Recommended listening: Sibelius, String Quartet in D Minor, 'Voces Intimae'

CHAPTER IV: UPON THE EÁMICEL

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 the Eámicel. 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 Eámicel 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 Eámicel – 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 the Eámicel. '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 Maeron Captain. '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 Gondor'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.