method you think best,’ he said, then fell silent for quite some time. He gazed upon Truva with expression unreadable for so long that she felt compelled to prompt, ‘Whatever is the matter, my lord?’

‘I am so very sorry,’ he said, breaking into a smile as he reached out to tuck an errant wisp of her hair into place. ‘Even seeing you before my very eyes, I struggle to believe we shall at long last be married.’

Truva ducked her head, hiding the bashful grin that appeared unbidden. ‘Have you summoned me for no other reason save to look upon me?’ she asked. ‘For though I surprise my own self in feeling pleased at such a notion, it seems rather out of character for milord.’

‘It is true I do not feel my rightful self, but I do not think that is such a bad thing,’ Aragorn replied. After a moment longer, however, his smile faded and he shook his head as if to clear it, taking Truva’s hands in his. ‘But there is yet one more topic I had hoped to speak with you regarding.’

‘And what topic is that, milord?’ asked Truva, wary of the hesitation in his voice.

Aragorn took a very deep breath. ‘It is my intention to order the reading of the banns on the morrow,’ he said, rather quickly. ‘What say you? I would very much like to be wed three weeks hence, if you’ll allow.’

Truva’s mouth fell open slightly in astonishment; it was one thing to imagine being married, another entirely to hear a date proposed aloud. When she regained her senses, she brought the back of Aragorn’s hand to her lips and said, ‘My only regret is that it cannot be sooner.’

‘As is mine,’ said Aragorn, a faint smile returning, ‘but in this I am bound most strictly by the confines of tradition – and though there are times when tradition aligns with a King’s desires, this is most certainly not one of them. But if you’ll consider a mere two days’ further delay, we might also be wed on Loëndë.’

‘Mid-year’s Day?’ Truva breathed. ‘Have the days flown so fleetly? Yet nothing would please me more than to usher in the season’s height with you, followed by an eternity at your side. Let it be so!’

Ecstasy spread across Aragorn’s face, though he seemed to be focused far too acutely upon their intertwined fingers, a furrow marring his brow. ‘There is one further matter,’ he murmured. ‘That in the reading of the banns, we must also determine where the ceremony is to be held.’

Truva’s breath faltered. She thought of Mundburg and its stark white walls, so uninviting and devoid of emotion. Not even the tiny garden in the Houses of Healing could claim the slightest wisp of grandiosity boasted by the natural world beyond. Yet for a Gondorian King to be wed in a foreign realm – even one with as close of ties as that of the Riddermark – was unthinkable.

‘You spoke to me once of how Minas Tirith does not hold any sense of home to you,’ Aragorn continued, rubbing his thumb across the back of Truva’s fingers. ‘And though I have spent many a year in service there, and Legolas has devoted a great deal of effort this past winter in bringing Elven sensibilities to its stolid atmosphere, there is something quite bleak still about the Tower of the Guard.

‘I was raised in the wildlands of the north, and in the beauty of Imladris. I too would rejoice at being married beyond the city walls. We cannot remove very far, I don’t think, but could you perhaps agree to holding the ceremony upon the Field of Cormallen?’

‘Oh, Aragorn!’ Truva murmured – further words escaped her. She pulled him into an embrace, expressing unspoken gratitude, and Aragorn in turn wrapped his arms about her. Together, they relished in the last few remaining moments of peace afforded them before returning to the feast.

Subsequent to the banns’ reading, enthusiastic chaos battled with the necessities of daily life for which garnered more devotion. A week passed, and then several additional days, as both wedding preparations and efforts to restore Osgiliath continued. Of the Eorlingas, all save the King’s Company and Elfhelm Marshal returned to Edoras with the intention of commemorating those who had fallen during Alatar’s assault. Were it not for the fact that the entirety of Gondor readied for her wedding, Truva would have returned with them – for each recollection of Gríma brought to her mind complicated sentiments she wished to address. Instead, she was forced to content herself with the knowledge that the redeemed advisor’s grave would be marked in its own way, and that she might visit it someday.

Though it was unlikely such news would reach them in time for their presence to be expected at the ceremony, a messenger was sent to Legolas in the Woodland Realm, as well as to Gimli in Erebor, and a great many other dignitaries who would be welcome at the wedding of the exalted King of Gondor and Arnor.

Yet it was not they, but Captain Castamir and Ephor Herufoth who arrived before a fortnight had drawn to a close. Heralds from Pelargir were first to inform those in Osgiliath of the Southrons’ imminent arrival; these messengers were soon followed by the horns of Harlond sounding a warning. Then a single, tremendous chelandion glided into view, its black-tarred sides ominous in the summer sunlight, scarlet serpents emblazoned on sable sails writhing in the wind.

A mad rush to the banks of Langflood followed the vessel’s appearance. Their counsel regarding watch passwords interrupted, Éomer King, Elfhelm Marshal, and Truva all raced amidst the throngs through the streets of Annonaur, crossing Menelrond even as the easternmost harbour chain was lowered. The Southrons’ chelandion was directed to berth at the docks of Annondû, where an immense guard converged upon the ship and escorted its commanders towards Teluelin.

The Ploíarkos and Yüzbashı, released from confinement, were last to be marched into the council chamber and sat beside the Captain and Ephor, opposite Aragorn and his numerous northern counterparts. The room felt airless and taught when crowded with dignitaries at such extreme odds with each other, its glass windows constraining. Tensions mounted as glares and grimaces were exchanged without word; given the King’s stony expression, there was no question as to who was expected to speak first.

‘We received word of your demands, by way of carrier pigeon,’ Castamir spoke, once the silence had extended far beyond any semblance of comfort. ‘There are some stipulations we believe are less than amenable.’

‘Less than amenable?’ Imrahil questioned. ‘You are bold to test your luck, pirate!’

Aragorn raised a hand to stay the Prince. ‘What is it you do not find to your liking, Captain?’ he asked, both tone and expression impassive.

‘Liaisons,’ Castamir insisted. ‘They will serve no purpose in ensuring security within the region. In fact, I think quite the contrary: their presence will inspire mistrust in the position of Captain; my people will think me no more than Gondor’s lapdog. This perceived weakness will only serve to incite violence and coups, and I can assure you, any who replace me will be even less receptive to Gondor’s overtures than myself.’

‘This is not a point open to negotiation,’ Aragorn stated, his tone brooking no argument. ‘Of those who travelled with me into those lands, Captain Maeron shall be dispatched to Herumoros. As for Umbar, the youngest son of Lord Imrahil, Prince Amrothos, shall take up a similar position there. You will grant them unfettered attendance at your counsel tables, and unrestrained movement across your lands. Any attack made upon these deputies will be considered an act of war.’

Castamir sat back and stewed in silence a moment, his vexation undisguised. He exchanged a brief glance with his Ploíarkos before the latter added, ‘As for the forfeiting of our warships…’

‘None save those used in the fishing sector shall be spared.’

‘Have you learned no lessons from the past?’ exclaimed Herufoth, his voice thundering as he struck the table and rose to his feet. A dozen guards leaped forward in response, hands upon sword hilts, but the Ephor advanced no further. ‘Each time you subjugate the Sutherlands further, the more desperate we become! What do you think will come of exacerbating already severe punishment?’

‘In seeking to take advantage of an armistice following the War, you initiated a full-scale attack upon these realms at a time when Stoningland was weakest,’ said Éomer King. ‘Even so, we have bested you; and now you would beg our hand be gentle, when you would most certainly not grant the same favour were our positions reversed?’

‘There is but one concession I am willing to grant,’ said Aragorn with steady mien as the Ephor reseated himself. Truva leaned in close; during the northern commanders’ counsel weeks prior, she had listened with rapt attention to the debate that raged over the Sutherland slaves – perhaps the time had come to address that contentious issue.

‘And what concession is that?’ spat the Captain.

‘The Oliphaunts shall be returned to you – provided the beasts themselves choose to go.’

‘Our Mûmakil?’ scoffed the Yüzbashı. ‘Is that all?’

‘Have you the strength to demand otherwise?’ Maeron asked pointedly.

Aragorn placated the northern Captain with a glance. ‘Your men shall be released to you also,’ he addended. ‘Boat by boat, they may return to the Sutherlands; but never more than five score at a time. Otherwise, the terms remain precisely as outlined by your Ploíarkos and Yüzbashı.’

The congregation fell silent. More than one significant glance passed between the leaders of the north; so Aragorn had elected to rely on Captain Maeron and Prince Amrothos to broker the dissolution of a slave system heavily entrenched in the Southrons’ culture, with the aid of a princess they had good reason to distrust. Many participants’ mouths pressed into a grim line of dissatisfaction.

And yet it seemed the Southron commanders were not unaware of this unspoken concession. Even Castamir appeared relieved by this supposed oversight; for though Umbar most of all found itself the victim of Harad’s less scrupulous tendencies, his own lands were clearly not free of the practice.

‘There are to be no financial reparations?’ Herufoth confirmed.

‘None,’ Aragorn assured him.

The Captain and Ephor leaned in close, their hushed conversation scarcely audible even in the chamber’s stillness. The Yüzbashı spoke in turn, as did the Ploíarkos, voices rising on occasion, but even when their words were discernible, they spoke in dialects unknown to any amongst the Host of the North. Finally, the small party turned back to face Aragorn King and the others.

‘We agree to these terms,’ Herufoth declared.

Without a word, Aragorn produced a paper upon which the accords’ full script had been written. Already his sable seal – bearing the White Tree of Gondor upon one side, the Seven Stars and Silver Crown of Kings of the line of Elendil upon the other – was affixed. He slid the document across the table towards the Southron commanders, alongside silk ribbon and scarlet wax cakes.

The Ephor snatched up a ribbon and threaded it through the bottom of the document, drawing his seal from a leather pouch at his waist. His fixed glower did not stray from Aragorn even as he held the seal over a candle flame, or as he placed two cakes of wax upon each matrix and closed the stamp about the ribbon. Castamir’s obstinate refusal to so much as look at Aragorn as he followed suit with the Captain’s seal spoke equal volumes of fury.

There was no fanfare, no celebratory feast in recognition of this newly-signed treaty. The lords of Harad and Umbar did not so much as stay the night; indeed, their stamps had scarcely hardened before one hundred Southron prisoners were marched out under heavy guard from the depths of Teluelin to the docks of Annondû, one after the other in a long file. Gondorains, Eorlingas, and Rhûnic Orcs alike jostled for any position with even a sliver of a view, eager to observe as their adversaries boarded the massive black chelandion.

The Southrons seemed just as eager to depart, for no sooner had the gangplank been withdrawn than the vessel cast off, rowing towards the massive arches of Menelrond. Once beyond the city walls, it continued on, escorted by a flotilla of Swan Fleet skiffs – to ensure the Southrons did not cause trouble along their journey.

Yet an ebullient spirit swiftly returned to Osgiliath, and was soon redoubled by the arrival of delegations from near and far. Tempted by the prospect of revelry (and having been informed all hostilities and danger were concluded), Azgaur Queen of West Rhûn was the first to appear, leading a grand caravan that included several Kine as an offering of goodwill. Minister Tinnedir soon followed, sailing from Pelargir once the first ship of freed Southron captives had passed by without incident.

A second ship from the south soon followed that of the Minister, as Prince Imrahil had sent for his remaining heirs, so that they might witness the first wedding of the line of Elendil since the days of Eärnil II more than ten centuries ago. Yet Lothíriel and Erchirion alone sailed north. Wary of the Corsairs’ passing, Amrothos elected to maintain protection over Dol Amroth, as he had during the War.

They were, however, accompanied by Radagast, whose boisterous reunion with Pallando served to distract from the more subdued meeting of the Princess and Éomer King. Even so, the young duo’s murmured greetings and bowed heads did not go unnoticed – particularly by Truva as she took in the proceedings from the heights Menelrond. It was there she was discovered by Radagast, who joined her in looking out across the Langflood.

‘I shall miss old Bertha the most,’ said the Wizard with a sigh.

‘Beg pardon?’ Truva asked.

‘No sooner had the Corsair chelandion drawn aside the docks of Pelargir, white pennants of peace raised high, than dear, sweet Bertha burst past our defences to climb aboard,’ Radagast explained. ‘She and Alfred were the only Oliphaunts that elected to return to their homeland. Though it deeply saddens me, I suppose the warmer weather shall be kinder to her senescent bones.’

Truva laid a sympathetic hand upon the Wizard’s arm. ‘Let us seek out Prince Imrahil, and request that his son send word of the Mûmak herd’s wellbeing at every opportunity,’ she said, turning from the docks to afford Éomer King and Princess Lothíriel some modicum of privacy.

Yet the most peculiar arrival of all to Osgiliath was not a dignitary of any sort. One morning, mountainous bushels of dried fruits, sack upon sack of pine flours, and thick slabs of salted venison and boar appeared within the Anonnaur gate, following a night when mysterious drums had been heard sporadically throughout the darkest hours. The King’s Chef fell gratefully upon these wares, caring little for from whence they were sourced – so long as a more grandiose banquet could be prepared. Both Truva and Aragorn, however, knew the Drúedain had come and gone without so much as rousing the suspicions of a single guard.

Such events only served to amplify anticipation surrounding the ceremony. But in spite of the numerous grand figures that had gathered, and the detailed arrangements being devised, still something felt amiss – that is, until a single, small canoe of the Woodland Elves’ make sailed in from the north.

Afternoon sunlight streamed down bright and balmy, causing rivulets of sweat to trickle down Truva’s forehead and back as she balanced precariously upon a timber beam, aiding in the construction of a pile along Osgiliath’s most damaged second bridge. So focused was she, and so blinded by her own perspiration, that she failed to spy the little craft as it drew abreast.

‘Ai-oi, lassie, don’t go falling in – for I shan’t rescue you a second time!’ cried Gimli, startling Truva and nearly effecting the very fate he warned against.

‘Master Dwarf!’ she replied, dropping deftly into the canoe and bowing as low as space allowed. ‘It is very good to see you again, my friend! And you, Legolas – you look well as ever.’

‘And she has the audacity to act surprised by our arrival!’ Gimli scoffed. ‘Imagine our own surprise when we encountered Aragorn’s messengers coming northwards to tell us the news, even as we journeyed south!’

‘It saddens me to think – had we set out any later – we might never have arrived in time to witness the union of two very dear friends,’ said Legolas, laying a hand upon Truva’s shoulder in the greeting of his people.

One of Truva’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly at the Elf’s suggestion that she was a ‘very dear friend’; yet the notion pleased her, and so she made no comment. ‘How fare things in the north?’

‘As well as might be expected,’ Legolas answered. ‘Which is to say, not particularly well at all. I fear Rohan ought not expect friendly overtures from Erebor any time soon, though my father continues to navigate an unsteady alliance between Calengroth and the Lonely Mountain.’

‘I imagine Aragorn shall wish to hear of such developments,’ said Truva, guiding the canoe towards the docks of Annondû and escorting the pair to Teluelin.

In the statehouse, Legolas and Gimli were greeted with a particularly enthusiastic embrace from Aragorn, as well as all the wares from his kitchens that could hastily be assembled. ‘Tell me, my friends,’ said the King, pushing an array of the Drúedain’s cured meats towards Gimli before repeating Truva’s own inquiry: ‘What news from the north?’

‘’Tis a right mess, make no mistake,’ the Dwarf conceded. ‘King Thorin considered the Marshal’s words an accusation by association, and his ire was further inflamed by the Woodland Realm’s pressing of the issue; he considers Thranduil’s position to be mere opportunistic antagonisation.’

‘I ought not have been so straightforward in speaking with Thorin King,’ said Truva, shaking her head ruefully.

‘I do not believe there was any manner in which such a sensitive topic might have been broached without provoking Thorin’s malcontent,’ Legolas reassured her. ‘Yet it could not go unaddressed.’

‘Nor were you the only one to voice such concerns,’ said Gimli, though he seemed rather more occupied by the salted pork laid before him than the flow of their conversation.

‘Oh?’ asked Truva.

‘Not two days after your departure, King Bard II of Dale arrived before the Lonely Mountain, with many officials arrayed about him,’ Legolas explained. ‘Having heard your own tale, he came to substantiate the claims made against the Iron Hills Dwarves – for the Aelrim, too, have suffered the disappearance of many a youngling.’

‘Yet in being met with King Thorin’s obdurate temperament, and sensing no hope of concessions, he enacted an embargo that remained in place even as we departed,’ Gimli added.

‘Trade between Long Lake and the Lonely Mountain is not insubstantial,’ said Truva. ‘Even so, when Buri escorted me through Erebor’s tremendous halls, it seemed the Dwarves had made tremendous strides towards self-sufficiency. As well-intentioned as Bard King’s actions may be, I cannot think it will have any considerable impact.’

‘And therein lies the problem,’ said Gimli. ‘King Thorin has become increasingly isolationist, and sees no compelling reason to compromise.’

The company sat in silence a while, brooding upon the complexities of their situation, before Aragorn heaved a deep sigh. ‘Whether it be through arbitration, trade embargo, or any other means, the Iron Hills will not remain overlooked,’ said he. ‘We shall see to it – make no mistake. But let us speak on more pleasant things as we sup.’

Thus sombre talks gave way to tales of the friends’ wild adventures since last they parted. Glad as she was of Legolas and Gimli’s company, Truva was most thankful for the fleeting excuse to linger in Aragorn’s presence; for even in the days since their betrothal, each had been busied by the unceasing responsibilities before them. A King could not abandon his governance, nor a Marshal her leadership – regardless of how ardently their love was felt, or how hard it had been come by. Ever wary of watchful eyes, Truva and Aragorn were forced to content themselves with a brush of hands here or a secretive kiss there, always beyond the view of others.

Those most eager to impinge upon what little time Truva did not dedicate to her official duties were the Wizards, whose curiosity proved ever insatiable. The onslaught escalated one morning when Radagast cornered Truva in the Eorling mess tent several days after his arrival, flopping down into a seat beside her as she picked apart her breakfast of barley bread and butter.

‘Pallando tells me he has been instructing you on how to wield your powers, as it were,’ said the Wizard, holding a pipe to his lips (though it seemed to have gone out some time ago) and gazing about distractedly.

‘It has been no easy task, though not for any lack of effort on his part,’ said Truva. ‘I imagine, even without the interruption of battles and such, we still would have been met with minimal progress.’

‘And he told you the feeling starts from the chin, did he?’

‘That seems to be his impression.’

‘Utter codswallop!’ Radagast exclaimed quite suddenly, causing Truva to jump. Smoke began to curl up from the bowl of his pipe. ‘It begins from the heels, where the body meets the earth most firmly!’

‘It most certainly does not!’ said Pallando, appearing at the mess tent entrance.

‘Surely, as a horsemaster of Rohan, you understand the significance of keeping your heels down?’ Radagast insisted, pointedly ignoring Pallando. ‘Can you not feel it, even now? Go on, give it a try – set fire to it.’

He withdrew a tiny hemlock pinecone from a pocket hidden in his robes and held it before Truva with the very tips of his fingers, expectant. Pallando drew near, curious in spite of himself.

‘I haven’t my bow,’ Truva mumbled, averting her eyes.

‘You need it not,’ said Pallando, surprising both Truva and Radagast. ‘You need only to find the source within yourself.’

Truva glanced about. Eorlingas came and went from the tent, cavorting about as soldiers are wont to do during mealtimes. Though they paid little heed to the strange proceedings in their midst, Truva couldn’t help but be distracted by each Rider who brushed past.

‘Ignore the others,’ Pallando urged. ‘The bustle here pales in comparison to the utter chaos of battle, as you well know. Simply focus your intention as I have taught you.’

Radagast gave a contemptuous snort but otherwise did not respond.

Truva bent her mind towards the pinecone, taking in each detail, every little flake of its curved scales and knobbly stem. She pressed her heels into the trampled grass of the mess tent, allowed the pressure to build behind her nose, devoted every fibre of her awareness to the pinecone’s grooved features.

Nothing happened, of course.

Time and time again, Truva stared at the pinecone. She stared until her eyes ached and crossed, and her head spun; until all her senses felt both dulled and unbearably sharp at the same time. But aside from Radagast dropping the cone in a momentary delusion that it had grown hot, however, the results were negligible. Eventually, Truva could bear no more and fell back in her chair, utterly spent.

‘So you see, the heel is equally ineffective as the jaw,’ Pallando declared triumphantly.

‘It is because you have impressed upon her the wrong notions from the beginning!’ Radagast persisted.

The Wizards’ argument flowed over an oblivious and exhausted Truva, only to be repeated ad nauseam each subsequent time the three converged to explore her uncooperative abilities. Yet in the days following the Osgiliath Accords, it was not this magical power – nor her fear that perhaps she harboured no extraordinary nature at all – that became the greatest burden in Truva’s mind, but rather the duty of explaining the full ramifications of Aragorn’s proposal to Éowyn and Faramir.

Truva devoted a great deal of energy to avoiding Lord and Lady, hoping to conjure both suitable words and suitable opportunity. But it was not long before she resigned herself to the fact that no timing would ever be perfect, nor any words sufficient. Thus, one evening when she could no longer endure the tension, Truva sought out Éowyn’s accommodations in the marble halls of Teluelin.

On finding the rooms empty, Truva stood before the doorway, frowning. Relief and frustration wrestled in her breast as she considered whether to continue her search or simply abandon the venture and attempt again the following day, knowing it would require a great deal of effort to reignite the courage to return. But even as she turned to make her way back to the Eorling encampment, a passing guard slowed, then paused.

‘If you are looking for the Lady Éowyn, she is in the gardens,’ he offered, bowing low when he realised it was the Marshal he addressed.

‘The gardens?’ Truva inquired. ‘I have walked the perimeter of Teluelin several times throughout my stay in Osgiliath, and never once observed anything that resembles a garden or courtyard.’

‘That is because they are not to be found without the building, Marshal. Follow the northern wing’s central corridor, and it will intersect a tremendous hall spanning the full length of the building north to south. It will appear as though you can go no further, but there is a tiny door opposite – little more than a service door. Beyond it lies the conservatory.’

‘Thank you, soldier,’ said Truva, making off in the direction indicated, indecision resolved.

When she slipped through the gardens’ heavy door, she was brought up short in awe. There were no walls – merely a series of pillars and high windows towering into an arched marble ceiling. Beneath her feet lay a pathway of ornate mosaic tiles, flanked by rank upon rank of citrus and olive trees marching towards the far wall, their boles struck into vast beds of soil. An elevated walkway encircled the full length of the hall above.

In spite of the cool evening outside, the conservatory interior was warm and mild. Truva breathed in the musky scent of earth, thick upon the humid air, and allowed it to cleanse her heart and mind.

‘It is truly magnificent, is it not?’ spoke a gentle voice not far ahead.

Truva stepped forward to peer around the nearest thicket of colocasia, where Éowyn sat alone upon a bench. Lamplight illuminated the Princess’ soft features, rendering her beauty all the more ineffable. Truva took a seat wordlessly beside her.

‘The conservatory is still in its first stages of infancy,’ Éowyn continued. ‘Faramir described to me how the orchardists brought a variety of specimens from Lossarnach, Dol Amroth, and beyond – and though the lemon trees fared most poorly along the voyage, it seems King Aragorn’s hands can heal more than the mere wounds of mortal Men.’

Truva feigned not to notice when Éowyn’s hand moved surreptitiously to her shield arm, instead turning her eyes upon the rayed petals of nearby jasmine. ‘It is a wonder such splendour survived the Southrons’ assault,’ she remarked.

‘I would like to think even those soldiers of Umbar and Harad were capable of acknowledging the beauty and significance of this endeavour, and thus could not bring themselves to destroy it.’ Éowyn smiled gently and reached out to run her fingers through the jasmine blossoms, sending up their delicate perfume into the air. ‘Still, to speak of such regrettable events does not strike me as your purpose in seeking me out this evening.’

She then fixed Truva with piercing scrutiny. Unable to bear the intensity of her friend’s gaze, Truva lowered her eyes to stare at her hands twisting in her lap.

‘I wished to speak with you regarding Aragorn’s request that Elboron serve as the Crown Prince, should the need arise,’ she said.

Éowyn did not respond, but nor did she look away. Truva cleared her throat several times before summoning the courage to continue.

‘When I set out for Rhûn, I did so at the behest of Gandalf, and with the purpose of discovering my lineage there,’ she said, voice no more than a whisper. ‘But the Wizard’s charge was a mere façade to mask hidden ends – for which I was thankful; I was far happier serving his purposes than mine own.

‘For I thought surely I was the daughter of farmers, or perhaps of nomads or traders – those nameless, least able to raise a fuss when their children go missing. To trace such familial lines is an impossible task, and I was content with this lot: to consider the Eorlingas my only kin.

‘But oh, my friend, how wrong I was! And how miserable I am, to know I was born of a man determined to overthrow the lands I have come to call home, and whose very blood has condemned me to a life I do not wish to lead!’

Tears began to course unbidden down Truva’s cheeks at these words. She went to speak further several times, but each attempt was met with a sharp, compulsive gasp.

Éowyn reached out and took her hand. ‘Whatever do you mean? What lineage could possibly cause you such distress?’

‘I am not the daughter of some undistinguished, ordinary commoner, but of Alatar the Blue Wizard himself!’ Truva blurted, burying her face in her hands.

Éowyn’s brows knitted together in confusion. ‘The late companion of Pallando, who led the Easterlings against us in the Battle of Cair Andros?’

‘He who was slayed by Gríma before the gates of Edoras,’ Truva confirmed. ‘The very same.’

Then, just as quickly as they had come, her tears abated. Inhaling a shaky breath, she used the sleeve of her tunic to wipe her cheeks dry. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve allowed my emotions to run rampant too much of late; it is just that I am so very tired.’

‘And understandably so,’ said Éowyn, patting Truva’s hand comfortingly. ‘For in a wild twist of fate, you have come to undo all the ills of your sire. But surely you must know by now that family delves deeper than blood; the Eorlingas shall ever be your kin, as they shall ever be mine, and your legacy shall spread further than even that of Alatar.’

Truva smiled at the Princess’ misguided encouragement – to transcend a Wizard! The thought! Yet her face soon fell to consider the other half-truths; for while there are some ways in which one’s fate can be guided by their own hand, there are also some things that cannot. Truva knew there were ramifications of her lineage that could not be ignored.

But Éowyn had already arrived at the next line of thought; she sat puzzling a moment, a perplexed expression twisting her features.

‘You must forgive me,’ she began, ‘but as unsavoury as such knowledge of your relation to Alatar might be, I cannot fathom what relation it has to Aragorn’s request.’

Truva hesitated only briefly. ‘Aragorn’s line is long and proud,’ she said, though her voice still quavered. ‘Now I discover mine is that of a traitor, who submitted to greed and failed in his task to protect Middle-earth. I cannot in good faith sully Aragorn’s descendants with my own blood.’

‘And Aragorn feared Isildur’s weakness would manifest in himself, and prevent the destruction of the One Ring; yet we sit here in this magnificent orangerie, free of despair and darkness. Tell me, my friend, what is it that truly worries you?’

Silence filled the space between them. Truva closed her eyes, dreading a retelling of that which she feared Éowyn would not understand. The Princess had already given birth to her blessed son, being met with no obstacle to the union with her true love; she lived, and would live, in the manner expected of a member of the royal house of Rohan.

At a gentle squeeze from Éowyn’s hand, Truva took a trembling breath.

‘I have seen too much loss,’ she continued at last. ‘Already in my life, I have watched the young pass before me too often, said final goodbyes to too many loved ones, seen too much suffering of the innocent; yet this is the fate that awaits me as the long-lived descendant of Alatar, whether I will it or no.’

It was Truva’s turn then to fix her friend with a keen gaze. ‘Éowyn, I cannot watch my own children die before me. I cannot.’

A brief lull followed this declaration; but rather than look away, Éowyn met Truva’s eyes squarely. ‘And so Aragorn elected to name Elboron as Crown Prince, for you will give him no heir.’

‘I did not ask it of him!’ Truva hung her head, for she sensed accusation in Éowyn’s impassive words. ‘On the contrary, I was certain the illusion would shatter at long last, and Aragorn would finally see me as the poor candidate for Queen that I am – a rejection I was more than willing to accept; as grievous as the loss of Aragorn’s love would be, it paled in comparison to what I believed the alternative to be.’

Éowyn mused silently upon these words for a time, her lips pressed tightly together. The grip with which she held Truva’s hand, however, only tightened.

‘I have been granted the good fortune of choosing for myself the path of a healer,’ she said after a time. ‘And I, too, saw fit to defy convention when riding into battle upon the Fields of the Pelennor. I do not see how I can enjoy such privilege whilst simultaneously denying it to you.’

Truva’s brow furrowed. ‘I do not understand.’

‘Further,’ Éowyn continued, ignoring the interruption, ‘I need only think of Elboron and the unendurable torment I would suffer, were he to be taken from me – let alone by death. I do not believe I would make the same decision if I were in your place, yet I cannot fault you for your choice.’

Truva stared at Éowyn blankly, for she had been so certain of facing the Princess’ outrage that it took several moments for realisation to dawn upon her. Yet when it finally did, her heart swelled with love and acceptance – only to immediately deflate. ‘You comprehend, of course, the enormity of the task that is now certain to fall to little Elboron?’

‘It fills me with tremendous unease, it is true,’ Éowyn admitted. ‘Yet the lives we weave are mysterious, and their ends invisible; not until the warp is stitched back in shall the tapestry’s image be revealed to us.’

‘And you will speak of this to Lord Faramir?’ Truva pressed. ‘It is not a decision that can be made alone.’

‘Yes, though you can be assured he will not disagree.’

‘But to all others—’

‘Your secret shall never leave our lips,’ said Éowyn, rising. ‘Come, do not be in such dispirits! Let us take a turn about the garden, and gossip about all the pleasures that are to come with your impending nuptials.’

Truva stood as well, and at first a smile passed between the two, and then a long embrace – a gesture of gratitude, and of love, and of reassurance, as would pass between kin. Then they linked arms and cut through a copse of orange trees, ascending the wrought-iron spiral staircase to the conservatory’s suspended walkway.

‘And what of little Elboron?’ Truva asked. ‘Is he abed already?’

‘I have left him in the care of my husband and brother,’ Éowyn explained. ‘And though the Lady Lothíriel accompanies them, I deeply doubt she is up to the task of keeping those troublesome three in line. As delightful as it has been to take two breaths on my own, I ought to return – but not too swiftly!’

And so it was that the two shieldmaidens strolled high above the treetops, and looked down upon the foliage below before descending once more to meander through the close paths between peach and pomegranate trees. With each step Truva felt her worry ease, and her enthusiasm for her marriage to Aragorn return, and her affection for Éowyn redouble.

Chapter Text

It seemed an eternity before companies began to drift northward from Osgiliath to Cair Andros – though in truth it was no more than a further sennight, and a second coming and going of a Southron chelandion. At first, the Gondorians and their allies descended upon Elminas under the guise of reconstruction, yet preparations for the impending nuptials soon overtook all other activities. A veritable city of tents and pavilions sprung up across the Field of Cormallen, followed by a migration of all manner of townsfolk and city folk to populate it, and an ebullient mood to rouse it.

But something about this anticipation weighed heavily in Truva’s mind. It was not an altogether unpleasant feeling (for she awaited with great eagerness the day when her union with Aragorn would come at last) but she knew also that her life would alter irrevocably from that day forward. It was not unlike when she fled the Hidlands to begin her life anew with the Eorlingas; yet rather than blindly leaving behind a life that had exploited her, she now moved forward with full knowledge and intention, having chosen the life she desired for herself.

Her ambivalence was not alleviated by the proclamation that was then issued forth, to great fanfare and pomp, declaring the ceremony to be held in precisely three days’ time, on Loëndë itself. Though Aragorn and Truva had arrived at this determination themselves, the final decision ultimately lay with the King’s chef, who in truth was considered by many (and Queen Azgaur especially) to play the most significant role of all.

All at once, Truva found herself surrounded by a disorienting storm of advisors, consultants, vendors and suppliers, all asking her to confirm final details regarding matters which she knew little of. Aerin the seamstress was the most enthusiastic of the lot, bursting unannounced into Truva’s tent one day and brandishing a strip of measuring parchment.

‘The time has finally come!’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands with equal parts enthusiasm and command. ‘I have looked forward to this day since first I met you.’

The seamstress pulled a disoriented Truva to her feet and embraced her briefly before spinning her about. Truva’s tattered garments, sullied by a day of labouring on the charred docks of Cair Andros, flapped pathetically.

‘My goodness, you have lost a great deal of weight since last I took your measurements!’ she tutted, prodding and poking and winding the strip of parchment all about Truva’s body, making notes as needed. ‘I shall need to draw in your dress a great deal.’

‘You mustn’t go to such lengths,’ said Truva. ‘The silver dress you gifted me for Lady Éowyn’s wedding was more than magnificent enough.’

‘And where might that dress be now?’ Aerin’s eyebrows arched high. ‘I don’t suppose you brought it with you into battle, and it now sits unsullied in the depths of your rucksack?’

Truva glanced to where her dishevelled and nearly-empty pack, provided by the West Rhûn Orcs all those weeks ago, sat tossed in the corner of her tent. There was no denying the seamstress’ point.

‘In truth, I would consider myself blessed to be wed in battle armour, or even a sleeping gown,’ Truva muttered. ‘It matters not what I wear, so long as Aragorn is by my side.’

Aerin’s face broke into a brilliant smile. ‘As such things ought to be on your wedding day,’ she said. ‘But no, my dear, you may consider this garment my own repayment for the service you have rendered the people of Gondor time and time again. And there is not a single lady in all the land who shall not be envious of the raiment you don – and, in their jealousy, seek out my little shop,’ she added with a wink.

The seamstress’ visit was followed hard upon by that of a chef’s apprentice, as well as a portraitist, an orchardman, wine and ale merchants, whole flocks of minstrels, and various other tradesmen who seemed determined to keep Truva occupied all hours of the day. Whenever she was granted a rare moment of reprieve, she would duck out into the city of tents – only to be cornered by yet another lackey. Each time she caught sight of Aragorn, he appeared equally occupied; and in the dwindling days remaining before their union, they considered themselves fortunate to so much as glimpse one another.

On the ceremony’s eve, as the golden hues of late afternoon mingled amongst yellow culumalda blossoms, the makeshift city devolved into chaos. Tremendous merry-making was to be had throughout the Field of Cormallen. Platters of delicacies and tankards of ale were carted about with abandon, and revellers made do with any corner in which they might carouse.

But Truva was far too anxious to indulge in the rich food and drink, electing instead to wander amidst the tents. Congratulations followed wherever she went, which she accepted gratefully; as concerned as she had initially been about the Gondorians’ perception of their venerable King plighting his troth to a foreign, untitled bride, her fears were assuaged by their kindly greetings – though there was still an undercurrent of hesitation.

‘Ai, robereth!’ one grandfather cried, drunkenly offering Truva a tankard, only to take a hearty quaff of it himself when she politely refused. ‘I was mighty worried about our Lord Aragorn, so recently come to us, binding himself to a maiden of another land—’

‘—And a soldier, at that!’ interjected a portly baker at his side.

‘—but the lads say you’re a right master of the sword,’ the grandfather continued, gesturing to a nearby mass of warriors who concurred with many exclamations of ‘aye!’ and mugs raised, ‘and anyone good enough for them is good enough for me!’ He took another deep drink, streams of ale running down his thick, greying beard.

Truva bowed in acknowledgement of her gratitude. ‘It is my hope to aid Lord Aragorn in fostering days of peace, when my skills with a blade – and those of all Gondor’s forces – are rendered unnecessary,’ she said, to great roars of approval.

In one great rush, the soldiers bounded forward and carried Truva off on their shoulders, weaving through the tent pathways so that she might be hailed by all others. From one end of camp to the other did they carouse, and before long encountered an equally-harried Aragorn being borne about in a similar manner. The betrothed could only exchange bemused smiles as the two parties mingled in a swirl of frenetic activity.

‘To the maiden’s bower! To the maiden’s bower!’ shouted Gamhelm, who then cheekily added: ‘For tomorrow she shall be a maiden no longer!’

The chant of ‘to the maiden’s bower!’ was echoed by a chorus of many voices. At once, Truva was escorted on a full circuit about the camp before finally being delivered with much ado and pageantry to her quarters. Then the revellers were off, flutes twiddling and drums pounding, to make clear their boisterous spirits.

Grateful for the quietude at last, Truva made to wash up in a small basin. But no sooner had the sounds of gaiety faded (albeit not entirely, for they would never fully subside that night) than the tent flap flew open again, startling her. Resigning herself to a night of disturbances and little sleep, Truva turned to spy Mǽgwine, Éolend, and their son Aferalend standing in the entrance.

‘My friends!’ she cried, leaping to embrace all three at once. ‘Oh, how relieved I am that you received my letter in time to arrive before the ceremony!’

‘Only just!’ laughed Éolend, returning the embrace. ‘It is tomorrow you are to be wed, after all!’

‘We made it in time because I can ride a horse quite fast now,’ boasted Aferalend. ‘Faster than all the other boys in Edoras.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Truva with a playful smile. ‘And what of the girls? Can you ride faster than them?’

The young Eorling merely scoffed in response. But when Truva looked to his parents, they did not share his indifferent attitude. There was hesitancy in Mǽgwine’s manner especially; she hung back, eyes watery.

‘But I can shoe horses faster than the boys and girls,’ came Aferalend’s delayed retort.

‘Aye, but not as fast as me,’ said Éolend, giving his wife a knowing glance before taking his son by the shoulders and guiding him back towards the festivities.

‘Not yet,’ the boy could be heard insisting without the tent.

Mǽgwine alone remained. She smiled in spite of her forlorn expression – yet the very movement of her cheeks caused the tears she had been withholding to fall at last. For several moments, poignant silence hung between the two Eorling women as each took the other in.

‘I remember the first night you arrived in Edoras,’ Mǽgwine whispered. ‘You had never seen a bath! Do you recall?’

‘I do,’ said Truva, her own tears springing unbidden to her eyes at the memory of Mǽgwine’s generosity in those days, and all the subsequent years after.

‘The foods you had never tasted, the clothes you had never worn, the wines you had never drunk—’

‘A memory perhaps best left forgotten,’ Truva quipped.

‘—the kindness you had never felt.’ Mǽgwine stepped forward to fold Truva into an embrace. ‘I could never have imagined that timid creature would transform into the eminent leader I watched ride out to battle during the War.’

Mǽgwine’s body gave a slight shudder as she spoke of wounds that would never heal; even now, Éothafa’s spirit lingered. After a moment, she extricated herself and held Truva at arm’s length.

‘And yet each action, each decision has created this queenly personage before me now, bearing an aura which is not the result of he whom she marries, but of her own perseverance and unstinting devotion to those who needed her most.’

‘I would never have had the strength to endure, had you not shown me love,’ said Truva.

‘I very much doubt that to be true,’ said Mǽgwine, hastily dabbing away tears. ‘But I shall accept the sentiment anyway. Now rest! Tomorrow shall come both far too swiftly, and far too slowly.’

With a final embrace, Mǽgwine slipped back through the tent entrance after her husband and child, leaving Truva alone once more.

But Truva had scarcely taken a deep, fortifying breath before Legolas and Gimli burst in, having been waiting just outside.

‘Affectionate folk, the Rohirrim,’ Gimli commented as he took a seat on one of the elegantly embroidered canvas chairs. ‘I consider myself fortunate to have found a home bordering their lands.’

‘Bordering?’ Legolas questioned. ‘It was only recently their land, gifted to you rather than found.’

The Elf placed a parcel wrapped in a white kerchief upon the low camp table. ‘Honey-cakes from Grimbeorn the Old, to mark the Beornings’ felicitations of your nuptials – for we were in his company when we received the news. I do believe the Chieftain was deeply moved by your story.’

Gimli too fumbled around in his great coat for several moments. Then, from within its numerous folds, he withdrew a small figurine. ‘I don’t suppose, during all that adventuring without us, you succeeded in keeping hold of that wooden horse?’

Truva felt a twinge of guilt. Of the few effects she had been fortunate enough to retain along her journey, the carving of Bron Gimli gifted to her upon their separation at the Lonely Mountain was not one. But with a grunt of understanding, the Dwarf pressed into her hands another: far more intricate than the first, adorned with patterns in the Eorling style and inlaid with bronze flecks that mimicked horsehair. It appeared as though Bron lived yet in the very palm of her hand.

And then Gimli gave to her a second figure – that of Shadowfax, its mithril embellishments glimmering in the lamplight. The Seven Stars of Elendil were strewn across its back, and when it was nestled beside Bron, the two carvings fit perfectly together.

‘Two steeds of the Mearas, bound together by fate,’ Gimli grunted, a bashful hue tinting his cheeks.

‘Thank you,’ Truva whispered, though no sound passed from her lips; all the air had gone from her lungs. Tears fell to glisten upon the splendid figures.

Gimli did not say anything further, merely stood and patted her elbow before giving a short, empathetic harrumph. As he turned to leave, Legolas placed a hand upon Truva’s shoulder.

‘May your days be blessed, and may your joys outnumber your sorrows,’ he spoke. ‘And when the seasons change endlessly, and your days grow long and indistinguishable from one another, know that you shall always have a place amongst the dwellers of Eryn Lasgalen.’

Unable to summon a response, Truva bowed her head in wordless thanks.

Then, just as swiftly as they had come, the duo disappeared, leaving Truva to her washing-up at last. But still she could not bring herself to the task; instead, she sat examining Gimli’s figurines when a gentle cough sounded just outside her tent.

‘Aragorn?’ she breathed hopefully, half rising from her seat. But while the face that ducked within was not that which she had anticipated, it was equally welcome.

‘No such luck this eve, I’m afraid,’ Éomer King chuckled. ‘Aragorn is terrifically busy with his own stream of visitors and well-wishers.’

‘Thus shall I be all the gladder to see him on the morrow,’ Truva said, a wide smile breaking out at the very thought.

Éomer, on the contrary, feigned a deep frown. ‘I hope your gladness surpasses the misery I shall feel to watch my most promising Marshal promoted beyond my reach!’

‘You will never find me beyond your reach, my King!’ Truva insisted, responding in earnest to her King’s jest. She rushed to kneel before Éomer, head bowed to the very ground even as he caught her elbow in an unspoken bid to rise.

‘Come now,’ he urged. ‘You need bow to me no more.’

‘I shall owe you my allegiance until the very final hours of my life – however prolonged it may be,’ said Truva. Though she straightened at last, she remained on her knees. ‘All those years would have been spent in servitude, were it not for your grace, and that of Théoden King.’

‘I could not have expected more ardent loyalty from you, were you my own kin, my own flesh and blood,’ said Éomer, falling to his own knees in a reflection of Truva’s posture as she refused to rise. ‘I care naught for what titles or appellations your parentage might bestow upon you, for it pales in comparison to the nobility of your conduct ever since coming into our midst. Horses run through your heart, Truva Marshal of the Mark, and shall do so as long as you live – whether you consider yourself Eorling, Gondorian, or Easterling.’

Truva could not bring herself to speak further, so tight was her chest. She had believed all her tears spent on Mǽgwine and Legolas and Gimli – and yet they surged once more, trickling down her cheeks. Éomer brushed each droplet away with a brusque touch, though the sentiment was tender.

‘Aragorn is my brother, and you are my sister,’ he said gently. ‘It brings me no greater joy than to see two people whom I love joining themselves in union. And following these many dark years, it is a doubly welcome cause for celebration.’

‘I will visit often,’ Truva finally succeeded in whispering.

‘And I shall hold you to your word,’ smiled Éomer. ‘Now rest; I will see to it that you are not disturbed further this night.’

When he too was gone, Truva slipped into bed and pulled the woollen blankets tight about her, convinced the sense of anticipation would not relent; and yet she somehow slipped from wakefulness into slumber, allowing the promise of the next day’s exultations to draw her into a shroud of blithe dreams.

Even so, she slept fitfully. The first hint of dawn had only just begun to show when she yielded to the encroaching light and rose from her bed. Throwing a heavy robe over her smock, she emerged from her tent and stepped out into the promise of morning. A thick fog blanketed the encampment, muffling what few sounds emerged – for indeed all save the King’s chef still rested, thoroughly spent from the previous night’s revelry.

Truva wove through the maze-like pathways, eventually coming upon the vast greensward of Cormallen, beyond which lay the forest of golden culumalda. The air was cool in spite of the summer season, and the songs of warblers and thrushes wove together upon a light breeze to craft both melody and harmony. Truva breathed in the heady scent of culumalda blossoms, sweet like sapwood, and the faint trace of stewing currants from the mess tent.

When she gained the deeper shadows of the tree line, Truva drew her robe tighter about her shoulders. She walked with gentle step, revelling in the quietude, in the immediacy of the moment. All thought of past and future disappeared and – for the briefest of spells – she simply existed.

Then an unexpected noise disturbed her reverie. The crack of a twig, the flash of movement, the sudden absence of birdsong all alerted Truva to the presence of another, yet she continued to wander through the thickets, unperturbed. Not even the recollection of the Orc attack in snowy Ithilien prompted her to reach for her dagger.

‘How now, oh blushing bride, wandering lost amongst the trees?’ spoke a soft voice.

‘How now, oh gallant groom, wandering in her wake?’ Truva replied even as Aragorn emerged from behind a beech bole.

‘I thought I’d find you about at this hour,’ he said, drawing near.

‘And I, you – and so here we are.’ Truva could not stifle her eager smile, nor did she have any desire to do so.

Yet Aragorn’s expression of contentment was tinged with melancholy; he hesitated a moment before reaching out to take her hand in his. He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently, then laid her palm upon his breast.

‘There can be no sureties when speaking on matters of the future,’ said he, ‘yet it is undeniable that the path that I, as heir of Isildur and the throne of Gondor, have led – and will lead until my death – is not an easy one. You are a woman of your own mind, yet I urge you to think carefully in these last moments of your maidenhood, as I do not wish for you to embark upon such an arduous path, only to suffer out of a misplaced affection for me. You have endured your own hardships; there is no need to compound upon them.’

In spite of his morose divulgence, the most remarkable thing happened then: Truva laughed – a most melodic laugh that rose up to join the birds’ resumed chorus high within the culumalda treetops.

‘Do you doubt my love?’ she asked.

‘I do not doubt its existence, nor its fervour – no,’ Aragorn spoke without a trace of humour, causing Truva to bite back her mirth as he brushed aside an errant lock of her hair, fingers falling to her cheek and caressing each feature of her face in turn. ‘Only its ability to overcome the realities of this world. And because you have shown hesitancy towards our union in the past, I had hoped you might assuage my own unease in that regard.’

Truva inhaled slowly, gathering thoughts which remained obscure even to herself. ‘Uncertainty plagued my response to your initial overtures, for I was not secure enough in myself then to offer you my devotion. Yet in coming to learn of my past and its lack of bearing upon my own self, I now have sufficient faith in my ability to confront whatever obstacles might present themselves. I can give myself wholly to you only now, because it is only now that I am whole.’

‘And I offer myself wholly in return,’ Aragorn murmured, pulling Truva to his chest and kissing the top of her head softly. ‘And on this day, I wish for the whole of Arda to know the fiercest shieldmaiden in all the lands has agreed to guard the heart of their son the Renewer.’

‘And with equal humility she accepts this charge,’ Truva whispered in response.

His smile now full and unclouded, Aragorn took her hand in his. They resumed their wanderings, content to bask in the dawning light of a day that would alter their course for all of eternity.

They were not granted any significant peace, however, for a mere few minutes later, Éowyn came crashing through the underbrush.

‘Truva!’ she exclaimed. ‘What in Helm’s name are you galavanting about for? There is much to be done!’ But she stopped short upon spying Aragorn, suddenly turning sheepish. ‘If you’ll pardon the expression, my lord. Faramir has been searching for you for quite some time, as well.’

‘Then let us not keep him waiting,’ said Aragorn, motioning in the direction of camp.

Éowyn twined her arm tightly about Truva’s and began marching back towards the greensward, Aragorn drifting ever so slightly behind. No sooner had the trio gained the first row of tents than Lord Faramir materialised, drawing Aragorn away so swiftly the betrothed couple was afforded little more than a parting wave.

‘A bath has been prepared,’ Éowyn said as she guided Truva into an unfamiliar pavilion at the edge of camp. It was strewn with flowers both inside and out; culumalda and delphinium, meadow-rue and cornflower mingled to create fragrant tapestries and garlands. The wooden tub itself was no simple affair. The scent of lavender wafted upon the water’s steam.

Éowyn gestured for Truva to get undressed. ‘I will take your garments to your tent,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, cleanse yourself more thoroughly than had you just come from battle. When I return, I shall wash your hair.’

Truva had never felt so clean as when she sank into that tub; not even the marble baths of Mundburg could compare to the simple ecstasy she felt from its scalding heat and entrancing perfumes. When she slipped fully beneath the water’s surface, the act took on a significance beyond cleanliness – it became a rite of purification, of humility, like that of her first bath in Edoras.

Then Éowyn reappeared, accompanied by Mǽgwine.

‘Sit back,’ Éowyn ordered, slipping into the Eorling tongue – which Truva felt a sudden and overwhelming fondness for. When she complied, Éowyn brandished a bowl of black viscous paste and began to massage it into Truva’s scalp.

‘Do horses run through your heart?’ Mǽgwine asked gently, taking a position beside the tub and plying a penknife to what little of Truva’s nails remained (for both combat and extensive construction work had reduced her hands to battered appendages).

‘It is a veritable stampede,’ Truva replied. Tranquillity overtook her then, and she shut her eyes against the canvas tent roof, which grew bright with the light of full morning.

‘It is a very good thing Lord Aragorn came into our midst,’ Éowyn remarked. ‘His austere qualities so wonderfully complement your own. I very much doubt any in the Mark would have suited you so well, passionate and spirited as our men are.’

Truva’s breath stuttered. She hesitated to speak, before finally whispering, ‘Any, save perhaps one.’

The three fell silent a moment, the memory of Théodred’s joyful countenance vibrant in their minds. Not two years had transpired since his passing, and still his impression was written stark upon their hearts.

‘Come now, you must tell us the story of how the love between you and Lord Aragorn blossomed!’ Mǽgwine exclaimed, diverting the conversation to a safer topic.

‘Yes, Aragorn has been frustratingly unforthcoming in that matter – even to Faramir,’ Éowyn added, a comical hint of frustration in her voice.

‘First, I must apologise, my friend,’ said Truva, turning to take Éowyn’s hand in her own. ‘For at one time, you also felt strongly for the Ranger. I assure you, I had no awareness of his affections for me at the time, nor of my own. It was not until after the Battle of Mundburg that our emotions were laid bare before us, though circumstances remained tenuous for long after.’

‘Even in the refuge of Dunharrow, it was clear to me Lord Aragorn’s heart belonged to another,’ Éowyn conceded, turning Truva back around and continuing to lather her hair with an egg mixture. ‘He was never mine to lose, and I am better for it; Faramir is loving and gentle and good, and his position bestows upon me a freedom I was never granted in Edoras, and which I think I would likewise be denied, were I Queen. And Ithilien is not so terribly different from the Mark; it is certainly a far sight preferable to the stifling enclosure of Mundburg!’

Truva laughed for sheer joy at her friend’s propitious fortune. ‘Aye, ’tis far easier to imagine you lilting about the green forests of Ithilien than the stark streets of the White City!’

‘Yes, well, whether you be in Stoningland or Ithilien or wherever else, and for however many years, we shall miss you terribly,’ sighed Mǽgwine.

Truva clutched her friend’s hand in response, though perhaps slightly tighter than intended due to Éowyn’s comb catching upon a snarl in her nearly-dry hair. She listened to the wives’ gossip about married life as they tended to her hygiene, combing and scrubbing and plucking and cutting. When at last their ministrations began to peter out, Truva felt as though her body weighed but a fraction of what it had before.

In that very moment, Aerin bounded into the tent, holding a bundle before her. ‘I must admit,’ the seamstress declared, ‘I have slept all of four hours these past several nights – in part to ensure the garment was finished, and in part for sheer enthusiasm to see you in it!’

‘Even the simplest of tunics from your shop would be sufficient,’ said Truva, emerging from the bath and drying herself with a swath of cloth.

‘Nonsense!’ Aerin exclaimed. ‘An extravagant ceremony demands extravagant garb, and I will not see you outdone by any, for many generations to come – even if they are dressed by my own hand.’

She then bade Truva stand in the midst of the tent. The shift she presented was anything but simple, its white linen embroidered with delicate florals and lace. But these beautiful subtleties were not to be seen, for they were soon covered by a gown of rich green damask. Truva admired the dress’ pattern, subtle against a dark background, with golden embellishments of horses glimmering from neckline to hemline. The skirt floated at her slightest movement.

‘You are, after all, Truva Marshal of the Mark,’ Aerin murmured, hands flitting as she adjusted each infinitesimal detail. When she reached Truva’s left sleeve, she turned it inside out to reveal a silver Star of the Dúnedain embroidered within.

At a loss for words, Truva wrapped the seamstress in her arms. ‘I will repay this kindness unto you a thousand fold,’ she said when she found her voice again.

‘Start by hastening your preparations!’ Aerin chucked. ‘It seems you are greatly delayed, and already the chef has begun harping on the other tradesmen to ensure each and every triviality is perfect – much to their chagrin.’

At these words, Éowyn thrust Truva into a camp chair and set about perfuming her hair with clove and rose. As she braided Truva’s locks into the intricate wedding plaits of the Eorlingas, Mǽgwine brandished several beets. It required only minor persuasion on her friends’ part to convince Truva that application of the ruby juice to her lips and cheeks would be most endearing.

Meanwhile, Aerin slipped out as the two worked, taking with her Truva’s blade Fréodhel, only to return with lambskin slippers – and absent the sword.

‘Surely you are done?’ the seamstress exclaimed once Mǽgwine finished lacing the slippers’ ribbons about Truva’s calves. Music had been struck up again – for the revellers had awoken at last and, in sensing the impending festivities, sought to hasten them with their rousing choruses.

‘Nearly,’ said Éowyn, tying the last of Truva’s braids. She then produced a single sprig of simbelmynë with a flourish, tucking it into the woven crown of dark hair.

‘You look just as you did when first you came to Edoras,’ Mǽgwine remarked, eyes gleaming, ‘albeit infinitely less terrified.’

‘It is only joy that I feel now,’ said Truva. There was no mirror, nor pane of glass in which she might check her appearance; even the bath had been emptied of water. But Truva cared not, for it was not her physical being but emotions that sent her mind spinning.

‘Come, it is past time!’ Aerin urged.

The party emerged to find the camp almost entirely deserted. As they hurried along the main thoroughfare, the sound of lutes and shawms drifted on the air: half invitation, half summons. Then quite suddenly Aragorn, Éomer, and Faramir emerged from between a row of tents ahead, just within the southern flank of the makeshift city.

‘At great last!’ Éomer declared. He sat upon Firefoot with Lord Faramir at his side, also mounted on his own steed. Aragorn alone remained on foot.

Truva’s heart soared like the alpine coughs of the Hidlands to lay eyes upon him. She did not heed his features – indeed, she could scarcely see, for the cool steadfastness of his steely eyes and the broad smile upon his lips entirely consumed her. Never before had she witnessed Aragorn smile in such a manner, and she was certain by the tightness in her cheeks that her own expression was a reflection of his.

‘We will alert the congregation to your imminent arrival,’ Éowyn muttered, taking both Mǽgwine and Aerin in arm and disappearing beyond the rows of tents.

Aragorn stepped forward, a nosegay of simbelmynë in his hands. This he extended to Truva. When she went to accept it, however, he caught her hand instead, intertwining his fingers with hers and passing the bouquet to Truva’s opposite hand. No words passed between them; their hearts spoke words enough.

Together the company made its way southward, Lord Faramir falling in beside Aragorn and Éomer King at Truva’s side. When they emerged onto the greensward at the confluence of Langflood and Hennethír, sunlight had burned off the morning’s fog. The two rivers traced a glimmering path across the land until they came together and flowed south to the sea, each casting a spell of entrancement over the scene. But to the northwest, just beyond a screen of culumalda trees, rose the towers of Elminas. Truva shuddered to think of the battlefield that lay spread before the garrison, littered with the graves of friend and foe alike; thus happiness was ever tempered by grief – for it was through war that peace was maintained, and the exultations of life all the more keenly felt.

Sensing her distress, Aragorn ran his thumb along her fingers. ‘We must honour the sacrifice of those who have gone before, by continuing to live fully and blissfully.’ He paused then and drew closer, his voice no more than a wisp of air: ‘Théoden King would have been proud to see you stand as you do now.’

Truva returned his smile weakly. She had to inhale one deep breath, and then another, before she was able to face the crowd of well-wishers that had gathered. Her heart eased to see Éowyn joined by Captain Beregond at the forefront of the White Company, and Mǽgwine once more reunited with her family. Aferalend seemed to have taken a liking to Gimli and Legolas, for he harried them with an incessant series of questions too rapid for either to answer.

The south was equally well-represented, for Captain Bardlorn played host to Prince Imrahil and Admiral Elphir, as well as the entrancing Lothíriel. Even Radagast had seen fit to accompany the southern delegation. He stood to one side, engaged in a whispered conversation with Pallando as Kîzge feigned to understand. Just behind the Orc King, Azgaur and Erchirion appeared to be communicating exclusively in gestures.

Eorling Rider stood shoulder to shoulder with Swan Knight, Gondorian and West Rhûn soldier alike, their armour freshly cleaned and polished for the occasion. All manner of Lords and Ladies and common folk had made the journey from the White City, as well, for there was not one who was uneager to see their King married, or to be the first to catch a glimpse of their new Queen.

Yet in a rare departure from her overbearing sense of duty, it was not politic but the Man beside her that consumed Truva’s thoughts as the party strode across the lush greensward, strewn with the wildflowers of midsummer. Aragorn emanated assurance and benevolence, his grip strong in hers, their rough calluses soothed by the promise of mutual succour in the years to come.

Then Éomer’s muttered exclamation roused Truva from her blissful reverie: ‘That blasted Wizard!’

The other three glanced up to spy Gandalf standing at the head of the congregation, as if he had never been away at all. His blue hat swayed slightly in the gentle wind, and there was a distinct twinkle in his eye.

‘Well, I’ll be,’ whispered Faramir. Aragorn merely gave a knowing smile.

‘Impeccable timing!’ said Truva. ‘I can think of no other better suited to conduct the ceremony.’

There was none in disagreeance, and so the party proceeded forward, awash in music and jubilant shouts, until they came before Gandalf.

‘You are late,’ Aragorn said softly, a rather impish grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

‘A Wizard is never late,’ Gandalf chided, though his waggish expression belied the gravity of his tone. ‘Shall we begin?’

Gandalf held in his hands a pennant of white silk. When he raised this high above his head, the entire congregation fell silent at once.

‘Who be it that comes before the assembled peoples of the North and East and West, seeking to be married this day?’ the Wizard asked, his voice seemingly amplified beyond its natural capacity, easily audible to all.

‘I am Aragorn, son of Arathron of the line of Valandil, Isildur’s son, Elendil’s son of Númenor, King of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor.’

‘I am Truva Marshal of the Mark, come of the Hidden Lands.’ The words rang hollow even in her own ears when juxtaposed so sharply with the ancestry and accolades of Aragorn, yet Gandalf pressed on.

‘Are you both of age?’ he asked.

‘We are,’ Truva and Aragorn replied in unison.

‘And are you related by blood?’

‘We are not.’

‘Do you consent freely to enter into this union?’

‘We do.’

Gandalf took each by their left wrist and, turning Aragorn and Truva to face each other, bade them clasp hands. ‘With right hand you wage war, with left you effect peace. Though these are inextricably linked, as inherent to the world as hand to body, may your union be marked predominantly by the latter.’

He took the silk pennant and wrapped it about their joined hands, tying an elegant knot when its long ends brushed the tips of meadowgrass at their feet. Then he placed his own hands upon theirs, one atop and one below.

‘Strange are the workings of fate, that should bring such distinct individuals together, that great joys were brought in concurrence with the deepest of sorrows; for from war was sprouted the tender bud of love, all the more tenacious for having flowered in the harshest conditions. Forever shall intermingle the White Tree of Gondor and White Blossom of Rohan.’

A tremendous cry went up from the crowd, punctuated with the beating of drums and sounding of horns. Any manner in which the Gondorians and Eorlingas could make known their approval was sounded, and even the harsh barks of Rhûnic Orcs could be heard.

‘What have you to say?’ the Wizard called above the chaos, when it seemed the uproar would not ebb of its own volition. ‘What say the bride and groom?’

Aragorn turned first to the congregation. ‘A King is denied free rein to marry in accordance with his heart,’ spoke he. ‘He must make a decision in accordance with duty rather, thinking always of his people and his kingdom. Yet it seems to be my astonishing fortune to have stumbled upon one whose devotion encompasses both matters of duty and of the heart. Even the most eminent of Kings cannot walk their set paths without succour; I shall serve the people of Gondor and Arnor with far greater assiduity than I ever could have alone, so long as Truva is beside me.’

When Aragorn turned to look upon her then, the familiar sensation of terror caught in Truva’s throat, for she knew she was expected to speak. It was true that recent circumstances had demanded a certain degree of confidence from her, yet the sense of urgency brought on by war was now gone; this speech was not to rally the downtrodden, or to enliven the dispirited when all hope seemed lost. Confronted with the prospect of speaking on matters far more personal, Truva’s old hesitation returned.

Even so, she had been irrevocably changed – not only by war, but also by Aragorn, and Théodred, Mǽgwine, Éomer and Éowyn, and all who had shown her love throughout the years. Perhaps someday she might yet find her voice for her own sake, yet in this moment she would allow herself to take strength from those to whom she wished to express gratitude.

‘I come from a humble background, it is true,’ she said at last, pausing momentarily to calm her quivering voice. ‘Yet the smallest amongst us has their part to play – a part which is not writ plain upon their features, but rather upon their hearts.

‘Not a year ago, in this very same place, we breathed for the first time the air of a world free of Sauron’s influence, having made the gravest of sacrifices and dedicated all our might to effecting such an end. It is with that very same strength that I shall devote myself to Aragorn and the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Anor – and in doing so, solidify the bonds that exist between those lands and the Riddermark.’

Before another rousing cry could be sent skyward, Gandalf turned to Éomer King. ‘Bring forth the swords.’

Éomer unstrapped Truva’s scabbard from his side and extended it to her. Grabbing the hilt of Fréodhel, Truva unsheathed the sword before tossing it upwards and catching it deftly by the blade, for her left hand was still bound by the silk pennant. In such a manner, she proffered Fréodhel to Aragorn, who accepted it and thrust it into the ground betwixt his feet. He then presented his own sword – the illustrious Andúril, Flame of the West – to her in turn.

Gandalf stepped forward and bound each end of the pennant to the two hilts. He then untied the knot about Aragorn and Truva’s hands, declaring, ‘Thus troth has been eternally plighted. I present for the peoples’ consideration: High King Aragorn and High Queen Truva of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor.’

The clamour that followed was deafening, yet Truva could not hear it; for in a moment Aragorn had swept her into his arms and kissed her with such ardour that all save his lips upon hers, his beating heart against her chest, his arms about her faded beyond her perception. When the sound of cheers and thunderous clapping and all manner of instruments gradually returned to Truva’s ears, both she and Aragorn took up the other’s sword – still tethered by the pennant – and marched back to the encampment, trailed by the congregation.

Within the very centre of camp, tents had been replaced by long tables, where a tremendous feast was laid. Garlands were strewn between each and every pole, creating a veritable roof of perfumed flowers, mingling with the scent of fresh rushes strewn underfoot. Already minstrels graced the scene with their airs, and attendants danced through the tumult to deliver the first wave of dishes from the mess tent even as the congregation fell upon the scene.

Aragorn and Truva were swiftly ushered to the tables’ head, where they laid Fréodhel and Andúril upon a silk banner. They were soon joined by their cohorts, those of Gondor taking places beside Aragorn and the northern and eastern contingents beside Truva. Though the feast area was vast, still the assembly spilled into the surrounding tent lanes and even to the greensward beyond, an unceasing parade of revellers milling about the encampment. The numbers surpassed even the most exaggerated estimations of the poor King’s Chef – yet it could not be said that he was not up for the task, or that a single merrymaker went hungry. Rank upon rank of spits boasted various carcasses, such as that of a colossal Kine; for the behemoth creatures had been presented by Kîzge King to the newlyweds.

Even as they looked out across the chaos, Aragorn slid a plate of cold cuts, cheeses, and fruits towards Truva. ‘You appear hungry,’ he murmured, though she had to focus with all her might to comprehend the words he spoke, so enamoured was she by his very presence.

‘In my rush and apprehension this morning, I forgot breakfast altogether,’ she replied with an abashed grin, ducking her head. ‘And now I find myself sated on the mere sight of you alone.’

‘I, too, rest content in the knowledge that our lives are now inextricably intertwined, and that the rest of my days will be blessed with your love, and I shall be allowed to offer mine in turn,’ said he, voice quiet so that none other may year. Beneath the table, he took her hand in his. ‘Yet the others will worry; let us give them no reason to.’

As afternoon pressed on into evening and darkness fell, the carousing showed no signs of abating, and indeed only signs of escalating. Many speeches were had, torches were lit, and the calls for wine or ale grew more frequent than those for food. Following the unnoticed disappearance of Gandalf, fireworks of silvery simbelmynë or golden culumalda burst overhead, succeeded by the seven stars heralding the Kings of the line of Elendil, which hung high in the sable sky and refused to dim even as the night wore on.

After a time, Truva and Aragorn rose to greet their guests. They made no further speeches and instead moved from table to table, breaking bread with and pouring wine for all manner of folk. Ferrymen from as far south as Linhir, fig orchardists from Lossarnach, woodcutters of Anorien – all were eager to convey their congratulations upon their King and Queen.

When at long last the pair circled back around to the head table, Gandalf motioned them aside. ‘Felicitations to you both on this momentous occasion,’ he spoke, beard twitching with a rare smile.

‘Thank you, my friend,’ said Aragorn, and the two embraced heartily. ‘It is good to see you looking so lively. How went your search for Saruman?’

‘Not so well, I’m afraid,’ said the Wizard. ‘And it cannot yet be spoken of in the past, for it continues even now. But I have successfully restricted his movements at last, and all his hideaways will disappear one by one. In time, he shall be called upon to face the repercussions of the choices he has made, and the destruction he has wrought.’

‘Perhaps you have heard tell of Gríma’s fate,’ said Truva, reminded suddenly of the advisor who had fallen prey to Saruman’s honeyed speech.

‘I have, for it was through Rohan I passed to arrive here, and there I learned also of your impending nuptials. I ought to have known there was no deterrent that could turn you from each other. Sometimes the greatest workings of fate are not those written in prophecy.’

‘There are still many matters regarding my birth that I am ignorant of, and would ask you to expound upon, if you be willing,’ Truva pressed.

‘There will be time enough for questions, and soon,’ said Gandalf. ‘Yet this is your wedding night, and the festivities have proceeded quite nicely – I rather suspect none would notice, were you to vanish mysteriously.’ He gave the pair a suggestive wink.

The congregation had indeed grown far more exuberant, as demonstrated by Agbesh Pè juggling five daggers in an incredible feat of drunken coordination. Truva and Aragorn exchanged a glance; that was all that was needed. They bowed a wordless farewell to Gandalf, who indicated a narrow path that had been kept clear – no doubt through the work of the Wizard himself. Along this they hurried, ducking out of sight each time the sound of revellers approached.

They made for the docks of Hennethír, where awaited a small canoe bearing the likeness of a swan: a gift from Lady Galadriel and the Galadhrim of Lothlórien. Within moments, Truva and Aragorn were forging eastward along the dark stream, glistening beneath the Stars of Elendil which still cast down their light from above. They did not speak, instead allowing the beauty of the world about them to mingle with the ecstasy they bore in their hearts, creating an inimitable magic enshrouding them with contentment.

It was not long before the sound of Hennethfân grew louder, its curtain of water crashing into the stream below. No sooner could it be heard than the waterfall itself emerged around a bend, all the more inspiring of awe when illuminated by the night sky alone. Truva and Aragorn disembarked along the dockless shore and approached the distinctive trio of boulders marking the entrance of Henneth Annûn, where they were greeted by a heavy guard of stony-faced warriors.

‘Go now and partake in the feast you have been denied,’ said Aragorn, urging them onward with a gesture when they hesitated.

Yielding to their King, the soldiers slipped between the culumalda trunks, marching back towards the Field of Cormallen. Their pace quickened with each step in the direction of revelry, hoping the King would not change his mind at the last moment.

Truva watched the last gleam of their armour disappear before she turned to Aragorn questioningly. ‘Henneth Annûn is secretive, to be sure,’ said she. ‘But is it wise to dismiss the entire contingent of guards?’

‘If it is my fate to die in my bed this night, then so be it,’ said Aragorn, an uncharacteristically impish grin just barely visible in the darkness. ‘But never fear, there are others on patrol a short distance out – and I have my shieldqueen to protect me.’

When Truva’s frown turned to an amused smile, he wove his fingers into hers. Hand in hand, they slipped into the hidden refuge of Henneth Annûn, and thus began their lives together.

Chapter Text

The days following the marriage of King and Marshal were blissful beyond measure – save for the disappearance of Gandalf, who vanished the very next morning after the ceremony, departed upon some mysterious venture without so much as a parting word to any.

But all others were loth to return to their daily lives so swiftly, and so Gondorians and visitors alike lingered upon the Field of Cormallen, celebrating for a full sennight. The feasting was endless and the flow of ale undammed, and a series of contests was held also, ranging from the baking of pies to the singing of songs.

Fully aware of the favour that would be given them, the newlyweds abstained from participating; they remained mere spectators or adjudicators. Others were far less inclined towards circumspection – most notably Legolas, who handily won each and every feat involving bow and arrow. Not to be outdone, Gimli promptly hosted an axe-throwing trial, though his victory was nearly snatched away by Kîzge. The King, provoked in her own turn, bested even Blackbramble in a contest of strength by lifting an entire Kine of Araw above her head.

Those less competitive in nature contented themselves with sailing upon the Langflood or Hennethír, or splashing about in the rivers’ shallows; for the cool waters were especially refreshing in the heat of midsummer. Small companies enjoyed picnics beneath the golden culumalda blossoms or upon the lush greensward itself, sheltered beneath immense canvas awnings. Come evening, however, all could be found congregated within the encampment, indulging in the latest offerings of food and drink.

Rare were the moments the happy couple were separated. Truva revelled in this new companionship – finally free of the need to shield surreptitious gestures from prying eyes. She could never have predicted the joy she would feel at being bound at last in spirit to Aragorn; for though they now faced further uncertainties, his steadfastness gave unto her a heretofore unknown sense of stability and security.

Truva now felt as though she belonged.

Yet the days passed, and the merrymakers began drifting homeward – first in ones and twos, then in groups upon wagons or small watercraft. Then, on the evening of the seventh day, the ebullient mood shifted when Pallando leaned across his dinner of roast pheasant towards Truva and Aragorn.

‘These days have been pleasurable beyond compare, and it was truly an honour to pass them in your company,’ he said, his low voice masked by the crowd’s boisterous reaction to a rather bawdy play unfolding before them. ‘I am sure such festivities shall be remembered for many generations to come – and may your union last even longer. Yet grateful as Kîzge King and I are for your generous hospitality, we have discussed things at length, and believe it is time we return East.’

Truva’s attention instantly diverted from the makeshift stage to the Wizard. ‘So soon?’ she asked, eyes wide. Her tense reaction drew Aragorn’s attention, though Pallando’s expression remained determined.

‘The East Rhûn prisoners sit in your dungeons of Elminas, doing little save consume Gondor’s precious foodstuffs,’ said he. ‘I think it best we relieve you of that burden as soon as possible.’

‘Very well,’ said Aragorn, running a soothing hand along Truva’s forearm. ‘But you have spoken in the past of how the Easterlings’ numbers were too great for your forces to challenge alone, and now your ranks are further reduced by battle. Even if the prisoners are restrained, it would be unwise to risk travelling unaided. If you so wish it, I shall volunteer a company of Gondorian soldiers to go with you as far as necessary.’

Pallando turned to consult briefly with Kîzge before answering. ‘We thank you, and will gladly accept whatever succour you see fit to offer – if it does not put the stability of Gondor in peril. We, too, benefit from a buffer against the Southrons.’

‘What are your intentions regarding the prisoners, once you have returned to your lands?’

‘I have a notion or two, yet I had hoped for some guidance,’ said the Wizard. ‘Steward though I may be, there is yet one other who has a greater claim to the ruling of East Rhûn.’

Both he and Aragorn peered at Truva.

‘The significance of Rhûn’s fate supersedes that of any singular Man,’ she insisted, pointedly turning her eyes back to the performance. ‘It concerns all who have an interest in preserving peace in that region. Let us gather the leaders of the lands to discuss more fulsomely how best we might effect that peace – on the morrow.’

And so the commanders of East and West amassed in the Royal Pavilion late the following morning, after the more exuberant members of their party had finished nursing the worst of their aching heads. First to arrive were the remaining Wizards, with a miserable Kîzge King in tow. They were promptly followed by Legolas and Gimli. Last to stumble in were Prince Imrahil and his sons, then Lord Faramir and Éomer King – though the latter two appeared far more sheepish than hungover.

They all stood clustered about in small groups, conversing quietly; none were willing to disturb the gentle murmur. At last, Aragorn drew their attention to a focus.

‘How good it is to see so many friendly faces gathered here,’ said he. ‘Fell tides brought us together – yet in having engendered victory and propitious fortune, may it be with a touch more levity that we go our separate ways.’

This declaration was met with a rousing chorus of ‘here, here!’ and more than a few eyes squinted in pain.

‘I imagine you are all eager to return home,’ Aragorn continued, ‘and your rest would be well-deserved. But I’m afraid a few matters remain to be considered: foremost amongst them, the Easterlings. There are insufficient numbers of West Rhûn Orcs to safely escort the prisoners back to their lands, and thus I have offered my own men in supplement of theirs.’

‘What of Osgiliath?’ asked Faramir. ‘Another Southron ship will surely come and go ere too long. A march on foot to the Inland Sea is like to take a month or more; we cannot afford to leave the garrison under-defended all that time.’

‘We will have to divide our numbers carefully. But I fear either leaving the Easterlings imprisoned in Elminas or requesting King Kîzge to shepherd them back to Uzdígh without our aid has the potential to prove far more dangerous.’

‘I for one would be happy not to have an entire army of enemies sitting around on our doorstep,’ Gimli remarked.

The other commanders nodded in quiet agreement; nothing had been said that they themselves had not already thought.

‘I will proffer my Riders wherever they might best serve, whether that be in Osgiliath or on the path to Rhûn,’ spoke Éomer King. ‘But I regret to say I myself can delay the return to my homeland no longer – particularly in the wake of Alatar’s attack.’

‘None can find fault with that decision,’ said Aragorn, ‘though I would caution you against being overly hasty to send your Riders north. The stage has been set, but there is yet one more issue that remains to be addressed.’

Then, with the most surreptitious of nudges, he urged Truva to speak on that which they had discussed at length the previous evening, long after all others had gone to bed.

‘It concerns a rather tenuous situation among the realms of Rhovanion,’ she began. ‘One that might bring further danger, and delay our return.’

‘Not the Dwarves and Elves again!’ Erchirion interrupted, exasperation clear in his tone.

‘I beg of you to keep a civil tongue in your head!’ said Legolas, rising immediately. ‘Long has it been since last the affairs of my people disturbed yours!’

But Gimli was swift to lay a hand upon his friend’s arm, and Legolas’ ire abated; he retook a discreet position towards the rear, beside the Dwarf.

‘These are peculiar circumstances,’ said Truva, keeping a keen eye on the pair, ‘for though tension does stem from the age-old discord between those two peoples, the source of this current conflict is tertiary, in a way.’

‘There is yet another threat?’ asked Prince Imrahil.

‘Not one that would march upon us, I do not think,’ Truva rushed to clarify. ‘Rather, one that is long proven to be a menace to small settlements and unprotected traders. For years, there has been an unsteady – albeit undeniable – pattern of children disappearing from the northern kingdoms, only to reappear in the Hidlands as slaves.’

There was a sharp intake of breath as the full breadth of the situation came to be understood by Truva’s audience.

‘Did you not cleanse the Hidlands of that barbaric culture?’ asked Éomer King. ‘Have not Halbarad and Chaya maintained an egalitarian society in the days since?’

‘There is always a market for villainy,’ Radagast murmured.

‘Who could possibly engage in such heinous acts?’ said Faramir, shaking his head in disbelief.

‘Rhûnic nomads, surely?’ Elphir son of Imrahil hazarded, with a quick glance towards Pallando and Kîzge King.

‘The nomads of the East are a disparate peoples,’ said Truva, shaking her head. ‘They wander the plains, keeping mostly to themselves. I suspect many are likewise victims, rather than perpetrators.’

‘Then who?’

Truva shifted from foot to foot, hesitant to put into words such an inflammatory accusation; the fear of inciting further violence gripped her most acutely. It was ultimately a nod from Gimli that prompted her to speak:

‘There is good reason to believe it is the work of the Longbeard clan – what few of them still linger in the Iron Hills.’

All eyes turned immediately to the Dwarf.

‘Is this true?’ Prince Imrahil asked.

Gimli gave a gentle harrumph. ‘Several accounts confirm it is indeed Dwarves involved in this trade, and circumstantial evidence suggests they originate in the Iron Hills,’ he said. ‘Though whether it be but a small group or a large-scale operation, I do not know.’

‘And I suppose these “accounts” include that of the Elves,’ surmised Lord Faramir.

‘Straight to the quick, my astute friend,’ said Aragorn. ‘King Thorin has assured anyone who will listen that an accusation directed at his kin in the Iron Hills extends to his own rule, as well – and as these accusations come once again from the Elves, he finds himself disinclined to give them consideration.’

‘Stability of the north hangs in the balance,’ said Truva. ‘We must act with caution. Thorin King must be reassured that we consider him an ally, and that he shall be brought amongst our fold in this matter if he so wishes. But nor can we ostracise him if he chooses against confronting his own kin. We must avoid driving him towards defence of the Iron Hills at all costs.’

‘You and your forces are surely exhausted,’ Aragorn went on to say, addressing each of the commanders in turn. ‘I would not fault you for wishing to return home. But this issue must not go unaddressed long – both for the sake of easing tensions between the Woodland Realm and the Lonely Mountain, as well as protecting those vulnerable to being stolen away from their families and homes.’

‘If a sufficient number of you are amenable, we would march north with no more than a moderate force, as not to spook Thorin King,’ said Truva. ‘After escorting the Easterling prisoners as far as the West Rhûn capital of Uzdígh, we would then continue on along the Redwater, directly towards the Iron Hills. With any luck, the Dwarves residing there will be amenable to talks, and all shall end without the firing of a single arrow, or the draw of a single sword.’

Prince Imrahil was swift to step forward. ‘Allow me to be the first to offer the Swan Knights for this venture.’

‘If you must, let it be but few,’ said Aragorn. ‘Your sailors are needed most pressingly in the south, for they are the sole bulwark between Gondor and retaliation from the Sutherlands.’

‘As commander of our naval forces, Elphir will best serve our purposes upon the waters of Anduin and in the Bay,’ said the Prince as his elder son bowed in acknowledgement. ‘But if it is a land campaign you seek to wage, please allow myself and Erchirion to lead our finest company in marching amongst your ranks.’

‘If that is your will, then we thank you for your indefatigable support,’ said Aragorn, inclining his head.

‘As for myself,’ said Éomer King, ‘my position has not changed. I must return to Edoras; yet I would be most willing to lend the King’s Riders to your purpose, with Elfhelm Marshal in their lead.’

At this, Truva and Elfhelm exchanged a glance, then a smile and heartfelt handshake.

‘You may count the White Company amongst your numbers, also,’ Lord Faramir added. ‘Captain Beregond and I shall discuss how best to divide our force to ensure the security of Ithilien. With the Swan Knights’ support, it is certain not to require our full strength.’

‘So long as you yourself do not venture forth,’ Truva reprimanded gently. ‘We see now how the injuries you sustained in Osgiliath and Cair Andros still pain you. Rest in Ithilien, and hope that your honourable services are not needed.’

Faramir shifted in his seat – thought whether it was due to physical discomfort, or his frustration at being left behind one again while others marched onward, none could say.

‘As unfavourable as this situation has proven to be, I thank you all for your commitment to its resolution,’ Aragorn concluded at last. ‘Without stability in the north, there can be no security in the south. Now let us go to our separate consultations, and to our troops to break the regrettable news.’

Then, turning to Pallando, he asked, ‘When was it you wished to depart?’

‘We had intended to leave this very day,’ said the Wizard.

‘Three days hence, then,’ said Aragorn. ‘That is the soonest we might possibly mobilise our forces.’

‘Very well,’ said Pallando as the others nodded in agreement. ‘Three days hence.’

Revelry in Cormallen was far more muted the following evenings. What little music there was to be had was solemn ballads and elegies, and far fewer pints of ale and goblets of wine were downed. Soldiers were fleeter to their beds; and long before the sun had dawned on the third day, they were arrayed upon the greensward, surrounded by loved ones.

‘Fare thee well, Truva Queen of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor,’ said Éowyn, drawing near with Elboron in arm and Lord Faramir in tow.

‘I shall only live out the remainder of my days in happiness if you never address me with such formality again, my friend,’ said Truva, accepting little Elboron into her embrace and giving his bulbous cheeks a gentle pinch.

‘You will soon grow accustomed to it,’ Faramir assured her.

‘Perhaps, but not from you,’ Truva countered. She then gave the Prince of Ithilien a look of entreaty. ‘It is a very good thing you remain behind, my lord, for I fear without your influence, Lady Éowyn would be tempted to run about defending your lands by the sword, with Elboron Prince strapped to her back.’

‘I am not certain I possess the power to stop her, even if I so desired,’ said Faramir with a wry smile, accepting the infant back. ‘And our chief concern lies not with ourselves, but with those who go north even now.’

‘I will do my utmost to ensure Captain Beregond and your soldiers are returned to you unharmed and in full rank, milord,’ said Truva. ‘So long as you promise to care for Roheryn and the Hidland soldiers in return.’

‘It is not the White Company alone he speaks worry of,’ said Éowyn quietly, drawing Truva into her arms. ‘Be safe, Rider.’

‘And you, my friend.’

With a final series of bows and hugs and words of caution, Éowyn and Faramir drifted off in the direction of Aragorn. Éomer King quickly replaced them.

‘It is terribly strange that my Marshal marches at the head of an army other than my own,’ he said. ‘I must admit, there is some small part of me that is disheartened to know I can no longer boast of your presence amongst the Eorlingas – yet a far greater part is elated to see you stand with honour at the helm of another, greater force.’

‘You may always count me amongst your ranks, Éomer King son of Éomund,’ said Truva, placing her hand upon her heart.

‘Then let us hope it is a short and uneventful campaign to Rhûn, that I may greet you once more in our beloved lands of the Riddermark before too long.’

‘And may your own path be equally unmarred by peril,’ said Truva. ‘It is not safe to travel alone, milord – not even for a warrior so renowned as yourself.’

But Éomer merely gave a disarming smile in response. ‘Farewell, milady,’ said he.

Truva opened her mouth to correct him as a force of habit, yet the amused expression upon his face reminded her that she was, in fact, now a lady.

Even in that very moment, an impatient Kîzge King gave a thunderous cry, prompting hurried goodbyes and bustling preparations amongst the West Rhûn Orcs. As they began their northward march through the Fields, however, Beregond’s White Company fell in with them, as did the Swan Knights under Imrahil and Erchirion's leadership. Elfhelm and the King's Riders, Maeron and several additional companies of Gondorian warriors — all marched side by side with their Eastern neighbours, no longer so wary of the race they had once considered enemies.

The Unified Host soon broke through the screen of trees along the northern reaches of Cormallen, where the East Rhûn prisoners had been brought forth from Elminas and arrayed upon the battlefield. It was with sullen acceptance that they were lifted to their feet and arranged in formation, hands bound and surrounded on all sides by their captors. At one short blast from Beregond Captain’s horn, they marched out to the steady trudge of many heavy feet.

The armies’ pace was slow, for even the Eorlingas travelled on foot, and the sense of urgency that had driven each faction into battle had now dissipated into exhaustion, apathy, or despair. Truva alone succumbed to restlessness, her fleeting respite shattered and the few idyllic moments she had shared with Aragorn supplanted once again by duty. She was not content lest she was scanning the unfamiliar land to learn its lay all the better, or organising scouting parties and watch schedules, or looping ahead and behind to ensure their path remained ever clear – anything to banish thoughts of the Hindlands from mind.

But all was quiet, and the journey was uneventful – save one incident late in the afternoon of the first day that caused Truva mild consternation. Just as she was returning to the head of the column after consulting with Imrahil Prince in the rear, she spied a familiar face: that of Óddîr, the Easterling guard who had so ardently served the Noyon. He walked with both hands and feet bound, for it was clear the Gondorians still feared what he might do after his swift actions during the Noyon’s burial.

Yet rather than spit at or curse Truva, Óddîr did a most unexpected thing:

He bowed.

Nor was the gesture a mere inclination of the head. Quite a disruption arose behind Óddîr as he fell to his knees and lowered his forehead to the ground, much as Truva had done before the Noyon in Agdî all those moons ago. But no sooner had he risen – dexterous in spite of his bonds – than he continued marching onwards, ignoring the confused looks of his brethren.

But just a short while later, this exact same display was repeated by another Easterling, and then another; and as the days wore on, more and more Easterlings followed Óddîr’s lead, prostrating themselves whenever Truva passed by – though over time their initial grand gestures shifted to more reserved nods. Unsure of what to make of this behaviour, Truva merely nodded in return and marched on.

Before a fortnight had passed, the Unified Host drew within view of the Rainbow Hills and their dwellers’ tantalising lights. Rather than bank north towards Uzdígh, however, the Host struck out in an easterly direction, following along the great Sea’s southern shores. Just beyond the mountains’ foothills they came upon the longships by which Alatar had transferred his troops across the expanse of Zünuur on their journey to Gondor. The light guard of East Rhûn soldiers was soon overcome and restrained alongside their brethren.

Thus foot soldiers became sailors. Out across the Sea of Rhûn the Unified Host struck, making directly for the mouth of River Running. Truva most of all was glad to be back at the oars, to have some new task to occupy her mind and hands.

But no sooner was the commandeered fleet within hailing distance of Uzdígh than it came under attack; for the Orcs of that city saw only the ships of their enemies, and did not trust their East Rhûn adversaries not to sail under false colours or sound false signals. None save the young and infirm remained behind to defend the fortifications, yet they loosed such an onslaught of arrows and fiery projectiles that the Host was forced to fall back. Not until a daring envoy (led by Kîzge King herself) swam up beneath the dock and mounted the battlements did the assault subside.

When at last the misunderstanding was rectified, the West Rhûn forces descended upon the city en masse. A series of grappling matches broke out as reunions commenced – for this was the manner in which the Orcs of Uzdígh traditionally celebrated their survival, and were greeted by those who had remained.

As for the East Rhûn captives, Agbesh Pè wasted no time in parading them through the streets, past jeering crowds and little younglings that skipped ahead to pull even uglier faces. Then down the captives went, deep into a vast cave system nestled beneath the city itself. Many years of conflict between the two lands had driven the need for expansive and robust means of detainment.

But the soldiers of Minas Tirith, Dol Amroth, and the Riddermark were privy to none of this. With an apologetic mutter about some matter regarding ‘security’ from Pallando, they were refused entrance to the city outright, and were instead made to disembark and pitch their camp at the foot of the hill, just beyond the towering Uzdígh walls. But in truth, these armies of Men (in spite of their newfound appreciation for their strange allies) were far more at ease out in the open, and so were quite willing to overlook this otherwise shocking lack of hospitality on the Orcs’ part.

As the lightning bugs of campfires sprang up in the hazy dusk, Truva and the Unified Host commanders were escorted to the domed hall within the King’s compound. Having heard tell of her previous ventures, Aragorn and the others were more than content to allow Truva to enter first when she insisted – though this time she was greeted with a rather revolting (but clearly well-intentioned) medicinal wine, instead of the assault she had been subject to on her first visit.

At Kîzge King’s gesture, the commanders made themselves comfortable about a low fire, which was stifling in the high summer heat. While Truva’s eyes flicked from one figure to another, attempting to discern what communication passed between Pallando and Kîzge, those of her companions drank in the sights around them. Each of the western leaders masked their astonishment in his own way – or, in the case of Erchirion, failed to; for the young Princeling was particularly maladroit in the way he stared about.

But even Aragorn was drawn at once to the map upon the wall, marvelling at its detail and breadth. ‘It is strange to know what I might have discovered, had I not been so soundly repelled by nomads and the residents of the Emyn Ninniach,’ he commented, hands hovering above the painted treetops of Taigahoï. ‘I had assumed the entire region to be hostile – and perhaps I was not entirely mistaken – yet I see now how little my travels revealed to me.’

Pallando beckoned for Aragorn to rejoin the others about the fire. ‘There is time yet for the exchange of cultures, and the pursuit of shadows that yet linger further east,’ he said. ‘But we have other paths to discuss.’

‘Other paths?’ questioned Legolas. ‘Have we not all agreed to march north upon the Iron Hills?’

This elicited a lengthy comment from Kîzge, which seemed unusually sharp in tone, even for the curmudgeonly Orc King.

‘The decision to venture north is well-established,’ Pallando clarified. ‘Yet there are other matters closer at hand that must be addressed, as well – particularly those relating to the precarious situation of East Rhûn.’

Several pairs of eyes – those belonging to the more astute commanders – flickered to Truva, who was thankful for the distraction that a parade of Orcs ferrying in supper provided. It was a simple spread, but the leaders tucked in gratefully regardless.

Still, Truva knew by Aragorn’s lingering gaze that it fell upon her to speak her mind. She waited until her companions had taken several additional swigs of wine before she steeled herself to interrupt their meal.

‘Taking any action against East Rhûn at this time would only serve to delay us and further destabilise the region,’ she said.

This statement drew another complaint from Kîzge.

‘An entire army sits in our dungeons,’ translated Pallando. ‘The King is naturally concerned. It would be disastrous not only for Rhûn, but Gondor and the surrounding lands as well, were these soldiers to escape or cause some other mischief.’

‘Your defences have held thus far,’ Elfhelm remarked.

‘What few Agdî soldiers that remained behind during Alatar’s Gondorian campaign had no motivation to test our limited guard,’ said Agbesh Pè through Pallando. ‘With the bulk of our forces away up north, all it would take is a small, secretive East Rhûn force to send the region descending into chaos.’

‘Set a watch upon your dungeons,’ said Gimli, ‘of whatever size you feel necessary. If not a single Uzdígh warrior marches north, those who stand with Gondor will still face the forces of the Iron Hills undaunted!’

But he fell silent when Aragorn laid a hand upon his shoulder.

Truva mused an additional moment before speaking again. ‘Suppose we were to succeed in asserting control over Agdî and Karkürem,’ said she. ‘How long would we be mired here, attempting to maintain tenuous command, unable to proceed with our original intentions?’

‘You speak as though the Iron Hills campaign will be concluded with ease,’ Kîzge grumbled.

‘Maybe it will, and maybe it won’t,’ Truva acknowledged. ‘But a swift outcome is more likely in the north than in the longstanding conflict of Rhûn. Would it not be easier to address the issues Uzdígh faces if we do not have to worry about unravelling diplomacy on our border?’

‘No good can come of allowing mounting tensions in Rhovanion to simmer any longer,’ Prince Imrahil added.

‘Nor would it be considerate of our allies, who have already come this far to grant us succour in this endeavour,’ Aragorn concurred. ‘Let us not delay them unnecessarily.’

Even as the debate volleyed back and forth, Truva suspected she caught the hint of a smile upon Pallando’s face. Surely he had pondered each and every one of these lines of thinking; he was, after all, a Wizard. She began to wonder whether he was not simply testing her – or perhaps encouraging her, in his own way, to assume the role she was yet loath to consider.

Alone in her hope of taking matters with Agdî up first, Kîzge was eventually convinced that faster action in the north would result in faster action in Rhûn; otherwise, the entire Unified Army seemed to be in concurrence with whatever path would result in any action at all. Those camped upon the field made no effort to settle in, the warriors of Uzdígh did not put away their weapons or armour, and the contingent of Orcs selected to remain as a guard over the prisoners quickly took up their task.

Thus it was on the third sunrise since their arrival that the Host reboarded the East Rhûn longships and set sail northward along the River Running, passing betwixt the soaring battlements of Uzdigh and Agdî. Day and night blurred together in a relentless cycle of monotony once more, all the more aggravating for the ships’ confined nature. Many of the better-natured warriors chatted gaily as they rowed, or threw their voices up in song (some more skillfully than others), but Truva found herself longing for the fleetness and freedom of horseback. Instead, she passed her few free hours gazing across the plains in search of Kine or the distinctive Rhûnic hawk, contenting herself in the knowledge that the power of a large crew and the brevity of their nighttime berthings hastened their arrival.

It was one such evening that Gimli and Legolas preempted the commanders’ counsel as they gathered after the evening reports and set in for a simple supper of waybread, the beached flagship screening them from blustery grassland winds.

‘We will soon come upon the confluence of the Rivers Celduin and Carnen,’ the Elf began. ‘Though we have not been long in your company, and it must seem sudden news to many of you, Gimli and I would like to propose our departure from the Host at that point.’

Nearly all eyes turned to the duo in shock.

‘You would leave us at so crucial a juncture?’ Elfhelm exclaimed, aghast.

‘Indeed, it is that very significance which prompts us,’ said Gimli. ‘Legolas and I think it best if we travelled north along the River Running and came once more beneath the Greenwood eaves, and into the depths of Erebor, to serve as voices of temperament amongst our people.’

‘We would do well to have proponents of our cause in those halls, especially as the main Host approaches Engrindhol,’ said Aragorn, who was alone in seeming entirely unsurprised by the pair’s proposal. ‘You have the potential to mitigate the more drastic of reactions from your respective brethren – particularly those of King Thorin.’

‘And it has been nigh on two moons since last we had news out of the north,’ added Truva. ‘Perhaps some terrible misunderstanding has been resolved in that time.’

‘Just so!’ said Gimli with a clap of his hands. ‘Perhaps the Host will arrive before the Iron Hills, only to be welcomed with grand gestures of notorious Dwarven hospitality, balance once again restored to Rhovanion and her various realms.’

And so it was that Truva allowed herself a wisp of hope as the skiff bearing Legolas and Gimli slipped westward along River Running the following day. Offering final waves of parting and goodwill until the tiny envoy was gone from sight, the main Host then continued northward, forging slowly up the Redwater.

But where Truva’s initial journey when departing Long Lake had begun in the shadows of Eryn Lasgalen, there was no tree cover to be found along the banks of Carnen. Nothing save the grassy spines of hills were visible; all signs of Kine and other wildlife had disappeared. Rays of high summer sun beat down upon the longships’ decks, sending any who weren’t on duty skittering into their cabins. Scuffles between the Orcs grew more frequent, and were sufficiently loud as to be heard from nearby ships.

Then, upon the tenth day, the horizon directly ahead lost its featureless, flat appearance and took on the jagged characteristics of mountains, deep burnt-orange in colour. The peaks of the Iron Hills soared, and yet were uncapped by any snow, effecting a dark and menacing mood which was reflected in the Redwater itself; silty waters churned beneath the ships’ hulls as the river grew shallower and more treacherous. Those belowdecks laboured at the oars until fully-fledged rapids made passage impossible.

It was just after noon when the Unified Armies disembarked. A slight rise offered them as much defence as was available in those stark lands. They drew the longships further inland than they had previously, arranging them about camp as an additional barrier against the vast openness of the plains behind them and the looming mountains ahead. Within a breath of posting guard, Truva and the other commanders gathered beneath the flagship once more. Already Aragorn had cleared a sandy swath of rust-coloured riverbank and sat scratching at it with a stick.

‘Our knowledge of Engrindhol is tertiary at best,’ he said as the others hovered about him, peering curiously at his rudimentary sketch. ‘For I have heard it from the Wizard Gandalf, who in turn was relayed such information by King Thráin Thrór’s son, and by the subsequent line of Kings under the Mountain – though I cannot attest as to whether any of these Dwarven Lords have themselves witnessed the Iron Hills with their own eyes.’

‘Did Gandalf perhaps have an estimate as to the numbers such a land might boast?’ asked Captain Beregond.

‘He was led to believe nearly a score of families maintained residency,’ said Aragorn. ‘But these are Dwarven families – generations of Longbeards, nearly a full company each of warriors intimately familiar with a land we shall walk nearly blind into.’

‘Then let us hope our information is dependable, and that we shall not be as blind as we think,’ said Truva.

The gathered company shifted ever so slightly; they believed her words every bit as deeply as she herself – that is to say, not at all. Aragorn scratched a line along darts representing the Iron Hills’ northern reaches.

‘The primary mines lie here, where a vein of iron ore stretches east to west,’ he explained. ‘Here lie also their strongest fortifications – for the southerly mountains once provided defences enough, at a time when the greatest threat the Dwarves faced were dragons descending from the Withered Heath.

‘But it has not been so for many years, and now what few pathways wind through the mountains in the south are heavily guarded against invaders from Rhûn. There is but a single main pass, leading to a depression in the very midst of the Hills. Where the Dwarves keep their residences, I do not know, but I suspect it is near there.’

When Kîzge spoke then, Pallando swiftly translated: ‘The King has suggested that her force and that of another lie in wait along the wings of this pass while the main Host approaches openly, but I disagree. Division would spell disaster, I fear, and allow the smaller Dwarven force to pick us off one regiment at a time. They will know all our movements; Dwarves cannot be surprised, pinned down, or surrounded by Big Folk – not in their own lands.’

‘Against such a mobile enemy, we are stronger as a singular Host,’ Elfhelm concurred. ‘Our numbers will speak for themselves.’

‘Let us not forget this may yet prove to be a mere diplomatic mission,’ Truva interjected. ‘The first delegation to approach ought to be one sent forth in good faith, in the hopes that the Dwarves will deign to grant us audience.’

‘Hesitant though I am to send small companies afield – for I am in agreeance with Pallando – the words my Queen speaks are true,’ said Aragorn, and even in the midst of such consequential deliberations, warmth blossomed in Truva’s chest to hear the pride in his voice. She stifled a smile as he continued, ‘The envoy must be small and appear unthreatening – yet I will not leave any such party unprotected. Beregond, take your archers and discover as many Dwarven strongholds overlooking the pass as you might, and install yourselves in their stead.’

‘Yes, milord,’ said the Captain.

‘The remainder of the Host shall follow some distance behind the envoy. Let Imrahil and his Swan Knights march in the lead, followed by Maeron and the remainder of the Gondorian warriors. I ask that the forces of West Rhûn come last; their ferocity will be best served at our vulnerable rear.’

‘Our presence is also most likely to provoke fear and mistrust amongst the Dwarves,’ said Pallando diplomatically, voicing what many of the commanders were thinking but were too courteous to say. ‘We closely resemble forces they have fought in the past, after all.’

‘And who will take the unenviable position at the forefront?’ asked Erchirion, eager to change the subject.

An uncomfortable silence followed, though it was short; Aragorn’s omission of the King’s Riders in his plans had been no oversight.

‘I will go,’ Truva stated. ‘It was I who first accused the Iron Hills Dwarves of misdeeds, and effected the dissolution of an unsteady peace amongst the northern realms in the process. A paltry company of unhorsed Eorlingas will appear the least threatening.’

Aragorn nodded sharply. ‘Let it be so. We move out in the morning.’

Yet even after marching from dawn to dusk the following day, still the Unified Armies had not fully gained the foothills. As the Host settled in for a sleepless night, Captain Beregond was sent ahead into the twilight to establish a position along the pass, his White Company swiftly disappearing into the gathering darkness.

Come morning, the remainder of the Host struck out in Beregond’s wake even as the sun made its first plays upon the scraggly, copper-coloured peaks of the Iron Hills. When foothills eventually gave way to the mountains themselves, the pass grew treacherous; for the road was little more than an unmaintained path, showing signs of the passage of neither Dwarf nor beast. Rocks shifted beneath the warriors’ feet, slowing their progress and sending more than one tumbling to the ground.

Even at high noon, direct sunlight did not penetrate down into the pass’ steep gullies. Rocky columns and walls boxed the Unified Armies in, sending Truva’s mind cartwheeling into memories of the Hidden Lands and its confined entrance. The same bated silence, the same anticipant mood permeated both the Hidlands and the Hills; yet where an arid, pine-dusted wind had haunted the path just beyond Foreham, here there was a metallic tang upon the air. The taste bit at Truva’s tongue and tightened its fingers about her throat, choking her.

The Host did not stop for a noontide meal. Few would have been able to eat; Truva was not the only warrior struck by a pervading atmosphere of unease. The occasional scrabble of tumbling pebbles set them all on edge. Was it Beregond’s forces high above, or another more nefarious interloper? A mountain creature in search of its next meal, a trick of the wind?

The Host pressed on. Peaks still loomed high overhead, yet the path began to level somewhat; surely they neared the pass’ crest. Then, not an hour after the sun reached its zenith, the lilt of a whip-poor-will floated high on the wind – the scout’s signal for Truva’s delegation to proceed onward alone.

Aragron called a brief halt, drawing Truva aside as the warriors rested, catching their breath. The air was thin here; each inhalation seared in their lungs and caused their heads to spin. None cared to heed the murmured conversation of a King and Queen, yet still Aragorn’s voice was so low as to be inaudible to any save Truva.

‘I do not like to see you go so boldly into danger,’ said he, reaching out to take her hands in his. ‘Would that I or any other could go in your stead.’

‘We have stood and faced the entire might of Sauron himself,’ Truva reassured him. ‘This is a mere spat amongst churlish neighbours. Allow me to right my wrongs, and ensure that none face the same fate I endured in my youth.’

Aragorn frowned gently. ‘Even in the smallest of conflicts can the gravest travesties occur.’

‘Then in this venture none lie beyond the reach of harm, and it matters not whether I stand at its head or at its rear.’

Truva laid a hand upon Aragorn’s shoulder, as one warrior to another; yet with her other hand she revealed a glimpse of the Dúnedain Star beneath her hauberk. Aragorn pursed his lips, but there was a gleam in his eyes. He returned her touch of farewell.

With a final half-smile, Truva gave a sharp whistle. The Eorlingas were on their feet at once.

Chapter Text

Leaving the Unified Host to rest in the stark shadows of midday, the Eorling envoy scrambled along the hazardous Iron Hills pass, making no effort to conceal their unaccompanied descent. The cliffs rose ever higher about them and the silence grew more profound; no hawks hung on the wind, no hares skittered across the earth, not a single beetle was to be seen. The only sounds that echoed off the limestone crags were the Eorlingas’ ragged breath and the shifting rock beneath their feet.

When their route passed a rocky promontory, Truva clambered up to its crest and looked out across the surrounding Hills. Peaks and valleys were all that greeted her eyes, capped by a spiny column fencing off the northern sky in the distance: the mines Aragorn had indicated. At the Eorlingas’ rear, the main host was obscured by the maze-like rocks; above, Beregond’s scouts were hidden from view.

Truva raised the Horn of the House of Éofor to her lips and blew. Its sonorous tones rebounded off cliff and crevice, resonant – yet empty of response. She waited a moment longer before tucking the horn back at her side and rejoining the Eorlingas. They continued on towards the slight valley between their current position and the mines, moving ever slower in the hopes that they would at last be greeted by the Longbeards. To their left, the cliffs fell away to reveal sweeping views of the Hills, but no sign of their occupants.

Another half hour of eerie silence passed before they came upon a rockslide blocking their path forward. After a few failed attempts at discovering a direct route over, they were forced to skirt the tangle of boulders and soil, diverting far to the west. But even as they picked their way along this detour, Elfhelm gave a great cry.

‘There, Marshal! Did you not see that?’

No sooner had his voice rung out than a loud blast sounded. The very earth beneath their feet gave way. Down, down the Eorlingas plummeted – down into the bowels of the mountain, choked by dust and dirt.

Truva landed on her back, knocking the wind out of her. A deafening clangour threw the world further into chaos. Truva scarcely drew her dagger in time to counter the blade of an axe that flashed in the faint light streaming from above; but just as she lashed out to strike back, the shadow amongst shadows was gone.

Truva’s right leg was trapped by rockfall. She strained against each boulder in turn as frenzied shouts rose up all around her, deadened by the earthen walls of a low tunnel. More than once Truva was forced to beat back attacks from her unfavourable position, yet her opponents were more evasive than stoats in spring, appearing and vanishing in the same instant.

When at last Truva succeeded in freeing herself – mercifully without serious injury – she cast about in the gloom. There was little to be seen, so thick was the air with earth and so scarce the sunlight filtering down. She felt about on hands and knees for her bow but found nothing. It must also have been buried in the rockfall.

Blowing her horn, Truva summoned the Eorlingas to her by sound as she charged forward to where the clash of metal was loudest. Not once did she land a strike against the darting enemy – though now that she was upright, she could almost distinguish they were of Dwarvish height, and perhaps of Dwarvish build.

The Host had found what it sought, after all.

Ahead, Truva heard the response of Elfhelm’s own horn.

‘Eorlingas! To me, to me!’ she shouted. ‘Form a circle!’

A handful of Riders pressed together, shoulder to shoulder and facing outwards – and for a time, their assailants were easily driven back. But then the Eorlingas’ famed archer Beútan gave a gurgling grunt and fell face-first from their ranks; a Dwarf had popped up within their ring unseen, as if out of the black haze itself.

The warriors faltered then, lost within the darkness and confusion. ‘Onward, onward!’ Truva cried, slinging the misfortuned soldier over her shoulders. ‘Make for Elfhelm’s ranks!’

The nearer the First Marshal’s horn drew, the more frenzied the Dwarves’ assault became. The Eorlingas beat aside stroke after stroke from enemies they could scarcely see – and even less predict – struggling not to stumble upon each other in the tunnel’s tight quarters.

Then, quite suddenly, the attacks ceased.

‘Elfhelm Marshal!’ Truva called, unable to reach her horn with Beútan across her back.

The others soon picked up her cry, yet even as the indistinct forms of Elfhelm and the remaining Eorlingas became vaguely perceptible around a corner, their shouts were drowned out by a deafening tumble of rock and rubble. In an instant, the tunnel was obstructed both ahead and behind by debris. The gash of sky above soon followed, leaving the Riders in utter, impenetrable darkness.

‘Truva?’ came Elfhelm’s voice.

‘I am here,’ she replied, laying Beútan upon the ground. Dirt showered down and a deep thunder sounded as full conflict surged overhead. Then there was the sound of steel against flint; an Eorling’s striker bracelet gleamed in the fire that suddenly sprung forth.

‘Put that out!’ Elfhelm ordered, his voice sharp.

The warrior’s panicked face was the last thing Truva saw.

‘Roll,’ she ordered, bending to Beútan and exploring his injuries through touch. She mentally tallied the warriors’ names as they spoke them one by one; all save two were accounted for.

‘Survey the area,’ Elfhelm commanded. ‘Search for exits.’

But this task took frighteningly little time, for the space in which they were trapped was scarcely larger than a recruit’s first barracks. And, almost certainly by design, there was not a single means of escape.

‘I suppose we ought to tunnel out, then?’ offered one Rider. There was a general scuffle and jumbled muttering of voices as the King’s Company struggled in the pitch black to organise their efforts.

Truva merely sat back on the packed earth, her hands pressed to Beútan’s neck. A Dwarven axe-head must have skimmed beneath his coif to strike where he was most vulnerable; even blind as she was, Truva could feel the ooze of blood between her fingers, smell its sickly sweet tang in her nostrils, sense his fluttering heartbeat in her palm. The Eorlingas’ disembodied voices served in direct contrast to the voiceless body beneath her hands:

‘I’ve a beam what might serve as support.’

‘Oi, take this boulder before I drop it on your ’ead.’

‘No, no, you must dig at an angle – elsewise how are we to climb out?’

Truva’s breath came short. With each blink of unseeing eyes, she forced her attention to refocus on the life ebbing under her care, the life that tied her to the present moment.

‘How is he?’ Elfhelm murmured, quiet so as not to be heard by the others. Truva gave a noncommittal grunt, which the First Marshal understood perfectly. ‘How might I be of help?’

‘By keeping the others focused on their digging efforts,’ she replied.

A swirl of air indicated Elfhelm’s move to do just that. Truva felt more than heard the rumbling beat of drums, the frantic stomp of feet, the panic as the Eorlingas came upon an impenetrable screen of rock.

The faint pulse at her fingertips stuttered. Truva’s short breath grew even shorter. Whether it was a minute that passed or an hour she could not tell, nor could she be quite certain in which precise moment the pulse became undetectable.

One less pair of lungs to deplete their precious air.

‘Stop!’ Truva cried as the sound of tumbling rocks and muttered curses reached her ears. ‘Cease your labours!’

Confused, the Eorlingas could be heard shuffling about the cramped space. Elfhelm’s hand found her shoulder in the darkness. He spoke low, yet Truva heard every word, as he was unwittingly so close he nearly collided skulls with her:

‘We cannot sit idle as others wield their blades in battle,’ he said. ‘We must do something.’

‘We shall all be gasping fish upon the shore long before we break the surface,’ she answered. ‘Do you wish to pause so that we might preserve our air and the possibility of rejoining the others, or would you prefer to continue working and greet Helm upon the hazy fields of the Mark?’

A short, strained silence followed. ‘And how will they know where to search for us?’

‘Beregond Captain’s scouts will have spied where we fell.’

It was a slim hope – it was the only hope. Though Truva could not see him, she imagined Elfhelm pursing his lips as he always did when confronted with something he agreed with, but did not like.

‘I will find some menial task to keep them occupied,’ he said at last.

There came the sound of backs settling against rocks as the Riders counted and redistributed arrows, or mended strap and scrap that had been rent in their headlong tumble. More minor wounds were tended to. Overhead, the battle raged on; the cavern became a drum, sounds from above reverberating within its close walls, taunting the trapped warriors.

There was no means of keeping accurate time without the sun. One hour stretched into the next, and then into the next – or perhaps it was no more than a half hour gone by, or perhaps days. The Riders grew restless, and were soon finished in their tasks with little else to distract them. Truva found her mind wandering to silly thoughts, such as how the Dwarves managed to mark the passage of years in the depths of their caves, or whether the main Host had even witnessed the Eorlingas vanish.

Surely she only imagined her chest heaving harder, trying to draw in enough air.

Horns. Deep, brazen horns rivalling that of Helm himself rolled through the deep, shaking a thick smattering of dirt down upon the warriors’ heads. Then all fell silent; only shallow inhalations disrupted the darkness. One breath, ten, one hundred, ten hundred – Truva’s thoughts raced. Had there been victory? Were the armies locked in a stalemate? Were they engaging in talks?

An invisible sheen of sweat glistened on Truva’s face. It pooled in every crevice, at the bend of each arm and leg, trickled down her neck and soaked into the linen where her gambeson bunched at her waist. Perhaps she dozed once or twice; it was difficult to discern in the unchanging void.

But she was certainly asleep when Elfhelm’s shout startled her awake. Before she had so much as regained awareness, she was on her feet with weapon drawn, heart constricting her throat. The other Eorlingas likewise leapt to attention.

‘What is it?’ Truva asked.

‘I am certain I heard sounds from above,’ Elfhelm answered.

No words needed pass between them to confirm their fear: they were blind as to who might appear at the other end.

But be it friend or foe, an escape route was an escape route. Each and every Rider lent their voice to the commotion, banging sword upon shield or helm upon rock, and thus they did not hear when the first shouts were sent down in response. Yet their eyes – thoroughly adjusted to the dark – were quick to turn away when piercing light streamed suddenly down. In the immediate silence that followed, a single word was heard:

‘Truva?’

At once the Eorlingas let loose a rejoicing chorus; they recognized the voice of Aragorn, foreign King though he was. The makeshift tunnel was swiftly expanded, then one by one the warriors disappeared up towards the surface – Elfhelm first, then all the others, until none save Truva were left.

When the previous Rider was clear, Truva carried Beútan to the tunnel entrance. The passageway was so narrow her own body could scarcely traverse it without scraping upon rock and root. She made several awkward, unsuccessful attempts before being forced to shimmy backwards on her stomach, dragging Beútan along behind by his spaulders.

Hands rushed to aid her when she emerged into daylight, removing Beútan from her clutching grasp. Truva felt disoriented in the swirl of activity; she heard the Eorlingas exchange tales with Gondorians, discerned a wave of the Swan Knights’ blue with her squinting, stinging eyes. Perhaps her time in the darkness had distorted her understanding of colour, for she thought she glimpsed a flash of Greenwood gold, as well.

Aragorn’s voice suddenly muttered in her ear. ‘It is best you bow.’ The sharp cut of his voice anchored her and set her awareness on edge; the fingers gripped tight about her elbow – surely Aragorn’s – conveyed equal urgency.

‘Have we been taken prisoner?’ Truva rasped, throat parched.

‘That is not entirely far from the truth,’ he answered.

Still blinded, Truva turned in the direction Aragorn’s hand guided her, removing her helm and bending in the most gracious bow her body could manage – stiff as it was from having spent so long in such a cramped space.

A low grunt was all that was uttered in response.

Nor did Aragorn say a word further. He urged Truva to right herself before gently ushering her forward along a path, joining the sound of tramping footsteps. As she slipped on a gravel-coated stone, a rougher hand caught her second elbow.

‘’Tis a good thing we came to your rescue yet again, lassie!’ came the unmistakable voice of Gimli, though he too was hushed. ‘Even Dwarves fear cave-ins.’

‘My friend!’ Truva knew not whether the tears that streamed from her eyes were due to the sun or the overwhelming emotions she felt at being reunited with both Aragorn and the bellicose Dwarf.

‘Well it is to see you again, too, milady. Though you needn’t get so worked up – we’ve not been away long.’

‘What came to pass?’

Truva’s eyes were less sensitive now, revealing a substantial company about her. She could see also where a great rent scarred the terrain a short distance to the west, marking where the Eorlingas had tumbled underground. Behind Truva and the others, at the crest of the pass some distance southward, the bulk of the Unified Armies lingered in visible agitation. At their head, Captain Beregond and Agbesh Pè paced back and forth as Erchirion stared furiously at anything that crossed his line of sight. Prince Imrahil was nowhere to be seen.

This Host was not alone, however. Truva had not been mistaken: nearly a full company of Lasgalen Elves lingered about the edges of the gathering, tall and regal splashes of green against the dusty scene. They stood directly opposite Dwarves from the Lonely Mountain – though these were not great in number, for the far more substantial portion of Erebor’s forces stomped along in a company ahead of Truva. They were joined by Dwarves garbed in silver and sable: those of the Iron Hills, a dragon emblazoned upon their breast.

As the procession descended further towards the bowl, a most peculiar arc of tension stretched between the Lonely Mountain Dwarves who remained behind and those who accompanied their brethren of the Iron Hills. Something was afoot that Truva could not quite distinguish, though the sight of Elfhelm Marshal being guided along the path by Legolas not too far behind reassured her. Even further distant were Pallando and Kîzge – careful as always to mitigate any apprehension born of the Orc’s ferocious appearance.

‘Beregond’s forces were swiftly usurped,’ Aragorn whispered, answering Truva’s question at last.

‘To think you deluded yourselves into believing Dwarves could be outwitted in their own territory!’ scoffed Gimli. ‘You are lucky Lord Nír revealed the trap’s location; otherwise you would never have been found, Marsha— er, milady.’

Aragorn acknowledged Gimli’s addition with a nod. ‘The Rhûnic Orcs likewise found themselves buried in a trap at the rear, though they soon emerged with the aid of Pallando. But even upon their rejoining the main host, we were not met with good fortune; each position we established was soon overtaken by the Iron Hills Dwarves. They did not rest even as day turned to night, and seemed as if to appear from nowhere and disappear into the aether. Crag by crag, we were beaten back. Imrahil and several Swan Knights fell when they were separated in the maze-like ridges.’

Truva bit back a gasp.

‘It looked to be a near rout, from my view,’ said Gimli mournfully.

‘And it was a view you beheld only just in time,’ said Aragorn. ‘At first light, Thorin and his forces arrived, accompanied by Bard of Dale. The Lake-men were swift to ally themselves with us – though I suspect it was your own dealings in those lands that contributed greatly to their inclination to do so; I do not think I imagined the disappointment on Bard’s face when he learned of our union.’

A puckish grin crept across Aragorn’s face when he glanced back at the Barding King trodding glumly along, behind even Kîzge King.

‘But as simple a decision as it was for the warriors of Dale, it was not so for the Erebor Dwarves,’ he continued, expression falling. ‘They split even as they came upon us. Most fell into rank with those of the Iron Hills, though others chose to draw weapons at our side – thanks in no small part to Gimli’s influence.’

Truva peered ahead to where Thorin King marched in lock-step with a Dwarf who appeared to be garbed in armour of the Iron Hills, then looked with warm astoundment upon her friend.

‘It was a decision most bitter,’ muttered Gimli, avoiding her eyes. ‘Yet Thorin’s actions of late have been divisive. While no Dwarf is like to take the word of some Easterling over that of their own King with regard to the Iron Hills’ misdeeds, Thorin’s refusal to support the Aglarond colony meant a number were willing to ally themselves with me, and trust my assessment of the situation.’

‘There are many that respect you and the sacrifices you made during the War,’ said Truva, recalling conversations she had overheard whilst in Erebor.

‘Perhaps almost as many as those who loathe me for the perceived abandonment of my home,’ Gimli quipped.

Truva grimaced in response; she could not outright deny his assertion, though it was undeserved.

‘Then came the Elves,’ said Aragorn, returning focus to the story.

‘Brought the fighting to an immediate standstill, they did,’ Gimli admitted, admiration evident in his tone. It was now his eyes that darted forward to where the tall, graceful form of Lord Thranduil towered above all others.

‘And so, all tæfl pieces locked in stalemate, minds turned to other means of resolution,’ said Aragorn. ‘We now make for the halls of Lord Nír, to attempt negotiations of an amicable agreement.’

‘Let us hope one can be reached,’ said Truva.

The trio then fell silent, each succumbing to their individual contemplations.

For more than an hour the company pressed on, great spires of umber rock towering higher and higher above them until the ground beneath their feet began to level out. Then, from behind a outcrop bathed in the sun’s midday rays, a colossal façade revealed itself to them, built into the cliff face itself. Prodigious columns held aloft elaborate pediments, three stacked upon each other, rising so high it hurt Truva’s neck to crane back so far. A carven dragon – like that of the Iron Hills armour – snaked its way from the lowest tier to the peak of the highest tympanum. Framed by the beast’s barbed tail was an inky archway, offering entrance.

‘Do they not bind or blind us?’ Truva asked of Aragorn, confusion seeping in at the thought that they had been led straight to the Dwarves’ secretive dwellings. But before Aragorn could answer, another voice spoke:

‘What you witness now is no cause for concern to us,’ said an especially short, slight Dwarf of the Iron Hills who appeared suddenly in front of them. ‘There are so many secrets of these Hills that not even the combined knowledge of all its oldest and most prominent residents could possibly render a full accounting. But the first secret I shall share freely: the main entrance before you is merely a trap. So, as you see – and as you have experienced – you cannot hope to best the Iron Hills, and so we do not blindfold you.’

The Dwarf’s bushy brow was furrowed – though in what expression it was difficult to determine, for the rest of his face was concealed by a tremendous beard, silvery and reaching well past his waist, and plaited with all kinds of elaborate knots and beads. His armour was not the unadorned variety of his compatriots; it glittered with jewels and filigree, and Truva suspected the metal itself to be mithril rather than mere iron. She knew at once it must be he who had grunted in response to her bow earlier: the Lord of these lands, the one Gimli had called Nír.

‘We never held any intention of besting you,’ Aragorn cut in diplomatically. ‘Though we travel in force, it was merely a precautionary measure – a necessary one, as it would seem. Our ultimate objective, however, has always been diplomatic in nature.’

Another unconvinced grunt followed this declaration. ‘Then let us see what words you would bandy with us,’ said Lord Nír, gesturing towards a robust greasewood scrub.

The companions cast glances about themselves in confusion – for the remainder of their party had vanished without a trace – until a second Dwarf stepped forward amongst the shrubbery and disappeared into the ground.

‘My brother, Nírath,’ explained Lord Nír. ‘He will escort you to my halls.’

Gimli did not hesitate an instant longer, and was lost from sight with equal rapidity. He was soon followed by Aragorn.

Not to be left behind, Truva approached the area with immense caution, only to catch sight of a slide-like hole in the earth – scarcely larger than the largest of Dwarves – descending into depths unknown. Just below the lip of the tunnel was a ladder. Urged by Lord Nír, Truva crouched awkwardly on the ground and slowly eased into the entrance, rung by rung. For the second time in as many hours, her armour scraped against enclosing dirt walls. The helm she had attached by its chain thumped uncomfortably against her head.

The circle of sky above grew smaller and smaller as Truva descended further and further. She lost count of how many rungs she climbed down – until her toes suddenly failed to find their next purchase. One foot dangling in the air, Truva’s heart nearly went tumbling from her chest.

‘Jump,’ the Dwarf Nirath commanded from below.

Truva lowered herself down the last few rungs by hands alone. She found herself hanging from the ceiling of an underground passageway, a series of tracks gleaming in the light of innumerable torches. Tiny handcars zoomed all in the same direction, bearing Dwarf and Elf and Man and Orc alike towards a series of smaller tunnels at one end. Truva stared as Elfhelm and Legolas flashed past upon a second track, Kîzge King and Pallando a third.

‘Jump,’ said Aragorn, repeating the Dwarf’s command. He stood in a cart parked just beneath the access tunnel, alongside Gimli and Nírath. They were joined by a trolleyman, whose hands already lay expectantly upon the walking beam.

Truva let go of the ladder and dropped the last few feet into the cart. Its floor was padded with straw, cushioning her fall, but no sooner was she safely in the bed than the handcart took off at breakneck speed. The trolleyman toiled at the walking beam, his arms moving so swiftly they became a blur, in tandem with the passing earthen walls.

Truva gripped the cart sides with white knuckles, staring ahead at where several rows of additional vehicles traversed a crisscross of rails and converged on a single tunnel. Her eyes flew open to spy another cart running exactly parallel to theirs at nearly the exact same speed. After a burst from their trolleyman, the two carts missed by barely a hair’s breadth, and the last thing Truva saw before they slipped into total darkness was Gimli’s contented smile.

‘Have you ever felt anything like it, lass?’ he exclaimed. ‘I’d heard tell of the Iron Hills’ track system, but I never thought I’d have the pleasure of riding it. So smooth – without a sound!’

And indeed, the cart moved silently along its tracks, even as it reached speeds far outpacing the fastest of the Mearas. Truva could hear nothing save the chill wind streaming past her ears, buffeting her braids and cooling her sweat. When she breathed in, there was the scent of rock and earth. It was not the rich, damp smell Truva was accustomed to in the Mark, not even the Glittering Caves; it was parched and thin, with a slight bite – a different kind of richness: that of metal.

She clutched Aragorn’s arm as her thoughts swarmed suddenly around her, unrestrained by the barrier of the visual world. It would be some time before she no longer felt uneasy belowground. Aragorn pressed his hand to hers, seeking his own reassurance in turn; and for the briefest of moments, they bowed their heads together and were comforted.

When, after several long minutes, the handcart emerged into a brightly-lit chamber beyond, they straightened and recomposed themselves. Truva knew by Aragorn’s tightening grip – as well as Gimli’s audible gasp – that she was not alone in her admiration of the station platform’s vaulted ceilings and glimmering tiles.

‘Don’t look down,’ said Nírath as the handcart came to a smooth stop and he leapt out with surprising agility.

Despite the Dwarf’s warning, Truva peered down at the slight gap between cart and platform to discover a series of additional platforms extending far below in a dizzying drop. Aragorn caught her arm to steady her, but Nírath was already following after the other Unified Host commanders and their Dwarven guides, who made for a tremendous corridor leading away from the platform. On the opposite side of the tracks, a stream of stretchers was being borne towards a second tunnel.

‘Your wounded will be tended to in our infirmary,’ said Nírath over his shoulder, not concerning himself with whether his charges followed or not. ‘And those who remain above ground will be provided tents and security – so long as we remain secure down below.’

Truva scarcely registered his words; though she had already been exposed to the Dwarven marvels of Erebor, the splendour about her now was entirely distinct. Each and every corner of the Iron Hills caverns was illuminated by torches, their warm light gleaming upon rock and metal and ornamentation. Even the loftiest arches of the platform and the corridor beyond bore the mark of industry; russet sandstone and burnished gold came together to form latticed patterns, accented with jewel and gem. Thorin’s halls were those of a King, but the Iron Hills were most certainly deserving of a Lord.

‘This way,’ said Nírath brusquely, ushering the commanders down a series of disorienting side passageways. They became separated from the others at some point, but were afforded no time to be concerned; Nírath bustled on until they stood before a tiny wooden door, unremarkable in comparison to the surrounding opulence. With a single, heavy knock, Nírath shoved the door inwards and bade them enter.

The party emerged from a side door into an immense hall. At that very same moment, the other United Host commanders entered from similar doors all about the hall’s circumference, having been led on varying circuitous and confusing routes. Upon spying their brethren, each member immediately conducted his own silent tally, pacified to note not one further amongst their number was unaccounted for.

Their attention then turned to the remainder of the hall. At its very head, Lord Nír sat already upon a tremendous iron throne: a dragon with lacquered copper scales and ivory teeth arrayed along its back, tail curling beneath to present a footstool. Several Dwarvish advisors were seated at a long black marble table before the base of the throne’s dais. Nírath swiftly joined them, as did Thorin King.

‘Come dine at my table,’ said Lord Nír to the other commanders.

It was not a request. Even so, none hesitated to acquiesce, for each acknowledged the delicacy of the task which they now faced. Lord Thranduil was the first to step forward, his emerald robes sweeping across the multicoloured mosaic flooring with a gentle whisper. He was followed at once by Legolas, who appeared every bit his father, and then the rush of others to be seated in vague order of rank.

A parade of heavily laden platters was placed before them. Though Lord Nír’s advisors fell eagerly upon these dishes, not even Gimli could be tempted by the salted pork just within reach. A long, protracted silence prevailed as the parties examined their counterparts in detail; each purse of the lips, each rapid blink of the eye, each tap of finger upon knee was noted until Thranduil at last drew them into conversation.

‘The hospitality of your halls is well-met,’ said he, inclining his noble head ever so slightly towards Lord Nír.

‘I thank you for your flattery, Elf,’ the Dwarven Lord replied. He failed to notice a muscle in the Elvenking’s jaw twitch at being addressed so impersonally, for he was committing the additional insult of paying Lord Thranduil no mind. His eyes flicked instead between Aragorn, Pallando, and Kîzge.

‘It is no mere flattery,’ Aragorn inserted. ‘To partake in your hospitality is to be granted an audience – for which we are grateful – and for our people to at last engage in dialogue. Many years have the northern lands simmered in tension, to the detriment of all; it is our hope to establish relations which, if not congenial, at least surpass isolation.’

‘There was a time not long ago I would have thought such things possible,’ said Lord Nír. ‘I myself was but a babe when the dragon Smaug was cut down, and Elves and Dwarves came together in defence of Erebor. But in the subsequent years, our lands have thrived; we in the Iron Hills and beneath Erebor, and the Elves in their Woods – content to forge our histories separately.

‘But then the Shadow descended over the north. No sooner had the Easterlings been beaten back from the lands about Long Lake than the Greenwood sought to sow discord betwixt my cousin’s realm and mine! And do not think sending some errand girl of indeterminate origin in your stead masked your intent,’ Lord Nír accused with a pointed look towards Truva.

Aragorn stiffened beside her, but Thranduil spoke first.

‘I do not deny the Longbeard clan’s dissolution would have once pleased me greatly,’ said the Elven King with remarkable aplomb. ‘Yet of late, I find I have developed somewhat of a penchant for forbearance.’

And though Thranduil moved with even more subtlety than his son, Truva was certain the two exchanged a glance in that moment.

‘What merit does your forbearance serve, when it is your own misdeeds that require it of others?’ quipped the Dwarven Lord. ‘But it matters not, for there are no misunderstandings between Thorin and myself, and we shall persist as we ever have. I am far more curious as to why a Wizard would march an entire Orcish army into the Iron Hills, accompanied by the newly anointed King of Gondor and a handful of horselords. Have you nothing better to do after the War than harass your peaceable northern neighbours?’

‘If I may, my lord,’ Pallando interjected. ‘I would first like to extend my humblest sympathy for any ill fate Rhovanion endured at the hands of the Easterlings. I assure you we are a splintered nation, and never once have I myself sought to take up arms against you.’

‘Until now.’ Despite his biting remarks, nonchalance was written plainly upon Lord Nír’s face. ‘Be assured – the East has caused tremendous grief to the land about the Lonely Mountain, but the Iron Hills have remained unassailed since the time of dragons. It is not me to whom you owe an apology.’

‘And all shall be rendered in due time,’ Pallando hastened to concur, with a nod to Thorin King, who merely glowered in return. ‘As to the reason for our disturbing your peace after all this time, I think our “errand girl” is best situated to answer that.’

Truva suddenly found herself the focus of every pair of eyes at the table. Some were more friendly than others, some more curious, but all fell upon her with frightening intensity. Not two years ago, this turn of events would have sent her into an inescapable panic – and certainly her heartbeat quickened and throat constricted even now – but she merely took a deep breath and began:

‘In hearing you speak, milord, I do believe you already possess all the knowledge I wish to convey. It is the testimony not only of the Greenleaves Elves, and of the Beornings of the Vale and the Men of Dale, and the nomads of Rhûn, but also my own personal experience: that Dwarves have for many years facilitated the transfer of slaves – children, mostly – westward over the Misty Mountains.

‘I do not, of course, purport that it is your highness himself who orchestrates such atrocities. Yet the notion that children have disappeared from their homes is irrefutable, and those that keep watch – including those neutral to your business – assert that the perpetrators can be none other than the Dwarves of the Iron Hills.’

Utter silence followed this accusation. Not one breath was exhaled as all who were present anticipated Lord Nír’s reaction, scrutinising each facet of his impassive expression for some hint as to his thoughts. Each moment stretched on uncomfortably and bound them tighter to their seats.

‘And you are certain in your evidence?’ the Lord asked at last, though he was no less unreadable.

‘I would be glad for any to the contrary,’ said Truva.

Then, to his audience’s great surprise, Lord Nír began to laugh, silver beard positively quivering with mirth as his uproarious guffaws echoed in the vaulted ceiling of the hall. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, waving a hand dismissively. ‘It is as you say; I have heard from Thorin all these tall tales you fabricated. Is that all?’

Truva glanced at Aragorn, unsure. He made as if to speak, then closed his mouth and looked in turn to Thranduil and Pallando, who sat as ones resigned. Each member of the company could only stare at each other, wondering what other proofs they could possibly offer.

‘No?’ said Lord Nír. ‘Then I can send you all to the dungeons without further consideration. If I am feeling particularly kind on the morrow, I will release you to return to your own lands, unharmed.’

‘Why, you—!’ exclaimed Gimli, leaping from his seat with indignation. ‘Look here, laddie—!’

Yet he was cut short by another Dwarf – one garbed in the livery of the Iron Hills, but whose appearance struck a familiar chord in Truva’s mind: Buri, the Guard of the Gate who had escorted her about the Lonely Mountain during her time there. He was on his feet with equal swiftness, speaking over Gimli. ‘If I may, my lord—’

But he, in turn, was interrupted by Nírath, who stood from his seat at his brother’s right hand with such force he knocked over his oaken chair.

‘You had best not speak,’ he growled, eyes fixed with palpable fury upon the trembling Dwarf.

‘The Southerners—’ Buri began, but no sooner had the words left his mouth than Nírath raised a horn to his lips and sounded an earsplitting call, made all the more deafening for the stone walls.

Even as Truva and the others threw their hands over their ears, the Dwarves split neatly along the table and fell upon each other, dissolving into a roiling mass of violence. Nírath leapt for Buri, who darted behind Lord Nír – though this only seemed to please Nírath, who confronted his brother with insidious grin and dagger drawn. In a flash he struck, but was lost from sight as Thorin rushed to aid Nír.

In that very moment, more Dwarves – having been summoned by Nírath’s horn – poured in through the many hall entrances; endless streams of gleaming axe and hammer, club and mace filled the space. Chaos reigned.

‘A table!’ Truva shouted, but already Aragorn and Gimli were heaving against the edges of that at which they had been seated, upturning it and driving it into a corner of the hall. The southern commanders then took cover behind the table’s heavy ironwood slab, weapons raised in defence.

As the skirmish raged on, however, they were paid no heed; not once was their shelter approached – or even glanced at – by any of the Dwarves. Truva and the others simply watched in confusion as the tide surged first one direction and then the other, with seemingly no hope of any conclusion. It was not until additional warriors swarmed the hall, increasing Nír and Thorin’s forces manifold, that a substantial subsect of Dwarves was subdued and laid upon their faces in front of a panting and sweating Lord Nír.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he cried, wiping his axe blade upon his tunic. ‘Today we have shed more Dwarven blood at the hand of each other than in combat with the enemy! Tell me quick, what ill-devised plot was this?’

Nírath merely spat in response. But Buri stepped forward once more – careful to give the Lord’s brother a wide berth.

‘As I was saying, milord,’ he proffered in a voice even more timid than before, ‘the Southerners do not speak falsely.’

Lord Nír turned sharply and waved his axe in the cowering Guard’s face, though his eyes darted to where Truva and the others still hovered in the corner. ‘Speak!’ he commanded.

‘As you know, I arrived some months ago from Erebor, on commission to inform you of deteriorating relations with the Woodland Realm as a result of supposedly specious claims,’ said the hapless Buri, who wrung his hands in a dizzying flurry of motion. ‘But what you are perhaps less aware of is that my primary purpose was to discover the veracity of those claims.’

The glare Lord Nír sent Thorin King’s direction was less than jovial. ‘And what did you discover?’

‘I do believe it began with your father’s brother, Hár,’ Buri began. ‘Hár chafed at the glory begot by Dáin upon the battlefield, and that his brothers inherited grand kingdoms while he was left to bow and scrape at their mercy. That you in turn would become Lord of the Iron Hills, and Thorin King Under the Mountain – and yet he was still left with nothing – was merely an additional insult in his mind.’

Lord Nír grunted, the same grunt he had used throughout the day. Truva still could not discern its meaning, but Buri seemed to interpret it as an indication to continue.

‘And so Hár determined to seize for himself all that he thought was owed him. Unsure as to what form this enterprise might take, however, he first set about funding his scheme. But the treasure to be found in the Iron Hills mines was – and is – ever diminishing, even if it could be obtained without the notice of the Lord. And as you know, Hár boasted no particular aptitude with his hands. It was not until he recalled the tales told him by his nurses in his youth that he thought of the Misty Mountains and the resources there.’

‘He went to Khazad-dûm,’ said Lord Nír with a suspicious glance towards the foreigners. Truva searched the furthest crevices of her mind for references to such a place, thinking back to lessons in years gone by, but she only found dusty cobwebs made faint by time.

‘No, not Khazad-dûm – his cowardice did not lead him astray in avoiding those dark depths,’ Buri responded, which ignited a spark of recognition in Truva: Dwarrowdelf, the great underground city of the Dwarves! Which lay just south of—

‘The Hidlands,’ Truva whispered, though the hall was so still even such a gentle utterance was easily heard.

‘Perhaps,’ shrugged Buri. ‘I do not know, myself. Having only been brought so recently into Nírath’s fold, he and the others were suspicious of me, and thus I was not privy to any significant amount of information. All I can say further is – wherever he went – Hár discovered mithross there; a fair deal less valuable than mithril, to be sure, but sufficient for his purposes. When the local residents refused him mining rights, Hár turned to a far more sinister method of obtaining what little mithross the locals themselves produced.’

‘A barbaric payment for a barbaric society,’ said Truva through gritted teeth.

Lord Nír turned to his brother with a thunderous scowl. ‘And I suppose you merely followed in our uncle’s footsteps?’ he asked.

‘You are not fit to be Lord!’ spat Nírath. ‘You think only of your own policies and will hear talk of no other. Many ideas I have come to you with, only for you to dismiss them with a cursory sigh.’

‘I do not listen to your policies because your policies are poor,’ Lord Nír retorted, though his tone was light. ‘I suppose that will only serve to further convince you of your oppression, yet you would know – had you spent less time exchanging children for mithross and more in my halls of counsel – I frequently take the ideas of my advisors under consideration.’

Nírath merely offered a snarl in response, but when he made as if to speak, Buri cut him off – albeit with a quite hesitant: ‘If I might extend one such suggestion, milord.’

‘Yes, what is it?’ Nír sighed (for open though he was to the ideas of others, it was not always graciously that he accepted them).

‘I imagine the matter of what is to become of Lord Nírath and the others is one that will take some consideration,’ he offered. ‘But there are those among us whose day has been exceptionally long. Perhaps it would not be unreasonable to set those who would have been gaoled this night in your finest guest quarters; and in their stead, send below those who would have slept soundly in their beds.’

‘Why yes, yes, of course – the hour grows late,’ said Lord Nír, though Truva was left to wonder how he knew; the lights of the hall had not dimmed, and seemed to be coming as if from the rock itself. ‘I imagine there are a great many apologies to be exchanged and bridges of politic to be built, yet these tasks would be facilitated by a good night’s rest. Let us meet again on the morrow.’

And thus, startled by the swiftness with which Lord Nír conducted his business, the commanders of both East and West were escorted from the hall and into grand chambers, and passed their first night in the halls of the North.

Chapter Text

Even as the sun rose on the halls of Lord Nír, Truva and the other Eorlingas bore Beútan to the Iron Hills’ southward-facing slopes. Here he was buried, alongside those Gondorians and Rhûnic Orcs who had also fallen in the brief conflict. Tremendous fanfare was organised by their Dwarven host; brazen trumpets were joined by low voices, raised in song translated for the ears of foreigners. Though rocky cairns were all that was left as the funeral procession ascended back over the pass, Lord Nír assured Truva and the other southern commanders that he would make all haste in erecting monuments befitting those interred there.

As for the shrouded figure of Imrahil Prince, the Dwarves themselves carried his bier down into the deepest depths of the Iron Hills – for though much of their Halls had been revealed to the outsiders, there were still many secrets they wished to maintain; the catacombs of the Longbeard ancestors no Man could enter.

‘There shall we preserve your honourable Prince,’ Nír reassured them. ‘He will lay in the company of Grór son of Dáin and our other most revered figures, until you see fit to return him to his homeland – whether that be tomorrow, or a thousand lifetimes from now.’

But the few traitorous Dwarves that had been slain during the uprising were not treated with such dignity. There was no grand funeral, no public acknowledgement of what had occurred. It was as though all trace of them had vanished. Indeed, even as the leaders of the varying lands came together in summit, Lord Nír seemed reluctant to discuss the incident.

‘It is a topic I shall have to address in time, as even now my most loyal and trusted advisors are investigating the last vestiges of dissent,’ he said as Aragorn, Truva and the others settled about the now-righted table in the main hall, which had also been cleared of any sign of Nírath’s betrayal. ‘I will of course keep you abreast of any developments as they arise. Otherwise, let us not speak of it too deeply.’

‘It is truly commendable the Iron Hills thrived for so long, without discord striking sooner,’ Aragorn commented.

‘Yes, yes.’ Lord Nír’s accompanying wave of dismissal was apparently characteristic. ‘Yet look what misfortune it ultimately brought to my door: an army of nearly all the southern lands, allied against my Halls!’

‘I, for one, would like to extend my apologies for the part I played,’ interjected Thorin King, startling many; for he had not spoken until that point. ‘I favoured the word of my brethren above the well-intentioned counsel of others. My own biases blinded me; this must not be the case going forward.’

The Dwarf’s head remained bowed throughout this speech. Only as he fell silent did he glance at Truva briefly, an inscrutable expression upon his face. Truva’s breath stuttered, for she knew it was not he alone who lay at fault.

‘As for my own actions,’ she began, ‘a distinct lack of tact and statehood on my part inflamed preexisting tensions between the northern realms, for which I am deeply sorry. I was blind – or worse, uncaring – of the dynamics at play, and placed my own desires above the realities of a longstanding conflict. I provoked when perhaps I should have been patient.’

Thorin’s attention continued to be evasive. Truva’s eyes fell instead upon Thranduil, who seemed entirely uninclined to tender any sort of capitulation; the Elvenking sat with hands neatly folded upon the table, unspeaking.

‘As you see,’ said Pallando in the silence that followed, ‘the spectre of Mairon – though I believe many of you know him by the name of Sauron – was scarce defeated ere the kingdoms of Men fell into disarray, for the seeds of evil are those of weeds: never sown, but nevertheless shooting skyward even in the harshest winters. Peace is a fleeting, impermanent delight; it must be nurtured and tended to, like the most delicate of gardens – and even then there may be seasons a botanist’s vision does not come to fruition. We must gather together now if we wish to protect the young buds of harmony that have only just begun to protrude from the spring earth.’

Moved as he was by Pallando’s words, Lord Nír was still unconvinced. ‘Indeed, we anticipate with great eagerness the easing of tensions throughout Rhovanion,’ said he. ‘Yet what assurance can you give us, O Wise Wizard of the East, that the Iron Hills will be safe from the bands of Rhûnic nomads and Orcs that continue to rove your lands, beyond your control?’

The commanders’ discussions swayed back and forth thus, dragging on as each reconciliatory remark was met with hesitant hope. Three long mornings transitioned into even longer afternoons, followed by nights spent in muted revelry as the Longbeard Dwarves sought to engender their guests’ appreciation without revealing overmuch the inner workings of their Halls. No tours were given; save for guest and council chambers, Truva and the others were not privy to any other area.

Still, it could not be said that Lord Nír’s hospitality was lacking, for each and every attention was paid to his guests’ comfort and appetites. Meals were opulent, the flow of ale unending, and their beds soft. But even so, there was not one participant who failed to greet Aragorn’s summative words upon the third evening with welcome relief:

‘My Lords and Ladies, Princes and illustrious leaders all – these past few days have brought tremendous reassurance as to the future of our respective realms,’ said he. ‘An end has been brought to the heinous practice perpetrated first by Hár and then Nírath. We have negotiated also a cessation of Esgaroth’s embargo upon Erebor, and an increase of Easterling patrols in north Rhûn. The Lonely Mountain and the Greenwood have agreed to set aside their differences as best they might. I knew not what to expect upon coming northward, yet I doubt I am alone in thinking these negotiations have been productive beyond measure.’

‘Would that they had not been necessary in the first place,’ said Lord Nír ruefully. ‘Strife and the loss of life are always grievous, and I regret that our coming together was marked by such ills. Yet it is my belief that all the leaders of these lands, having sat around our table, shall leave with their protestations voiced in full, and their circumstances much improved.’

A great cheer of agreement went up and final tankard dregs were downed before the northern commanders retired for a final night.

Thus, on the fourth morning since their arrival, the Unified Host prepared for its departure. They had lingered long enough in the barren lands of the Iron Hills, and longed to return in their exhausted state to home and loved ones – to peace, and to quiet.

Those companies that had made temporary residence at the false entrance of the Halls were first to break camp and begin the long trek back over the pass. Agbesh Pè and the Rhûnic Orcs, restless from sitting around for three days, led the charge. They were soon followed by the Swan Knights, who were eager to be gone from the land that had claimed their Prince’s life. The Gondorians – both those under Maeron Captain’s command, as well as the White Company under Beregond’s – were far slower in moving out, larger in number as they were. But last of all were the King’s Riders, as they would not depart unless in the company of their erstwhile Marshal.

Even as the last Gondorian stragglers made up the tail end of the marching host, Truva and the other commanders travelled back along the dizzying mine cart tracks to a high-ceilinged atrium. Off its sides branched many spacious tunnels, through which Lord Nír guided his guests. The tunnels grew narrower and narrower until, with a sweep of blazing sun, they emerged into the space beneath the tremendous, looming stone dragon.

‘Why did we not simply enter this way?’ Elfhelm grumbled to Truva, looking back on the easily-accessible entryways. Even at such close proximity, the cavernous holes in the cliffside were hidden by rocky overhangs and screens of juniper trees.

‘Entrances are entrances and exits are exits,’ Lord Nír declared as he stomped past. ‘I do not know how it is in your own lands, but we are not heathens here.’

‘And if heathens prove also to be poor hosts, then it is doubly certain you are not they,’ said Aragorn. ‘Glad I was to find camaraderie within your halls; Gondor would warmly welcome the opportunity to play host to your Lordship in return, and see whether he deems us heathens or not.’

‘Rhûn likewise extends an invitation to any representative of the Iron Hills or any northern realm,’ said Pallando, ‘though if any peoples were determined to be heathens based upon the standards of other lands, it would indubitably be the residents of Uzdígh.’

‘I have seen Orcish dwellings,’ said Lord Nír. ‘I find them a great deal more to my liking than the homes of Men – stone though many of those may be.’

‘You have stayed well enough in the houses of Dale on rare occasion,’ Bard King remarked blithely.

Nír gave a deep harrumph. ‘Sleeping in trees and dwellings above water! Ha! That is even more heathenous than the above-ground cities of Gondor.’

‘Indeed, the distinction between “heathen” and “civilised” is not so clear as some might purport,’ said Pallando. ‘There are always others who in turn consider our own practices to be inconceivable.’

‘Such as an overfondness for salted pork,’ added Legolas, with a mischievous smile towards Gimli.

‘Or the unnerving habit of half–sleeping with their eyes open,’ the Dwarf retorted.

‘Or stealing children,’ came the startling interjection from Thorin King.

The small congregation fell silent, their tentative attempts at familiarity sucked from their lungs in one breath. But Thorin paid them no mind. In an instant he fell to his knees before Truva, fingers fumbling, then seized her hand and held it tight. Not even when Truva instinctively drew it back did he let go.

‘I once proffered this ring to King Éomer of Rohan by way of his Marshal,’ said he, sliding onto Truva’s finger the same mithril ring he had presented upon their first meeting in Erebor. ‘And I still intend to abide by that alliance. But now I find it is the Marshal who has risen in my estimation, and whom I have most greatly wronged.’

‘Please,’ Truva implored the King. ‘Rise, milord. It is my understanding that those guilty of any punishable misdeeds are tucked away in the depths of these very Hills. Your only fault was trusting those who, in some capacity, also proved to be innocent. I beg of you, present this ring to Éomer King yourself.’

But King Thorin folded her hand and pressed it to her chest. ‘With this ring I pledge my allegiance not only to the land of the horselords, but to the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor, and to Rhûn.’

Truva stood blinking, wholly taken aback.

‘But I am no representative of Rhûn,’ she protested. Of those she considered friends and allies, she had spoken with none save Aragorn and Pallando regarding her parentage, or the choice that hung suspended over her head.

‘Ah—’ said Thorin, glancing first to Thranduil, then Aragorn and Pallando, then about at the other commanders. All were suddenly eager to look anywhere save upon Truva.

They were all rescued from their discomfort by Kîzge King, who In that very moment gave a disgruntled snort (having grown frustrated in her attempts to follow the conversation) and began to stride off after the main column. With final ‘fare thee wells’ and promises of future meetings, the leaders of the southern lands bade goodbye to the Dwarven lords, and to King Bard and Lord Thranduil, who would take a westbound route through the Iron Hills on their return to Dale and the Greenwood beyond.

As Truva made to follow Kîzge, however, Lord Nír bade her pause. ‘I believe I have something of yours,’ said he, holding out the Elven bow to her.

‘I thought it lost in the rubble,’ said Truva, reaching out in awe. ‘How were you able to find it?’

‘It was no easy task, but it was a wrong the righting of which fell clearly upon my shoulders.’

Before Truva could so much as thank him, however, the Dwarven Lord turned and vanished into yet another hidden tunnel.

‘Come, Marshal, let us return south and resume the work of restoring Gondor that was so abruptly interrupted all those moons ago,’ said Legolas, who lingered beside her with Gimli and the King’s Riders.

But it was not gardens or newly erected black stone walls that occupied Truva’s mind as the Unified Host made its way over the pass and down through the foothills. The next day they found the East Rhûn longboats exactly as they left them, and began their arduous return back along the Redwater.  Long days passed all the swifter for having once already travelled the exact same stretch of Redwater – swiftness which Truva did not relish. She was consumed all the while by King Thorin’s assumptions, how he had come by them, and their possible ramifications. The closer they drew to Uzdígh, the greater her agitation became; and she greeted the view of the twin cities across the river with utter dread.

Triumphant horns sounded and pennants waved in the gleam of the setting sun off the Sea, and upon their return the warriors of foreign nations were granted entrance. All were welcomed with food and fights, in keeping with Orcish tradition; some Men of Gondor were even brave enough to challenge their host, earning them great raucous cheers – though they were largely unsuccessful in their bids.

But the ebullient atmosphere with which the returning host was greeted did not comport with Truva’s mood. She felt no inclination towards revelry, and instead mounted the steps of the eastern ramparts, where even the Orcs on watch had devolved into drunken bickering.

The evening was cool, with the faintest hint of approaching autumn; soon the breeze would be rich with the scent of sown grains and burning crop stubble. Truva leaned upon the parapet, the rough stone and clay gritty against her forearms, and gazed out across the mouth of the River Running. Upon its far bank, lights flared along Agdî’s battlements.

They waited for the return of their own warriors, still locked within the depths of Uzdígh’s dungeons.

Truva was not left alone to her thoughts for long. Silent though his approach was, Pallando made his presence known as he strode along the battlements and reclined against the rear wall, just behind Truva. He did not speak for a time, allowing the sound of jovial Orcish conflict and waves in the harbour below to fill the space between them.

‘We cannot keep the Easterlings here forever,’ he said at last.

‘You have now the allyship of Gondor and Rohan to protect you from retaliation,’ Truva replied. ‘And it will be some time before East Rhûn rebuilds to the degree they can even contemplate such ill-contrived notions.’

The Wizard paused a moment, always circumspect.

‘It is true,’ he conceded. ‘Absent the leadership of Alatar or Söldan – and with Ezele deceased all these years – the contention for King will be bitter and likely longstanding. But even such an internal contest is unlikely to remain contained within Agdî. It is sure to spill over into our own affairs here in Uzdígh, as well. Too many generations have passed since last I involved myself in the affairs of East Rhûn; I have no hope of effecting peaceable relations between our lands, so thoroughly did Alatar turn West against East.’

Pallando’s words were a warning, laden with unspoken meaning – a meaning Truva did not wish to contemplate.

‘Perhaps Agdî’s recent rout will incline whosoever emerges as King to be more amicable towards tolerance, if not overt allyship,’ she said.

‘And if they are not?’ the Wizard pressed. ‘It is a long way from Gondor, and even from the Iron Hills or Dale; nor can you afford to proffer a standing company to our defence – not with tensions in the South as they are.’

Truva eyed Pallando warily. ‘You are so very different from Gandalf, and yet not different at all. Where Gandalf directs from ahead, you make suggestions from behind, feigning humility so that others believe their decisions to be their own. Yet like Gandalf you bear thought only for your own ends. Have you no consideration for my hesitancy? Do you come instead to dictate through suggestion what action I ought to take?’

‘Ah, I am found out!’ said the Wizard with an affable smile. ‘Consider it no more than counsel; you are Queen of the Reunited Kingdom now, and many will offer you guidance – a great deal of it imprudent and self-serving. It is up to you to determine what suggestions to take under advisement, and what to disregard.’

They lapsed back into silence. A few guffaws from the watch – who had apparently resolved their quarrel, or at least set it temporarily aside – turned their attention to a longship going up in flames far below. A mass exodus of Orcs leapt overboard into the inky harbour waters and hauled themselves to safety on the dock. After a time, Pallando heaved a sigh and made for the stairs.

‘The prisoners will be escorted on their return to Agdî tomorrow at dawn,’ he said over his shoulder before disappearing into the night.

Truva watched a bucket brigade rush to douse the pier with Sea water (though the longboat itself was unsalvageable). From her vantage point, the rescue effort appeared little more than tiny garden spider hatchlings when disturbed by a May breeze, scurrying this way and that. But while her eyes took in these sights, her mind was set awander on the path Pallando had laid at her feet.

So absorbed was she in contemplation that Aragorn succeeded where the Wizard had not: giving her a start when he leaned upon the parapet beside her.

‘Sincerest apologies, milady, I did not mean to alarm you,’ he said, a teasing gleam in his eye.

Truva returned a warm smile; how well he wore peace! How her heart did lilt to see his brow smoothed of concern and to hear gaiety within his voice! She straightened and bowed with all formality.

‘I beg of you, milord, forgive me for being caught unawares at my post,’ she joked in return.

‘As it is your first offence, I will not level any punishment; a mere reprimand shall suffice.’

‘I thank you for your benevolence, milord.’ Truva offered a second, mocking bow.

‘See that you are not found lacking in your duties again,’ said Aragorn with false haughtiness, but at these words – a reminder of all the times she had truly failed in her duties – Truva was drawn back into her melancholic ruminations. The smile fell from her face.

Aragorn reached for her hand and massaged his calloused thumbs deep into her palm, his smooth brow now marred by worry. He did not speak, allowing Truva to gather her thoughts before she began:

‘It is one thing to be promoted under dire circumstances over a people who know, trust, and respect you, as it was during the War,’ she said. ‘Even so, I did not immediately understand why it was my fate to become Marshal, and it took me a great deal of time to grow sure in my role.

‘As for being Queen – I do not fear it so much, even though I am not so well-known or loved in Gondor as I am in the Mark; for I know I shall be by your side. I am confident in my ability to support you, and can look to your guidance when I am lost.’

She paused then, her mouth working soundlessly as she struggled to find the words. A gentle breeze rustled Aragorn’s hair – quite long from their recent campaigns – but his eyes remained fixed upon their hands, waiting, patient.

‘But it is another thing entirely to become King in a land where I do not speak the language and am unfamiliar with the culture, and where my claim to the crown is tenuous at best. I feel as though it is my first arrival in Edoras, and my promotion as Marshal, and ascension to Queen all at once.’

These words all tumbled from her, then Truva found she had suddenly fallen silent. When she looked to Aragorn for some hint of his thoughts, the corners of his mouth tugged downwards in contemplation. He merely stared at their hands for a good long while, holding them side by side: the same calluses on the upper palm, the same labour-worn fingers, the same dirt caked under short nails.

‘I cannot advise you,’ he spoke at last, raising his eyes to bore into hers, ‘for no matter what I say, it would be spoken from selfishness. I would keep you by my side for my own happiness. I would have you rule East Rhûn for the security of my people. I would have you choose your fate without my counsel, for my own assurance that you have made an unprejudiced decision.’

Therein lay Truva’s greatest trepidation. She turned away from the scrutiny of those grey eyes and observed the watch Orcs, whose provisional truce had once more devolved into physical blows. Their antics granted only a temporary reprieve from her insistent thoughts.

‘We have only just come together,’ she whispered. ‘Must we be separated so soon? Can we not live as others do, parted only by death or when summoned to war?’

‘Others are separated by war; we are separated by peace,’ said Aragorn with a wry smile. ‘Yet if your wish is to rule Rhûn, you needn’t fear. It is the fate of those who rule: to be first here and then there, always called away on business. Not for the first time has such an alliance been made by marriage.’

Truva did not answer. She leaned forward, tucking her head against the crook of his neck, and sighed heavily.

‘Let us see what the morning brings,’ he murmured, enveloping her in his arms.

The morning brought a regiment of Easterlings, blindfolded and bound, arrayed upon the harbour docks. Agbesh strode up and down the pier barking orders, thrilled to display his new power as Pè in front of a full audience of Uzdígh residents. His authority was hard-earned, however; for the task falling to him was that of assembling what in essence amounted to a full military campaign – without giving the appearance of an invasion.

Thus Kîzge King was to remain behind, as was the majority of her forces and all the southern armies. Of the West Rhûn leadership, Pallando alone would accompany the ships, for his capacity as translator was irreplaceable. And so it was a single unit of Orcs – joined by the King’s Riders, Aragorn, and the ever-eager Legolas and Gimli – that aided Agbesh in guiding the Easterlings onto a flotilla of longboats for the brief journey across the River Running.

Truva stood at the prow of one ship as the company sailed through a thin fog that had accumulated in the early hours of the morning. Neither Easterling nor Orc took a single breath as each oar-stroke brought them nearer the breakwater that extended into the Sea, protecting Agdî’s port. Tension reigned.

Agbesh issued another order, which made its way from boat to boat: ‘Unblind the prisoners.’

The risk was calculated; the appearance of coming in good faith and presenting no threat to Agdî was worth the risk of entrusting themselves to the mercy of weaponless prisoners.

Thankful that the disembarkation process would take less effort than the stumbling, bumbling task of boarding the Easterlings, Truva shifted from one prisoner to the next, untying the rough strips of cloth from around their heads. As during their northward march, each greeted her with a bow, made uncoordinated by the longboat’s sway.

When the blindfold fell away from the last prisoner’s eyes, however, she dropped the cloth as if grazed by a searing brand. ‘Óddîr!’ she exclaimed – for indeed the guard of the slain Noyon stared back at her.

‘Marshal,’ he answered with as deep a bow as he could manage in the longboat. But any further words were cut off by the call of ‘Hold!’ from ahead.

Not a single figure was visible upon the Agdî pier as the Pè’s ship – bearing Orcs alone – nosed into a berth. They did not moor. Instead, Pallando stood at the forefront and raised his empty hands above his head and spoke with voice so loud it could surely be heard back in Uzdígh. Though he used the Easterling tongue, his meaning was clear: ‘We mean you no harm, we return to you your warriors.’

There came no answer. Fog swirled along the empty pier, curling up along the stairways and streets towards the inner city.

Agbesh Pè growled a short order – no weapons, Pallando advised the southerners – then he and his warriors disembarked in order to establish a perimeter. The remaining ships were then guided into moorings and emptied of their passengers, whereupon the Pè set a guard about the prisoners. Once convinced they were secure, he and the other commanders followed after Pallando as the Wizard wended his way up through the maze-like byways of Agdî. In the mist, Truva caught glimpses of a silken skirt here, an embroidered jacket there, but never a full face.

It was not long before she recognised the streets surrounding the main square, then there it was: the dais where she had first been introduced to the Noyon, been accused of traitorous actions, been spared. Söldan’s visage swam before her eyes; it was she who had slain him, caused his lifeblood to seep from his veins, taken him from those who loved him. He had attacked her, certainly, but the border between enemy and ally had been irreparably blurred in recent days.

And now Pallando was urging her up those stairs, those stairs where she had only so recently knelt and bartered for her life.

With Aragorn at her left hand, Pallando and Elfhelm upon her other side, and all the King’s Riders arrayed behind her, Truva turned to look out across the square with as much boldness as she could muster.

Figures materialised through the mists like ghosts. Some took positions amongst the Easterling prisoners, who were still bound hand and foot; others emerged onto balconies or at windows, cautious yet curious. All gazed mutely upon Truva, waiting for her to speak.

‘Saǐm baǐn ou,’ she began: the traditional greeting of the Easterlings, properly formal. No answer of ‘saǐm’ was returned. Silence swallowed the gathering whole.

‘Perhaps you believe I come to you unbidden,’ said Truva, and though Pallando quickly stepped forward to translate her words, he too was met with no response. Truva’s voice echoed against the stone masonry of the square as she continued, ‘You knew me first as a deserter, and then as a spy, and I surely seem a usurper to you now – but it is not so.

‘I am the daughter of King Ezele and the Wizard Morinehtar, and none surpass my claim to the throne—’ Here Truva was momentarily distracted by a sudden swell of whispering, but she pressed on, ‘—and I will take it, if you will have me; for though it is by blood a King ascends, it is by her people’s acceptance that she rules. We are of disparate cultures, this I acknowledge – thus it is not by force I seek to subjugate East Rhûn.

‘But think well on this: Alatar is dead, as is your Noyon, and I offer you the prospect of peace; for I am of the Horselords of Rohan, and by marriage hail from the House of Elendil, whose dominion is that of the newly reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor. These are lands with whom your past is fraught with discord. But it need not always be so – and should you see fit to grant me the honour of my bloodline, I will see that your hands grip the plough more often than the bow.’

In one fell motion, Truva drew Fréodhel from its sheath and raised the sword high above her head, its blade radiating a steely gleam beneath the overcast sky. ‘Thus, I lay claim to my rightful place as King!’ she exclaimed.

Certainly then a thrum of voices surged. The Orcish soldiers grew restless as the citizens of Agdî began to shout amongst each other – whether in confusion or agitation it was not clear. Yet in an instant Óddîr leapt up on the platform in spite of his bound state and began to speak in rapid Easterling.

‘“It is true,” he says,’ came Pallando’s quiet translation. ‘“I have witnessed her use of The Eye myself” – I assume he means the palantír – “and it was by her own hand she slayed the Noyon. In accordance with our laws, she is by rights King.” So such knowledge has not been lost, after all.’

Truva turned with stuttering hesitancy towards the guard in question. ‘Do you not loathe me?’ she asked, astounded. ‘I came as an outsider to your lands. You treated me as a guest, and in return I drew my sword against the very person who spared my life.’

Óddîr merely shrugged. ‘Laws are laws, Annurim,’ he said. ‘These are our laws.’

But even as he spoke these words, a chant began in one corner of the square. It was soon taken up by many others, sweeping throughout the crowd until every last Easterling voice cried out in unison. Despite the Pè’s orders, several Orcs laid surreptitious hands upon blade hilt or bow, their unease amplified by confusion.

‘They are asking about the truce,’ Pallando clarified. ‘They wish to know whether you will honour the truce between East and West Rhûn.’

‘I see,’ mused Truva. It was a delicate question even under the best of circumstances; to misspeak now could lead to disastrous consequences – not the least of which could be her own death. How deep did the animosity between Easterling and Orc run? Were they at all amenable to a cessation of hostilities, or did they seek revenge? Truva cast a glance at Aragorn, but his expression offered no guidance, nor did that of Óddîr.

‘It is my intention to adhere to the accustomed state of affairs for a time,’ she said at last. ‘I do not desire to interfere with the traditions and culture of Agdî or its people without knowing what impact I might effect.’

The crowd, having quieted momentarily to hear Pallando’s translation, resumed their chanting. Indeed, it rose to a deafening fervour: ‘Amskhĭkh! Amskhĭkh!’ they cried.

‘One word of advice,’ the Wizard leaned near to whisper. ‘Easterlings are not overly fond of empty words and politic – they prefer definitive answers.’

Truva heaved a sigh. Impossible as it was to guess the minds of her audience, she was left with but one option: speaking the truth. Her position as King was sure to be a precarious one, yet it necessitated she act to the benefit of East Rhûn as best she saw fit.

‘I will seek to renew the truce,’ she cried above the clangour, which swiftly fell to a hush. ‘And strengthen it, if possible. Should the leadership of Uzdígh be willing to work in conjunction with our land, I wish to establish mutually beneficial infrastructure that provides resources throughout the North Sea realm.’

The chanting did not renew this time; there were only murmurs to be heard, first here now there. Truva cast about, frantic. She had made a grave miscalculation at last! As curious eyes with ambiguous expressions peered up towards the dais, she prepared to make a dash for the longboats, alongside the Orcs and Eorlingas.

Suddenly, the trill of a fife broke through the subdued chatter. It was nothing more than a quick flurry of notes, but was soon answered by another, and then the tap of a drum. As one, the crowd gathered about the square leapt into song and dance. Tankards of ale were procured with alarming alacrity, yet even as several Easterlings bent to untie the bonds of their brethren, Truva cried a halt.

‘The Orcs will return to Uzdígh even now,’ she explained. ‘As soon as they are on the ships to return, your warriors shall be released from their restraints. The removal of her troops is an act of goodwill on Kîzge King’s part; consider the momentary delay an act in kind.’

Even so, it was with reasonable displeasure that the Easterlings watched their western neighbours weave through the crowd and disappear back along the streets leading to the harbour, also eying with suspicion the Wizard and Eorlingas who remained behind. For many minutes, quietude settled back over the gathering – a quietude which was not broken until Elfhelm, who had taken a lookout position upon the dais roof, gave a sharp whistle to indicate the Orcs’ departure.

With a gesture from Truva, the Easterlings were released. This was followed by a flurry of those separated from loved ones darting forward in search of those left behind. The same scenes witnessed in Edoras and Mundburg and Uzdígh likewise played out in Agdî: fierce embraces, the examination of injuries, the mourning of those who did not return – equal parts stirring and agonising; the common thread of existence.

As the outsiders gazed out upon the Easterlings’ joyous reunions and heart-wrenching separations of eternity, Óddîr sidled up to Truva.

‘You are lucky,’ he commented.

‘Oh?’ asked Truva, turning to look upon the guard. ‘Why is that?’

‘The Noyon had no family,’ he explained, continuing to stare ahead. ‘No one to seek revenge. But he had many lovers. They wanted to kill him with their own hands. You must be wary of them.’

A faint smile seemed hidden beneath his otherwise impassive expression; a joke, perhaps.

Truva’s eyebrows leapt up her face, yet she said nothing; her attention was diverted by the approach of an elderly woman, who supported a young man with a splinted right leg with one arm, and bore a decanter of wine in the other. Rapid Easterling tumbled from her lips.

‘She thanks you for returning her son safely to her,’ Pallando explained.

‘I had no hand in—’ Truva began, but the Wizard interrupted her.

‘Her son spoke to her of the fair treatment he received, first under the Gondorians and then in Uzdígh. She is the broiderer who occupies the shop at the far corner of the square.’

He indicated a storefront with an elegant canopy opposite their position. Taking the Wizard’s tacit suggestion, Truva deviated from the topic of recent battles.

‘What is your name?’ she asked, though Pallando did not have to translate this time, for Óddîr had already begun to explain:

‘Her name is Emee. She is an elder of Agdî. It is smart to treat her well.’

Even as he spoke, the old woman poured a goblet of wine and offered it to Truva. Before Truva could react, however, Óddîr stepped forward and accepted it in her stead. She stared as he swirled the cup in half a dozen circles, drew his tongue about the entire rim of the goblet, then took a delicate sip. He spent several moments smacking his lips, then proceeded to extend the cup to Truva.

‘It is safe,’ he declared. When her mouth continued to gape, he added, ‘I am guard to the Noyon. It is my duty.’

‘You didn’t taste for the Noyon when I dined with him in the compound during my last visit,’ she remarked.

‘Inside the palace is safe. Outside the palace, I do not know.’

Truva accepted the cup back, but before she drank, she asked of Óddîr, ‘Of my brief teachings with Pallando, I’ve already forgotten; how do you say “thank you” in Easterling?’

‘Bayarlalā,’ he replied.

But the phrase’s pronunciation proved troublesome, and so Truva was forced to ask that he repeat himself several times before attempting to express her gratitude towards Emee. The old woman’s wrinkled face cracked into a smile as Truva sipped a mouthful of the wine.

‘It is common etiquette to return the cup to her when you have drunk,’ Pallando suggested quietly.

When Truva did so, Emee in turn drank from the cup, then refilled it and passed it to the Wizard. Many times did she repeat this gesture – with Aragorn, Elfhelm, and each of the others in turn. Once they had all drunk several times and her decanter was empty, Truva extended a gentle hand and asked:

‘Emee, will you not show us your embroidery?’

When Pallando translated, the old grandmother’s face lit up at once. Moving with surprisingly sprightly step, she led the company across the square and into her shop, where she guided them through her craft and its process. The pouncing and splitting and couching and needles all whirled dizzyingly in Truva’s mind, yet she found it mesmerising how something so simple as thread could blossom into honeysuckle and yellow pasque, crane and kestrel.

Yet no sooner had Emee captured Truva’s attention than the other shop owners all clamoured to do likewise, proffering wine and ale and foodstuffs and handcrafted goods. Throughout the day, the outsiders passed from shop to shop and home to guild, exploring the city Truva had only so briefly been exposed to.

But as the sun fell behind the battlements and rooftops of Uzdígh in the East, Truva and the others found themselves splayed upon the dais chairs, exhausted and gazing blankly out upon the bustling square. Countless tables had been brought forth, and where they did not suffice to seat the merrymakers, rugs had been strewn to accommodate the remainder. Tremendous, hastily-constructed bonfires warded off encroaching darkness, and more than one boar was spit over the open flames. The tantalising scent of roasting taimen – monstrous in size with glimmering, rainbow scales – wafted up as music permeated the festive atmosphere.

‘By such a warm reception to a new King, it seems the stories of old – when both banks of the Carnen resided in symbiotic harmony – are not entirely forgotten,’ remarked Pallando.

‘Or perhaps the Easterlings are merely enthusiastic for any excuse to rejoice, as it is in Edoras,’ said Elfhelm, gratefully accepting a tankard of ale from a passerby with a woefully mispronounced ‘bayarlalā’ in return (which only seemed to please the gifter all the more).

‘Perhaps,’ mused the Wizard. ‘Though I had long heard whispers of Alatar’s policies not always being well-received, particularly amongst labourers and farmers. The decision to attack the West was deeply unpopular. I am glad to learn my sources were faithful all these years – yet I hope improving relations between West and East Rhûn shall render them no longer necessary.’

‘They shall certainly not be on my account,’ said Truva. ‘I long most deeply for peace, for never have I known it. Even during my years in Edoras, still the threat of attack from Dunlendings hung over us; yet little did I know the Dunlendings would prove the least of our concerns. Too long have these lands been mired in conflict and marred by violence, and I am so very tired. Let us hope we can effect the amity of bygone days once more.’

Even as they spoke, however, a hush stole over the gathered revellers. The company turned to spy one Easterling mounting a table beside the nearest bonfire, bold and brash: Captain Yicî. In his hands he clutched the fiddle-like instrument Óddîr and the other guards had played so long ago in their gér by the watchtower – that which was carved with the head of a horse.

Another Easterling placed a stool on the table. Captain Yicî sat, placing the destü firmly between his knees and plying the bow to its strings. A single, drawn-out note thrummed upon the air, unceasing and unchanging until the congregation began to hum the same tone all together. The entire square reverberated with the sound.

Emee’s voice abruptly rang out, high and shrill. Standing upon the ground at Yicî’s feet, she sang no more than a single phrase, mirrored by the captain’s destü. Then, just as suddenly as she had begun, she fell silent. In her wake, the hum of Easterling voices echoed the phrase before Emee resumed her song – this time low and rumbling.

A sombre melody emerged from this rhythmic call and answer. There was no need for Óddîr or Pallando to explain the significance of the Easterlings’ song; the occasional crack of a voice, Captain Yicî’s stormy expression, the occasional tear upon a warrior’s face all spoke clearly enough: it was one of mourning.

With a gradual fade into nothingness, the melody ceased. Neither Captain Yicî, nor Emee, nor any of the Westerners moved, so consumed were they by the quietude. Truva hesitated but a moment before inhaling deeply and giving her best effort at a song she had learned in the halls of Meduseld many years ago. Elfhelm swiftly joined her, and voice by voice the Eorlingas returned their own lament:

A coward believes he will ever live
if he keep him safe from strife:
but old age leaves him not long in peace
though spears may spare his life.

Let a man never stir on his road a step
without his weapons of war;
for unsure is the knowing when need shall arise
of a spear on the way without.

He knows alone who has wandered wide,
and far has fared on the way,
what manner of mind a man doth own
who is wise of head and heart.

With raiment and arms shall friends gladden each other,
so has one proved oneself;
for friends last longest, if fate be fair
who give and give again.

Cattle die and kinsmen die,
thyself too soon must die,
but one thing never, I ween, will die, —
fair fame of one who has earned.

Most dear is fire to the sons of men,
most sweet the sight of the sun;
good is health if one can but keep it,
and to live a life without shame.

The silence was perhaps even more profound when the last strains of the Eorlingas’ song petered out. Truva began to tremble; perhaps this had been her final, grave miscalculation – now that the Westerners were stranded without ships, the Easterlings would be emboldened to attack. But no sooner had she begun calculating how swiftly they might gain the River Running and swim its breadth than Captain Yicî snatched a tankard of ale from the nearest warrior and raised it high above his head.

‘Khün baĭna!’ he cried, taking a deep draught.

At once, the others followed. Merrymaking resumed, placing first and foremost the memory of those lost, never to be regained. Truva reached for Aragorn’s hand as the images of all those whose spirit had gone in recent years to walk the planes of the Riddermark danced before her, leaping and twisting amongst the Easterlings. Living and dead alike circled about the bonfires to the tune of destü and drums.

When Aragorn pressed her hand between his in response, she saw in his eyes his own sorrow. The smile that flashed between them was fleeting and pained.

Festivities extended deep into the night, and though Truva knew it would be quite some time before she would grow comfortable in the land where she had endured shattering treachery, she allowed herself a modicum of ease. Put off – if only temporarily – were all thoughts of aggressors and power, conflict, disagreement, and diplomacy.

Chapter Text

Truva’s respite did not last long. The following days and weeks were full of an endless stream of Kingly duties, not least of which was the replacement of Söldan, as the Noyon’s position would be crucial to guiding her through the tumultuous transition period. With the upper ranks of East Rhûn’s army decimated, she had little choice but to promote the enigmatic Captain Yicî – though the Rhûnic soldier’s impassive expression continued to unnerve her. Truva wished to confer most closely with Aragorn, Pallando and Elfhelm, but it would not do well to give the Uzdígh residents cause to suspect undue foreign influence. She would have to hope Yicî’s newfound power would be sufficient to content him and quell any temptation towards unrest, rather than encourage it.

And the new Noyon, seemingly pleased with the distinction, committed to his duties well enough. He began by ushering Truva about on inspections of all manner: storehouses and defences and farmland and armouries, infirmaries and shipyards and council chambers, guild halls and merchants’ shops. With each new location, Truva was certain it was the last – only to be compelled to mask her fatigue as a fancier guided her towards the King’s dovecote or a laundress bowed and scraped in obeisance before her great tubs.

Other hours of the day were spent in the palace compound reviewing paperwork as translated by Noyon Yicî (and confirmed by Pallando) or greeting a parade of dignitaries. Many of the nomadic tribes heard rumour of a new King, and so made their way to the city to confirm for themselves. Truva met with each in turn, making note of their concerns and mediating disagreements on no less than three occasions within as many days. More than one chieftain relayed tales of clan members or their children having vanished; in hearing of Truva’s own history and her exploits in the Iron Hills, they were swift to convey their gratitude and pledge fealty.

More ambitious projects were taken up, as well, most notably when a master mason from Uzdígh was sent over to begin collaborations upon a proposed dam. Truva strove to make sense of the maps and diagrams spread before her as Pallando translated the rapid exchange of Easterling and the mason guild’s Orcish dialect – for such a meeting did not merely regard the construction of infrastructure (as it seemed on the surface) but also the negotiation of allyship between East and West Rhûn. Even from the outset, the project seemed likely to be an ongoing source of contention between the two lands and promised – like all compromises – to result in neither party being fully satisfied.

It was after one such long, exhausting day that Truva elected to take a simple evening meal within the gazebo of the King’s garden (where – as she learned from Óddîr – the previous Noyon had taken to residing only when Alatar was away. It was not entirely clear whether Söldan had been given permission to do so, though Truva did not blame him in the least for taking refuge in the compound; no ill fate seemed capable of penetrating the serenity of its walls). Aragorn alone joined Truva, as Pallando had temporarily returned to Uzdígh with the master mason to consult with Kîzge King, and Elfhelm and the other Eorlingas had gone off in search of more spirited activities. Both Gimli and Legolas were about their own mysterious adventures, as ever.

Their meal soon over, Truva breathed in the delicate scent of chrysanthemum, allowed the stream’s trickling sound to wash over her, the cool breeze to ripple across her skin. Equally calming was Aragorn’s thumb which swept gentle fans upon the back of her hand. Neither spoke, having already endured too many words since the earliest hours of that morning, and instead revelled in the tranquillity of the day coming to its conclusion. Even as the last of the sunset’s orange glow shifted purple, a troop of attendants scurried about the garden, lighting lanterns and torches to cast a gentle light upon pond and tree alike. Óddîr was not far behind, bearing a tea tray.

‘Why do you exert yourself so?’ Truva admonished gently, beckoning for him to sit. ‘It is beyond your already extensive duties.’

Indeed, the industrious guard had been promoted to Captain in the same motion as Yicî’s advancement, and thus was now subject to long hours dedicated to the reorganisation of Agdî’s forces. But Óddîr paid no mind to her chastising.

‘No dam yet, milord?’ he asked, his scrutinising eyes upon Truva as she relieved him of the tray and chipped off a portion of the pressed tea leaves. Though she still harboured no great love for the beverage, she had at least grown tolerant of it during her recent exploits, and even requested the new Captain detail the finer points of its preparation – particularly the unique East Rhûn variety.

‘I rather suspect it shall be many, many years before we see the fruits of those labours,’ said Truva, passing a cup to both Aragorn and Óddîr. ‘With the degree of cooperation the respective masons are currently demonstrating, it may even be that long before we so much as break ground.’

‘I am astounded to hear there is any cooperation at all,’ Aragorn confessed. ‘In narrations of the West, Easterlings have always been depicted as unerringly self-serving, and the Orcs as essentially ungovernable – though many of my preconceptions have been challenged in recent days.’

Óddîr took a sip of tea, only to surreptitiously spit it back out again. ‘West does not know as much as it thinks. Only power and control.’ Then, with a quick glance to Truva, he hastened to amend, ‘Your lordship is different.’

Determined to press the Captain’s own assumptions another day, Truva merely took a deep draught of her own tea, only to grimace at the salty taste. Swiftly setting her cup aside, she shoved a barley cracker into her mouth. There was a brief pause as each of the three turned to their inner thoughts, listening to the sip sip of olive-backed pipits flittering unseen in the dark garden. But Óddîr shifted first one way and then that, clearly perturbed by something further.

‘Many are happy an Easterling is King again,’ he said after a time, drawing the others out of their reverie.

‘I sense there is an addendum to that comment,’ said Truva, taking another absentminded sip of her tea and immediately regretting it.

‘Something is missing,’ Óddîr admitted.

‘And what that might that be?’ she inquired.

‘A crown,’ Aragorn hazarded.

‘Yes,’ said Óddîr. ‘The crown of King of Chieftains. In Karkürem.’

In truth, Truva had quite entirely forgotten such trifling matters. For a brief moment, she recalled the silver glint of sunlight as Aragorn had donned the helm of Elendil upon the fields of the Pelennor, and the tremble of drums as Beáda had placed the golden diadem upon Éomer’s brow just the previous autumn. Subsequently, it was the rare occasion on which she spied either of them boasting such finery.

But others had great concern for details and tradition, she knew.

‘Without his translations, there is little work we will be able to complete in Agdî while Pallando is away,’ she mused. ‘Perhaps it is time I greet the residents of the Tree City.’

And so Truva found herself in Agdî’s stables – austere but sufficient – early the following morning. Aragorn was swift to select his mount, yet Truva went from stall to stall, interacting with each horse in turn (though she had, of course, already appraised them all upon her initial inspection). She only made it halfway down the row before Óddîr appeared in the doorway.

‘Come,’ he said, beckoning Truva to the furthest stall.

Her curiosity piqued, Truva strode down the hay-strewn corridor in his wake and peered around the final divider. There shuffled a pinto rump, the horse’s head shoved through a window on the opposite wall.

‘Zaĭsan!’ Truva cried. With a snort, the feisty steed turned around and stretched out his neck to nuzzle her proffered hand, his wiggling nose already begging for sweets.

‘A Clan west of Ulāngôl spied him. They could not catch him. Three days ago, he appeared at the gates of Agdî.’

But no sooner had Truva entered Zaĭsan’s stall than the stable doors were thrown open and the Noyon strode in.

‘Time!’ he declared in a rare burst of Westron.

In a matter of mere minutes, his own regiment stormed in after him, swept along the rows, then disappeared back through the barn doors. They rode out to meet Legolas, Gimli, and the Eorlingas, who were already beyond the walls of the city, familiarising themselves with their provided mounts – much to Gimli’s chagrin. When the Noyon followed after his men, Truva turned to Óddîr.

‘Keep the castle,’ she said quietly. It had been easy to appeal to the new Noyon’s pride, relying heavily on notions of ceremony and propriety as a pretext to keep Yicî at her side and under her watch; but in truth, Truva simply trusted Óddîr in his role as Captain far more than the inscrutable Noyon, and so elected to place him in command during her absence.

‘Yes, Qahán.’ Óddîr bowed as Truva mounted up and rode out after Aragorn.

The small company travelled swiftly across the plains of East Rhûn, through grasses which grew shorter and more parched the further they drew away from the Sea. Scarcely half a day passed before they paused to greet the guard of the gér watchtower, delivering to them a hot meal and makŏlli – for they alone had missed the ascendance celebrations.

Truva briefly ascended the watchtower and looked about. It was strange to gaze across the expansive horizon towards the vast Sea – steely beneath the clouds of approaching winter – and think that the furthest reaches of all such lands fell under her control and guidance. Though she had never been unaware of the significance her influence now wielded, to be suddenly confronted with its visual representation proved overwhelming. For several moments, Truva felt anchored to the rough wood planks of the tower, unable to move, until Aragorn drew her arm into his.

‘Come, my love,’ he whispered. ‘Your people await you.’

The company pressed on, camping that night upon the open heath just as they had when Yicî guided Truva to Karkürem so many moons ago – though it seemed they made even swifter progress now than on that occasion. It was not long before they gained the wildwood called Aglagoĭ, where delicate garlands of vines guided them before the forest eventually gave way to a discernible path.

No sooner had the furthermost dwellings begun to appear than strains of music drifted through the foliage; the company’s arrival was clearly not unlooked for. A single reed flute, its tones low and earthly, heralded their approach.

When they at last laid eyes upon the city’s battlements, Baradorn loomed through the dense mist, which was settled like an opaque cloud over the clearing.

‘A tree tower!’ Legolas exclaimed in wonderment upon spying Alatar’s tribute to King Ezele. ‘Never have I seen something so in keeping with the Elven manner, yet so entirely different! It is truly the industry of one dedicated to the natural ways of this earth.’

‘It is more fitting for birds than ordinary folk,’ grumbled Gimli, still reluctant to voice his appreciation for anything beyond the beauty of Lothlórien or Calengroth. ‘Yet I suppose it is a good thing our Marshal can scarcely be considered ordinary folk.’

Truva saw no need to correct the Dwarf’s continued misuse of her rank; indeed, she longed to retain that tie to the Riddermark for as long as possible.

Already a great many residents of Karkürem had gathered about the gate, both within and without the city walls. They did not allow Truva and the others to pass unheeded as they had previously; when the company dismounted at the gate, their progress through the twisting streets was shadowed by each and every resident they happened upon. Truva paused in greeting at each opportunity (though Elfhelm and his golden locks in particular were the recipient of many an astonished and admiring maiden’s nosegay).

The flute was soon joined by voices as the entire city was raised up in song. It was not a tune as lively as that of the Eorlingas, nor as structured as that of Gondor, or raw as the lament sung in Agdî had been. It was an ethereal melody, mere whisps upon the wind, mimicked by the embroidered silk hems of ladies’ skirts and men’s loose trousers as they floated over sward and flagstone alike. With each sight softened by the brumous mist, the scene took on an unearthly quality.

When the procession came at last upon the garden of Baradorn – in full bloom of the season – an attendant emerged from the tower bearing a golden crown swathed in silk of deepest green. The newly-appointed Noyon stepped forward at once to accept this article. For a fleeting moment, Truva wondered whether he would not seize the crown for himself, whether this had not been an elaborately conceived plan from the beginning. She and Aragorn were now isolated, beyond all hope of rescue; in one fell swoop, the Kings of both Gondor and East Rhûn could easily be dispatched – in addition to the Woodland Realm’s princeling and the Lord of Glǽmscrafu.

Perhaps Óddîr launched an attack upon Uzdígh even now.

Nor was Truva alone in such thoughts. Aragorn’s hand reached subtly for his sword, and Legolas his bow, yet before either could act, the Noyon turned back to the congregation and spoke a single command in Easterling. Though Truva did not understand it in word, she understood it in meaning:

Kneel.

So it was to be a beheading – a noble end, surely! One that would still allow for a last, desperate defence. Aragorn gripped his sword hilt so tightly his knuckles turned white; Truva’s fingers began to inch towards her own blade. The other Eorlingas could be heard shifting behind her, as could Gimli.

But as the Noyon stood before Truva, he made no motion towards his weapon. He opened his mouth wide – but instead of threats, the most exquisite tenor voice unspooled, weaving into the Karkürem residents’ song. Yicî raised the crown high above his head, allowing the green silk to tumble down his chest, its golden embroidery glimmering in the mist. From the crown’s patterned band extended three prongs, shaped like branches of a tree and adorned with multicoloured gems, fluttering as leaves do upon the wind. On each side dangled a trio of beaded chains, at the end of which hung a carved horn of Kine.

Quite suddenly, the music ceased. The flute did not sound and the voices did not sing. For a moment, the gathering was eerily serene, undisturbed by a single sound. Then came the Noyon’s gruff exclamation: ‘Truva Qahán!’

As he lowered the crown upon Truva’s brow, a great cry went up, only to immediately fall silent again. Truva made as if to rise, but the Noyon held out a hand to stop her, beckoning instead for Aragorn to kneel at her side. As he did so, a second attendant emerged from behind the Noyon and passed to him a second bundle – this silk of the deepest blue. From its folds emerged a silver crown, little more than a diadem of interwoven chrysanthemum blossoms.

In the continued silence, the Noyon once more raised his hands above his head and, lowering the crown upon Aragorn’s head, cried, ‘Aragorn Qadūn!’

The tranquillity was broken. As they had in Agdî, revelry and music were struck up at once. The crowds dispersed to their separate activities: some to tend their cooking fires, others to suss out barrels of ale and wine, and yet others to ogle the strange new King and her distinctly foreign husband. This last, however, the Noyon would have nothing of; he brusquely stepped between the couple and their curious onlookers, herding the former towards the entrance of Baradorn.

‘You are tired,’ he said, simultaneously question and statement. ‘Rest.’

When the doors closed behind Truva and Aragorn, there was a startled scramble of attendants, who had clustered about the windows to observe the proceedings. Accustomed to being banished from sight by Alatar, they fled, dodging around corners and dashing up stairs – though their whispers in Easterling were still audible.

‘I do not think I have encountered an enemy in battle more frightened of me,’ murmured Aragorn, glancing to where the last glimpse of a periwinkle skirt disappeared into a closet.

‘It is surely the first thing I shall have to consider,’ said Truva, though her eyes were drawn instead towards the doorway that led down, down to the cellars and the gaol. She hastened her steps across the entrance hall and ascended the staircase leading in the opposite direction.

‘‘Where do you suppose it will be appropriate to sleep?’ she asked of Aragorn. ‘I suppose I might take the same guest quarters I stayed in during my last visit. They were quite pleasant. I do not think I can face investigating the King’s chambers just yet.’

‘It is your castle, milord,’ Aragorn replied, the smile audible in his voice as he navigated the steep, narrow stairs behind Truva. ‘You may sleep wherever you see fit, be that the library or the kitchen – or even the stables.’

And so up, up they climbed, up until they arrived before a familiar heavy door: Alatar’s study. Something urged Truva to pause there, to turn the brass knob; the feeling drew her into the cramped study and its book-lined walls, the circular window now closed. She strode forward towards the desk, hand just hovering over haphazardly scattered papers filled with indecipherable runes and angular handwriting, then moved to the window. When she unlatched it, the same branch jutted into the open space.

‘I suppose this is the palantír you referred to in your tales?’ came Aragorn’s voice behind her.

Truva turned to see him draw the silk covering from the glassy orb. She did not answer as she approached, merely watched as he placed his hands upon the swirling black.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘It is easier as two, though there is no longer any need for fear, now that— now that no threats lurk in its murky darkness.’ His voice briefly faltered, for even one so noble as Aragorn did not go unaffected by the horrors experienced at the shadowy hands of Sauron – not he who had confronted the Dark Lord himself with his own palantír.

The glass was cool against Truva’s palm as she laid it upon the palantír. There was the same fading of her surroundings, the same flash of light, the same rush of sights as before; yet she did not find it nearly so disorienting, was not so blinded.

‘What do you wish to see?’ asked Aragorn.

Again Truva did not reply, instead simply guiding their observations westward towards Agdî. Like a hawk plummeting from above, her vision came into sharp focus upon Óddîr as he and a company of Easterling soldiers passed building materials from one to the next, constructing more permanent residences for those who lived just outside the city walls. It was a notion Truva had mentioned in passing, no more – and yet the Captain had taken the initiative to see her idea actualised.

‘You have a very industrious leader under your command.’

Aragorn’s voice was distant, detached, as if floating to Truva’s ear from some dream. A twinge of guilt pinched at her belly for having doubted Óddîr in the first place. She sent their perspective soaring, shifting away from Agdî and streaking past Uzdígh, which appeared to be in its typical state of organised chaos.

The land below began to pass so swiftly their location could no longer be distinguished. Truva sensed Aragorn's influence, and allowed him to guide their movements.

With an abrupt slowing, the wooden palisades of Edoras came into focus, revealing the destruction Alatar had wrought upon the city, and the ongoing reconstruction work that sought to undo his fell deeds. Éomer King stood in the labourers’ mist, simultaneously directing and aiding their work. Truva longed to look closer, but already Aragorn was pulling them southeast to where Éowyn bounced baby Elboron upon her knee, to where Prince Elphir stood upon the prow of a patrolling Swan Ship, to where Lord Faramir mediated a trio of farmers’ dispute in the Tower Hall of Minas Tirith with a strained expression of neutrality upon his face.

From the Steward’s seat, Aragorn drew Truva’s perspective just to the right, where a small nook in one corner of the hall revealed a winding stair. They ascended as if through the floors themselves until they looked into a close belfry, though there was no bell to be seen. Amidst gilded archways overlooking the vast mountains and lands surrounding the Tower of the Guard stood a marble dais, spread with sable velvet. In its very centre lay yet another palantír.

‘The Anor-stone,’ came the shade of Aragorn’s voice. The illusion of his figure appeared in the belfry, standing opposite the orb as though they were hundreds of leagues distant and yet within an arm’s reach.

Then suddenly the vision shattered and they were returned to Alatar’s study, the full weight of the corporeal world bearing down upon them. Truva stumbled; Aragorn caught her and drew her tight into his arms.

‘Even when we are apart, we shall not be separated,’ he murmured, burying his face deep into the crook of her neck.

‘I saw you in the palantír,’ said Truva, still dizzy – for surely it was the aftereffects of using the Seeing Stone that caused a tear to streak down her cheek, not the remembrance of terrible visions that had blessedly never come to pass. ‘Twice I saw you; the first time brought me reassurance, but the second…’

Aragorn drew his head back, bringing one hand up to caress her cheek, to ease her furrowed brow, to wipe away a tear, to draw her in for a gentle kiss. ‘I am here now, and safe. And I shall keep you safe, as well – wherever it is you choose to make your home.’

Truva cast her eyes about the study, rife with reminders of Alatar and the life she had been robbed of, the life that led her to the Eorlingas – to all those she had defended, to all those she had loved and lost, and to Aragorn. Turning to gaze deep into his eyes, she said, ‘So long as I am with you, I am home.’

Chapter Text

A refreshing wind chased away the heavy, muggy air hanging over the lowlands of Belfalas, sending tufts of lavender and thyme undulating across the faded scrubland. Tall eucalyptus trees with shredded bark whispered secrets to the ears of any who would listen, their subdued concerto joined by the cooing of wood pigeons. Far off in the distance, the city of Dol Amroth and its tower of Tirith Aear sat perched as a delicate rumour upon the very lip of the Bay.

A full twelvemonth had passed since Truva ascended to the throne of East Rhûn – since she had donned the diadem of the Shonkhor tribe and taken her place at the head of the Ovgïn Council, and initiated bilateral construction on the Ulāngól dam. In that time, summer had circled back around once more, bringing with it the fire of an unshrouded sun. Beads of sweat rolled down Truva’s temple and trickled along her spine as she sat upon Roheryn at the crest of the road through Dor-en-Ernil, taking in the sweeping landscape before her.

‘Did you imagine yourself returning to Dol Amroth so soon?’ murmured a voice behind her.

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Not one word was spoken, not a single voice lifted in lamentation; the congregation stood, bound by the weight of silence and woe, unmoving even as nighttime swallowed the sky and constellations began to arc overhead. The fire blazed on until the very last ember’s glow faded away into darkness.

Only then did Lady Ivriniel take up a golden-handled brush and sweep the ashes into an urn of seafoam chrysoprase, inlaid with silver swans upon the waves of Belfalas. She worked with focused intent, each stroke of her withered hand casting silver clouds of the erstwhile Prince’s shade up into the air. The sound of Mearas horsehair bristles against the marble catafalque was deafening in the quietude.

When every last mote of ash was contained within, Lady Ivriniel passed the urn to Elphir, who took it in his hands and turned slowly to the stair. Back down he led the procession, down to the avenue where a concealed door set within the platform stairs now lay open, illuminated by torches. Its dark maw was simultaneously beckoning and foreboding.

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Just then the horns of the city sounded, heralding the Southrons’ arrival. Over the heads of the crowd reared an immense Oliphaunt, so large it was only just able to fit through the gates. Atop its shoulders sat an ornate litter, gleaming gold in the midafternoon sun, strands of gemstones swaying with each of the creature’s steps.

The beast elicited a gasp from the crowd. ‘That is not one of ours,’ they whispered. ‘It is far too large. Have they brought one all the way from the Southlands? Whatever for?’

As the procession drew nearer, striding along the central avenue towards Bar-in-Ciryn, Truva could make out three figures perched within the litter. In the very front, standing before a throne-like chair, was Amrothos. Lounging behind him upon a chaise lounge was Indil, swathed in robes of bright yellow.