Recommended listening: Rachmaninoff, The Crag

CHAPTER VII: THE HILL OF THE TREE-SLEEPER

'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 the Eámicel. 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 Eámicel'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 Eámicel, 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 Eámicel 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 is it you smell?' he asked.

At first his question confused Truva, and so 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 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 Eámicel. 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 miss 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 to this once-haven of the Elves – for 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, and 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, 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 the citadel. Then, with a final wave to the crowd, the 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,' said Imrahil as he opened the doorway of private 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 the citadel 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 by Gimli and Maeron Captain just then, both of whom were especially keen on the topic of feasts; and though Legolas was less enthusiastic, even he joined in speculating 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 me.'

'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 Eámicel; 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.'