'A score of soldiers to each windlass,' Aragorn King ordered, standing tall and commanding upon the deck of Menelrond, surrounded by the commanders of the northern Host. Just to the south, the flock of white Dol Amrothinian sails dipped and fluttered as a terns do upon a sea breeze. But Aragorn looked to the west, where the Corsairs and Haradrim had halted Gondor's advance across the bridge, and were now firmly entrenched within the defences of Annonaur.

'Two full companies at the furthest rotunda,' Aragorn continued. 'Watch over the far gatehouse; any attack is sure to come from there. Keep the harbour chains raised to prevent any attempt on the Southrons' part to flee or turn upon the Swan Fleet, but lower them should they attack the eastern bank, to allow our own ships access.'

And so the forces of Gondor and West Rhûn settled into an uneasy lull following their long, wearying night of battle. The infrequent but unceasing splash of rubble into water as the Southrons sought to destroy the fourth bridge between Annondû and Annonaur faded into the background. Defences were reinforced, the fallen buried, the wounded tended to, stock of supplies taken; then those with a spare moment found nooks and crannies where they might sleep, for in their exhaustion they could not be troubled to seek out real beds.

There was, of course, no rest for Truva or any of the other commanders – a group which now included Prince Imrahil and his son, Admiral Elphir, so recently disembarked from the Swan Fleet; but absent still were Éomer King and the Eorlingas, who lingered before the city's western gate, preventing the Southrons' escape.

The gathering descended upon the capitol complex and trudged up the steps of its foremost building: Teluelin, the sole tower that had evaded destruction during the War of the Ring. The statehouse's domed roof of white marble soared high – a symbol of bold, indomitable will against the dark sky which continued to pour rain upon the hapless warriors below.

One by one, the commanders slipped into the entrance hall, their boots whispering upon the black and white rayed star of polished stone underfoot. The clank of armour and weapons echoed in the stillness. When they mounted the steps at the hall's far end, the vaulted inner dome revealed itself to them, painted with the stars themselves. Wide grey columns arced high overhead, boasting terminal figures of Gondorian kings of old. Upon the sable floor was inlaid the emblem of the White Tree.

Truva scurried behind Aragorn as he strode across these tiles, ignoring staircases upon each side which led to northern and southern wings. He made instead for an immense set of doors straight ahead, painted white yet carved with the full crest of the Kings of the line of Elendil, Silver Crown displayed prominently at its peak. These doors Aragorn threw aside.

Within the chamber beyond, panels of stained glass curved overhead to create a sun room of sorts, though it was currently cast in gloom. A singular table stretched from wall to wall, and though Aragorn was swift to draw a chair and offer it to Kîzge King, she refused, electing to sit with her back to a wall with no entrance. The Rhûnian warriors all sat about her as the remainder of the company took seats wherever the mood struck them. Truva glanced between the two factions, unsure of where she belonged, before taking a position directly between the two groups, beside Pallando.

Aragorn swiftly launched into discussion: 'A messenger has been sent to the Rohirrim at Annonaur, to appraise them of our situation and inquire as to how they fared,' he said. He did not look at Truva as he spoke, though she knew he made this comment for her sake; the others merely grunted in disinterested acknowledgement.

'I fear it will be no easy feat to dislodge this infestation of Southrons from the west bank,' said Lord Faramir. 'Already their siege engines have destroyed three of the five bridges spanning Anduin, and their defences show no weakness. The Southrons are nothing if not tenacious.'

Kîzge grumbled suddenly, and Aragorn rose to his feet in response, thrusting his head out into the hallway beyond before returning to his seat. 'It will come momentarily,' he said to the Orc King, who nodded appreciatively. Whether they truly understood each other or it was merely a fancied connection remained a mystery, perhaps even to the speakers themselves. The others merely looked on in confusion.

'We gained all the advantage we could with a surprise attack,' said Maeron, breaking the strange mood. 'But even with the addition of King Kîzge's forces, it seems unlikely we have sufficient strength to launch a full-scale assault. What must our next move be?'

'The Southrons are confined within Annonaur, and no longer have free reign of the river,' said Aragorn. 'They will not be blind to the inevitability of a protracted siege, for while an outright attack would be immensely risky, our numbers are undoubtedly enough to keep the Southrons hemmed in. If they will not join us at the table now, they are sure to do so when their stomachs have gone three weeks without bread.'

'Conciliation has failed with the Sutherlands – twice now,' interjected Prince Imrahil. 'For years they have harassed our lands, and each peaceful overture on our part is met with betrayal on theirs. They cannot be trusted.'

'What would you have me do?' said Aragorn. His voice was calm as ever, yet frustration at their circumstances seethed beneath the surface. 'Shall I eradicate each and every one of their warriors? Sail south and set ruin upon their cities and decimation unto their people? Not even upon the conclusion of the War did we do so – not even to the Orcs.'

All eyes flickered to Kîzge and her advisers, whose faces remained impassive as Pallando whispered the translation of Aragorn's words to them. A strained silence fell; though the West Rhûn Orcs were not (for the most part) those Gondor and its allies had faced in the War, still a hint of discomfort seeped into every interaction between the two peoples.

Kîzge spoke then, and this time even Aragorn turned to Pallando for explanation.

'She says an antagonistic neighbour will never cease to compound upon your problems,' the Wizard explained. 'For centuries, we believed our conflict with East Rhûn to be little more than a regional squabble – yet look what has come of it.'

In that very moment, a bevy of soldiers ducked in bearing flagons of ale and foodstuffs, making clear the earlier exchange between Aragorn and Kîzge. The commanders were granted a momentary reprieve from their considerations as cups and bowls were passed amongst them. When at last the edge of their hunger and thirst had been sated, Imrahil picked up his train of argument once more.

'I am not suggesting a massacre,' he insisted, 'merely that we do not offer the Southrons peace. Attack as though they had rejected such an offer, without ever making it in the first place.'

Swallowing a shaky breath (for the gathering was of many fine, august figures), Truva offered her own assessment: 'Any loss the Southrons endure could easily be matched – or surpassed – by our own,' she said. 'We have no hope of emerging unscathed, if we choose to engage.'

'And yet concessions with the Southrons have historically brought loss also,' Elphir Admiral argued. 'We have not emerged unscathed, even when we engaged with words alone.'

'My Lord Aragorn, you know me to be a man of peace,' Lord Faramir cut in, his voice subdued. 'I wield the sword only because I must, and had dared to hope I laid it down with finality when Sauron fell at last. I wish for nothing more than to raise my newborn son without a cloud of fear marring the skies overhead, and to live out my days beside my wife in the lands of Ithilien.

'Yet failing to subjugate Umbar and Harad in the past has resulted in unending discord between our lands. That discord threatens not only my own dream, but the very same dream many Gondorians and Rohirrim – and Rhûnians, I see now – share. Though the conflict ebbs and flows, it never truly dies, and will not – until we put a definitive end to it. I fear it is only by the blade we shall effect such an end; and if that be so, I will unhappily wield mine to see it done.'

Following this entreaty, many commanders wished for their own perspectives to be heard. Arguments drifted back and forth until they became a cyclic repetition of the same notions, over and again; when discussion fell into a lull, a new member would chime in, only to reignite the conversation in a wearying loop.

Aragorn sighed deeply. Fatigue hung heavily upon each of the participants, yet it was he whose shoulders drooped most steeply. At long last, after Maeron reiterated the same point a fourth time, Aragorn intervened, saying, 'My friends, if there is one thing it seems we are in agreeance on, it is that we are in no rush to act. And there is yet one more perspective we ought to consider: that of King Éomer. Let us await what news comes from Annonaur and the Rohirric forces there; then we shall make the most informed decision, after we have had some rest.'

There was a grumble of consensus amongst the commanders then. Sensing all discussion was indefinitely concluded, they took final swigs of ale from their tankards and exited the chamber in twos and threes, continuing their arguments all the while. But as Truva roused herself from contemplation and followed after Pallando, the tail of whose robes was already disappearing through the doorway, she heard the soft voice of Aragorn behind her:

'I beg of you, do not make me ask you to remain behind.'

Truva halted with hand upon the door. She glanced back to where Aragorn leaned against the table, alone in the chamber save herself. Rain pattered against the stained glass, a gentle whisper in the wake of the commanders' spirited debate.

'I cannot in good faith command your presence as Marshal,' Aragorn continued, 'for it is not the Marshal with whom I wish to speak. Yet it is only as Marshal I can rationalise such a request – and so I beg of you, please stay of your own accord.'

Truva's breath came short. 'But I cannot in good faith stay of my own accord as Marshal, for it is not as Marshal that I wish to linger.'

Aragorn rose then and drew close to Truva in a single stride, wrapping his arms about her and clinging to her as though she were a life raft and they were adrift upon the Great Sea of Belegaer. Truva returned his embrace, drawing him even tighter to her and reassuring herself with an ear pressed to his beating chest. She was sorry when Aragorn withdrew ever so slightly, but then he bent to press his lips to hers, gentle yet sure. For a breathless moment, Truva allowed her heart to soar, content to simply exist in the present, enshrouded by fleeting peace.

Just then, several soldiers burst into the chamber to clear away empty trays and tankards of ale. Startled, Aragorn and Truva leapt apart.

'I suppose that might pressure the Southron forces to capitulate,' Truva improvised in an attempt to construct the pretence of counsel.

'I shudder to think of the troubles we shall face if they do not,' Aragorn replied, warily eyeing the soldiers as they piled the tableware high then slipped back out the door. The instant they were gone, he returned to more personal matters: 'I have wished to speak with you in depth ever since you returned from Rhûn, yet it has always been duty that separates us.'

'Wartime seems poorly conducive to illicit romance,' Truva quipped.

'Tell me of all that you learned during your travels,' he pressed. 'I have heard the history of Rhûn and the Wizards' conflict, but you have not yet spoken of your original purpose: that which Gandalf prompted you to seek.'

'I will, in good time – but not now,' said Truva, lowering her gaze. 'I would prefer to discuss it when we are free of our current worries and can talk interrupted.' She inhaled sharply before adding, 'In truth, I fear the story will turn you from me, and taint your opinion of me.'

Seeing tears well in her eyes – born not only of fear, but of sheer lassitude, and of loss – Aragorn drew her close again. 'You could be the daughter of Sauron himself and I would love you no less,' he murmured. Truva buried her face against his chest at these words.

'Come,' he said, stroking her hair. 'You must rest.'

'But there are countless tasks yet to be done—'

'And they shall be done,' he said firmly, allowing Truva time to surreptitiously wipe her eyes before guiding her from the chamber. 'And done, in all likelihood, by soldiers who have not endured nearly as arduous a journey as you.'

'What of Éomer King—?'

'I will, of course, send word if I so much as sense our messenger's return.'

He turned up the southern staircase and led her along halls of marble, stopping before a simple door tucked away in the southwest corner of Teluelin. Even as he opened the door to reveal a simple, austere chamber beyond, Truva looked up at him with concern.

'And you, milord?'

Aragorn gave her a reassuring smile, though it did not reach his eyes. 'I shall follow shortly.'

'See that you do,' she said, making no attempt to conceal the doubt in her voice. When she closed the door behind her, she could hear his footsteps rushing off – assuredly to some additional matter that could not wait.

It seemed that no sooner had Truva shut her eyes than she was roused in the hazy light of a new day by raucous shouting outside. Darting to the window, she looked out into the streets below, for fear the Southrons had regrouped and launched a counterattack – yet what she saw instead was a great number of Gondorians climbing onto the high places of the city. Those that did not stand upon the Lonnas Ram, or on roofs or balconies, raced to positions where they could see out across the Eámicel.

Black dromunds did not sail across the river. Nothing stirred at the gates of Annonaur. No hint of assault crept across Menelrond – which was now the only remaining bridge not sundered by the Southrons. Truva could discern no sign of enemy movement, yet even as she scanned the city, the sounding of many horns drifted through the misty rain – not those of the Haradrim, or of the Corsairs, but tones that sent her heart racing: those of the Eorlingas!

Far out over Annonaur, beyond the western gate of Osgiliath, a shadow streaked across the land. At its forefront tumbled a wave of Riders, churning in their desperation to be rejoined with their King.

Truva was still strapping on the last of her armour as she bounded along the hallways of Teluelin's southern wing and down the stairway to the Dome of Stars. There she came upon Maeron Captain, who had similarly been roused, and together they tumbled into the council chamber. Already Kîzge King and the other Orc leaders had gathered, and Lord Faramir followed soon after. They were all standing before the stained glass windows, peering through lighter panes at the ever-nearing army, when Aragorn and Pallando entered.

'Rohan has answered our summons!' Aragorn informed them at once. 'They ride nearly fifteen hundred head strong, and join now with their brethren outside the western gates of Osgiliath.'

'Surely we have sufficient forces to overcome the Southrons now!' Maeron exclaimed.

Uneasy glances were exchanged by all.

'Or perhaps they might be even more willing to capitulate,' said Imrahil, in a subtle endorsement of Aragorn's initial suggestion, for he had spent the night in deep thought, and come to Teluelin with heart changed.

Kîzge King burst forth with a rather lengthy speech, which caused Pallando's brows to knit as he translated: 'The King wishes for nothing more than to completely eradicate the potential for any future threats – from both the South and the East; yet she hopes even more fervently for an understanding between West Rhûn and Gondor. To that end, she will yield to whichever decision your highness finds most appropriate.'

Aragorn turned his gaze upon Truva. 'Well, Marshal?' he said. 'As the Rohirrim's lone representative, what say you?'

Truva glanced about at all the eyes directed towards her. Being last to express her opinions on such a highly contentious decision was not a position she enjoyed overly much. She cleared her throat several times before speaking.

'Allow the Southrons' own actions to guide our response,' she advised. 'If they will treat with us, then let us meet them squarely in negotiations; otherwise, if they refuse, then we shall mount the siege in our own time.'

There were general noddings of agreement in response; what few scowls to be seen were the result of those who wished that such circumstances were not necessary in the first place.

'Are there any words to be said contrary to this course of action?' asked Aragorn.

There being no objection, a white bedsheet was raised above Teluelin to hang limp in the light rain. The entire sector of Annondû watched the opposite bank in breathless anticipation, equal parts optimism and fear seeping into their whispered predictions. Had that dromund begun to pull away from the dock? Were adversaries gathering upon the far side of the second bridge? Was the Host of the North's offering of peace to be met with the death throes of a defeated army – for even in its sunset hour could the fangs of a serpent effect Man's end?

Hands unclenched from sword hilts and bow grips loosened with a relieved sigh as a similar white flag was hoisted upon the Lonnas Ram of Annonaur. Onto Menelrond emerged a party of Corsairs and Haradrim, the Ploíarkos of Umbar and Yüzbashı of Harad at their helm. Tharbadír and Nubol walked with slow movements, hands raised, each clutching an additional white kerchief.

As the northern commanders gathered at the bridge's eastern edge, Aragorn bade them lay down their weapons; thus with empty hand, the company stepped onto the bridge as well. The guard was dismissed from the westernmost rotunda of Menelrond, nearest the gatehouse controlled by the Southrons, and there the two factions met. White columns arched overhead to join with intricate latticework into a dome, though it did not shelter the twoscore representatives from the rain; they stood in protracted silence as water trickled down their armour. Each member eyed the other envoy with suspicion, muscles tense, ready to leap into action should the accords prove to be no more than a ruse.

It was Aragorn who spoke at last: 'Your reinforcements will not come,' he said, voice ringing clear. 'We have vanquished Alatar's forces even as they amassed before the gates of Cair Andros.'

Tharbadír spat upon the ground. 'Good riddance,' he growled.

The northern host remained impassive, yet Truva was sure she was not alone in the sudden racing of her mind – for either the Ploíarkos was an inordinately skilled bluff, or Alatar was not amongst their numbers; but if he was not in Annonaur, then where could he possibly be?

'We harbour a similar sentiment towards your presence here in Osgiliath,' Maeron Captain quipped. The Southrons did not take kindly to this statement.

'You have heard our woes,' the Yüzbashı scowled. 'Our people suffer greatly under the terms set forth in negotiations following the War – and indeed they were not accords, so much as an exacting punishment.'

'Not sufficiently exacting to prevent you from raising an army within a year of such an agreement,' said Prince Imrahil.

'We are entitled to the defence of our people, lands, and livelihood,' Nubol insisted.

'As are we,' said Aragorn. Not once did his calm demeanour alter, or the volume of his voice rise; he remained collected, as though discussing which herbs of his garden he most preferred. 'And yet, not only is it we who find ourselves under your attack, the responsibility of seeking a peaceful conclusion falls to us yet again.'

'We wish for there to be reparations,' declared Tharbadír, boldly squaring his shoulders. 'And for trade rout—'

'All contact between Rhûn and the Sutherlands will be severed,' Aragorn persisted, interrupting the Ploíarkos. 'There will be no messengers passing back and forth within Mordor; for though I think you will subsequently find the East rather less hospitable to your overtures, still there are shadows that lurk in the far reaches of that land, and I will not see you harness them to your ill will.'

With this, Aragorn looked to Kîzge and Pallando. 'I hope I can depend upon your cooperation in this matter.'

'If it is for the peaceful stability of Rhûn, you shall ever find our interests aligned, my lord,' replied the Wizard.

'We deeply appreciate your abetment,' said Aragorn before turning his searing gaze once more upon the Southrons, who stood fuming before him. 'Gondorian liaisons shall be established, both within Umbar and Herumoros, who will report to me all political and militaristic movements within your states. All your warships shall be forfeit to us – to the very last oar – and not one foot north of the Harnen shall your armies step, with the understanding that should you violate these terms, your forces shall at once be disbanded.

'No tributes or feorms will be levied, in the interest of ensuring the wellbeing of innocent lives within your borders; but no offer of trade with northern lands shall be extended, and the fishing grounds of Umbar are not to extend north of the Núrnered, or west of Tolfalas.'

'We can scarcely venture beyond the shallows of our shores under such restrictions!' Tharbadír exclaimed, yet Nubol laid a hand upon his shoulders to temper him.

'And if we do not accept these terms?' asked the Yüzbashı.

'Then we shall come down upon you with the full combined might of Gondor, Rohan, and West Rhûn – the forces of which surround you even now.'

Aragorn allowed this declaration to hang upon the air; it felt tenuous, fragile – as though even the mist drifting down from the clouds above fell with sufficient force to shatter the illusion of choice, and yet it simultaneously bore the brunt of Aragorn's unyielding resolution.

Tharbadír took a slow, deep breath before replying at last: 'We cannot accept your terms.'

Pandemonium was instantaneous.

Maeron was the first to leap across the distance and become interlocked in a grappling match with one of the Haradrim, and while none of the company ostensibly bore weapons, it was not Kîzge alone who reached for an expertly concealed blade. Any who chose to look closely might have spied Pallando's lips muttering indistinctly, and Truva found herself fending off a Southron's staff with all the artful footwork she could muster. Even Aragorn was called upon to parry several strokes of an audacious Corsair's attack.

But as the two factions fell upon each other, the Ploíarkos continued to shout over the hubbub. 'We cannot accept your terms,' he cried, 'for it is not we in whom such power lies.'

Just as swiftly as it had begun, the tumult ceased.

'What mischief and falsity is this?' Imrahil demanded, chest heaving.

'We are mere emissaries, captains of our lands,' said Nubol. 'The exalted Ephor Herfoth and his Umbarian counterpart remain in the Sutherlands – not for fear, but for the part they played in this campaign.'

A slight crease appeared between Aragorn's brow; the closest indication of a frown he would give in such a situation. 'Have you not the authority to speak in their stead?'

Tharbadír beckoned to one Southron soldier, who bore a wicker basket strapped to his back. From a top compartment the Ploíarkos drew writing implements and offered them to Aragorn.

'Write what you will,' he said. 'Though I caution you to be circumspect; your words shall colour all our subsequent interactions.'

'More than the Sutherlands' unceasing aggression upon our borders has coloured our interactions?' Maeron retorted, but Aragorn silently accepted pen and the thinnest of papers as the northern commanders gathered about him in an unsuccessful attempt to keep out the rain. It was a rather splotched letter he returned to Tharbadír.

The Ploíarkos accepted the paper, then proceeded to pull from the soldier's wicker basket a thrashing pigeon. He shoved Aragorn's tightly-wound letter into a tiny canister strapped to the bird's leg, then tossed it high into the air. It flapped off southwards along the river, grey feathers nearly indistinguishable from the overcast sky, until it truly disappeared from sight. Discomfort reigned as the warriors stood about after the bird's departure.

'When might we expect a response?' Lord Faramir ventured.

'Three, four days perhaps,' shrugged the Ploíarkos, the epitome of nonchalance. 'Perhaps longer.'

Aragorn turned on his heel in an instant and strode back towards Annondû with no concern for the Southrons left upon the bridge. One by one, the members of the northern delegation followed, frequently glancing over their shoulders to ensure they did not fall victim to a surprise attack, yet it was in safety they gained the eastern bank.

'Their insouciance perturbs me,' Aragorn murmured before the company had so much as gained the seclusion of Teluelin's council chamber. The crease between his brows grew infinitesimally deeper and his long strides obliged Truva to jog in order to draw apace with him.

'My lord, if I may,' she began in a voice rather timid, daunted by Aragorn's fervid brooding. He paused, allowing the others to overtake them with promises to reconvene shortly in the statehouse.

'What is it, Marshal?' he asked, though his eyes spoke as though it was not by her official title he wished to address her.

Truva swallowed hesitantly. 'I request permission to cross over to the western bank and join the Eorling cavalry there. We have both witnessed the éored's arrival; I long to be amidst my brethren, and to confer with Éomer King regarding all that has transpired.'

'You are the foremost Rohirric commander present in this company,' Aragorn replied, his eyes falling away. 'You do not need my permission. Speaking as King, I would advise it behoves both Gondor and Rohan to have an envoy from your lands in my counsel's midst, yet your presence would serve equally well before the gates of Annonaur as upon the east bank. If – as a leader in your own right – you were to inform me of your departure, I could not justly oppose it.'

Truva gave a pained grimace. 'Then I shall take my leave this very afternoon, following the conclusion of our deliberations,' she said, unable to look upon Aragorn's carefully crafted expression of composure. It took Truva's entire will to prevent herself from enveloping him in an embrace; yet even in that moment a band of guards passed by on unceasing errands.

'Helm keep you,' Aragorn whispered, drawing a fraction nearer.

'I give you the promise of a safe return,' said Truva. A smile curled at the corner of her lips, an expression soon reflected on Aragorn's own. They turned and walked side by side (at a far slower pace than before) as they made for Teluelin.

And so Truva found herself upon the southernmost quay of Annondû several hours later, Roheryn at her side. The council's discussion had been extensive, for not only was there great concern regarding the location of Alatar, but also a particularly heated debate had arisen over whether an authoritative ban of slave labour ought to be included in negotiations, or whether it would be overplaying Gondor's hand, and that changes ought to be enacted by the Southrons themselves – particularly by a princess by the name of Undómírë. The topic was suspended when no agreement could be reached after several rounds of argument.

But otherwise, Gondor's protracted siege tactics were well-established, and – hindered as they were by lack of bridges – there was little the forces upon the east bank could do save prevent the Southrons' retreat across the river. Responsibility fell upon the Swan Fleet to meet the Corsairs in naval combat, should it become necessary.

These were mere preparations – or so it was purported – and yet a jittery energy arced from warrior to warrior throughout Annondû. The docks were abustle with a small fleet of skiffs ferrying supplies and warriors upriver from Harlond.

It was into one of these skiffs Truva climbed, leading Roheryn down along the sloped launch and into the water. The grey pony took to the current at once, allowing it to propel him along the Eámicel with Truva close behind. They soon came upon Menelrond, where only the nearest chain had been lowered to allow the passage of Gondorian ships. Roheryn and the tiny skiff passed easily through this archway before continuing downriver, keeping tight to the eastern bank and ensuring they were ever out of range of the Southrons' bows.

No sooner had they drifted around a slight bend than a hastily-constructed landing came into view on the western bank. A trio of small figures leapt to their feet. Though the distance was still great, the glint of metal weapons being unsheathed was more than apparent.

'Be not afraid!' Truva cried out in Eorling. 'It is I, Truva, Second Marshal of the Mark, returned at last.'

'The Marshal, the Marshal!' came the ebullient response. 'The Marshal has returned!'

Truva nearly wept to hear the tongue of her people once more, and to spy her captain Gamhelm amongst their number. The skiff was soon moored beside an improvised bollard and Truva leapt onto the bank to embrace him.

'You wear such strange raiment, Marshal,' said Gamhelm with a laugh as Roheryn emerged from the shallows with a flounce and gave his shaggy coat a great shake, drenching the Eorlingas in river water. 'We nearly sent a volley or two in your direction!'

'Well I know it – and it would have been justly deserved, had I given no warning!' said Truva. 'But a long and peculiar journey it has been, my friend, and you must excuse my dress. How fare the Eorling defences?'

'As well as could be expected, all things considered – yet there is news I am sure Éomer King wishes to share with you, and vice versa. You had best be off to make your report, Marshal.'

'Most certainly,' said Truva, then added, 'Keep a sharp eye.'

With a final salute, she withdrew Roheryn's tack from the skiff and led him off in the direction of Osgiliath's western gates. Already a faint path had been worn in the grass, and Truva followed this until she came within sight of the northerners' camp. The sable flags of Gondor fluttered above the pavilions and standards nearest Minas Tirith, but it was towards the tents sandwiched in between these and Annondû that Truva made – those marked by the emerald pennants of the Mark. Even as she crossed a series of ditches and drew near the barricade, the guard greeted her:

'Hail, Truva Marshal of the Mark!' came the cry of one.

'Well met, soldier,' she replied. 'I see you are not fooled by my uniform.'

'It would take a great deal more than strange armour to obfuscate a face we most desperately yearned to see,' said a second guard, though he was interrupted by yet another voice:

'Truva!' Éomer's bellow deafened all within range, and Truva promptly found herself engulfed in his embrace. 'I see you return only now that we have licked those upstart Southrons!'

'I think perhaps your victory is due in no small part to the contributions of those I was with,' Truva remarked, her voice muffled against Éomer's arms.

'Did you know the scoundrels had the audacity to lure Aragorn and myself into a trap, only to propose some peculiar attempt at rapprochement, then ultimately betray us?' Éomer continued with incredulity, ignoring Truva's quip. He passed Roheryn's reins to one guard and pulled Truva in the direction of the pavilion serving as the central command post.

'So I heard,' she said. Éomer threw aside the tent flap and thrust her into a seat. Bread and ale already awaited, and only then did Truva realise how entirely ravenous she was.

'Elfhelm comes anon – for it was he who rode in this morning, and even now his company settles into our camp,' said the King. 'In the meantime, eat – and fill my head with wondrous tales of your exploits. What is this I hear about allying with Orcs?'

'It is a tale rather long in telling,' said Truva, mouth half full of bread. 'Perhaps you might instead describe to me wha—'

'Truva!' exclaimed Elfhelm as he materialised in the pavilion. 'Thank you for not riding to your death, and thus sparing me the effort of searching out your replacement; it was not a task I was anticipating with any degree of enthusiasm.'

'There are a great many accomplished Riders who could easily have stepped into my place,' said Truva, exchanging a hearty embrace with the First Marshal.

'Gnats, the lot of 'em,' said Elfhelm dismissively. 'What news?'

'There was a parley held this very morning, even as you rode in,' said Truva. 'The terms Aragorn King offered were stringent but not unkind; yet upon outlining our stipulations, these Captains of the South pronounced they were not at liberty to accept them – for the respective leaders of Umbar and Harad alone could do so.'

'And where be these leaders?' asked Éomer, the muscles of his jaw straining.

'Away in their fortresses.'

'Those devilish rogues!' exclaimed Elfhelm.

'Word has been sent via pigeon—' (The King huffed at this.) '—yet even as we await their response, Aragorn King asks that we make ready for whatever answer they might give.'

'Aragorn is wise,' said Éomer, 'for while it is possible the Southrons act with sincerity, the delay might also simply be an artifice by which they hope to garner more time for their own attack. Yet his highness needn't have fretted; already we have begun the construction of siege engines and the digging of mines – though progress is, of course, quite slow.'

'We have stockpiled pitch and brimstone, also,' said Elfhelm, 'and continue to gather projectiles – though that is no easy task; anything that might be of use is so far afield, having been cleared after the War.'

Truva nodded. 'Well, perhaps we might chance upon a stroke of luck, and all such preparations will be rendered unnecessary by the Southrons' surrender.'

Silence fell momentarily amidst the three; none wished to gainsay such a sentiment, though they knew it to be unlikely. Truva masked her discomfort with several voracious bites of roast chicken.

'Now tell us, what of Rhûn?' asked Éomer again in an attempt to divert the subject.

Wondering how many times she would be called upon to recount her experiences, Truva sped through the story as quickly as such things allowed; yet even after she had long finished her meal and begun to follow Éomer and Elfhelm about on a tour of the Eorling camp, she continued to recount the warm reception that turned sour beneath the Lonely Mountain, and her interactions with the West Rhûn Orcs, and the deceitful nature of Alatar.

She was careful, however, not to mention any details with which Éomer might stitch together an underlying story. The knowledge of her parentage still sat lodged in Truva's chest, pressing painfully against her ribcage, threatening to constrict her throat; she had not yet come to terms with its possible ramifications, and there was another with whom she first wished to share it.

But this omission did not go unnoticed by Éomer.

'And what of your second purpose in travelling East?' he asked quietly when Truva at last finished her tale. Following a long, meandering path, the trio had eventually arrived before a series of siege towers hidden amidst a copse of firs. They now stood observing a team of carpenters as they set about hewing yet another.

Truva glanced at Elfhelm and the carpenters, but could not look her King in the eyes when she mumbled, 'Might I speak of it some other time? I must admit it came as quite a shock to my own self.'

'Very well,' said Éomer, a soft smile appearing. 'You needn't tell me if you haven't the mind to.'

'I can at least assure you it has no bearing on the current conflict,' Truva rushed to add.

Éomer chuckled gently at her sudden enthusiasm, and for the briefest of spells Truva felt transported back to when she had first met the horsemaster – back to years before the War, when each bore their own scars but were untouched by the grave tragedies yet to come, events now irreversibly etched into their hearts and features. Back to a time when their weightiest burdens were their own, and not those of great nations and of evil and death.

In silence, the trio returned to camp and settled into the monotony of simply waiting. Two days of sheer inactivity passed, then three and four. Rain came and went, either pouring or threatening to do so. Hushed discussions were held regarding the logistics of shifting siege engines through deep mud, and precisely where they ought to be positioned. Rumours of movement in the northern reaches of Annonaur meant a contingent of Riders was posted in that area, but otherwise the camp lay still – tense, but hushed.

When not in council with the King and First Marshal, discussing what little news came through from Annondû, Truva found ways to occupy herself – whether aiding in the construction of yet another ballistae or crafting a replacement chair for one Éomer King had splintered (for in his frustration following yet another day of monotony, he had thrown himself a bit too heavily into a delicate camp chair).

To alleviate her boredom, Truva often sought out Roheryn. They would ride out with patrols or ferry supplies from the Rammas Echor, where the merchants of Mundburg transferred foodstuffs and weapons into small carts bound for the encampment. It was on one such latter trip that Truva nearly dropped a crate of apples on her toe upon hearing her name shouted through the archway.

'Truva!' came the enthusiastic cry as a newly-arrived cart rolled up.

Truva turned to spy a familiar face she had not expected to encounter again for quite some time. 'Aerin!' she exclaimed with delight. Long had it been since last she visited the seamstress' shop in Minas Tirith, or worn their exquisite dress; the silver pool of fabric still lay tucked reverently away within the trunk at the foot of her bed in Edoras. 'What brings you here? How fare the others, and the shop?'

'That is several questions at once, Marshal!' the young woman laughed. 'The others are quite well, thank you, and the shop has been flourishing, thanks in large part to Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn's wedding. As for why I'm here, I have brought clean linens of all kind – and you seem to be in dire need,' she added, eyeing Truva's deplorable state of dress. Not even a quick wash in the river nor extensive mending had made the warrior's tunic or hose fit for anything save the battlefield; and while functionally adept, Truva was certainly not the most accomplished sewer.

'We thank you kindly once again for your generosity,' she said, setting down the apple crate and accepting a bundle of cloaks from Aerin.

'And once again, it is the least we can do to thank you for fending off those who would subjugate our lands and people.'

'The Southrons are not yet defeated,' Truva reminded her.

Aerin's grin was infectious. 'I suspect that soon they shall be, and then you will come into the newly reforged walls of Minas Tirith and dine amongst us again!'

'I could hope for nothing greater. Thank you for your words of encouragement, my friend.'

'Yes, well, go now and spread that sentiment to the others – or at least try to smile on occasion as you work yourself halfway to death,' Aerin chided, shooing Truva away. 'And best make sure you return in one piece – otherwise it would be such a waste of one dress I've been working on in particular.'

And so, with a disbelieving shake of her head but spirits lifted, Truva returned to camp and set about organising supplies with renewed vigour. Yet there were only so many duties to be executed, and as there were a great many soldiers to execute them, Truva spent several days wandering aimlessly about the camp in search of work to be done.

With so little to occupy her time (and being expressly forbidden by Éomer King from keeping night watch) it was the first time in a long while – perhaps even since her departure from Aldburg – that Truva was able to fully rest. She even succeeded in sleeping from dusk until dawn two nights in a row. Thus she was deep in slumber, in the third hour past midnight, when the cacophony of horns roused her.

Truva was on her feet with sword in hand before she was fully awake. Thrusting her head through the tent split to discover the commotion's source, she spied Éomer racing towards her in the darkness.

'The northern activity was a ploy,' he shouted. 'The Southrons make for Harlond – you shall need your horse.'

The faster Truva strove to buckle her armour, the clumsier her fingers grew. With an aggravated grunt she slid her helm over freshly-braided hair and dashed towards the horse picket. Even in the chaos, Roheryn remained composed and serene; where Bron might have been pulling at his lead, anxious to join the fray, the northern pony stood unperturbed, and did not move an inch as Truva's hands flitted about, tacking up.

Within moments, she had thrown herself into the saddle and spun Roheryn around. Firefoot darted about just ahead, Éomer upon his back barking commands to the Eorlingas. Beside them rode Elfhelm. Truva urged Roheryn forward as many Riders fell in behind.

'They poured over the city walls during the lull of middle watch,' Éomer called to her. 'I've no notion of how they came by so many ropes and ladders; they are more numerous than summer mosquitoes along the Entwash! Our Riders alone cannot stop them, and the forces of Minas Tirith are only enough to come behind and prevent their retreat back to Osgiliath. We must slow their progress until the forces at Harlond can muster a defence.'

'I know not whither these Corsairs and Men of Harad think they will go,' exclaimed Elfhelm. 'Surely they do not believe they can slip past the harbour on foot!'

Yet even in that moment, the full scope of the Southrons' plan was laid bare before them: the black prow of a Corsair dromund peeking forth beneath the arches of Menelrond. Rather than catch upon the harbour chains, however, the bowsprit inclined upwards until nearly half the vessel was visible. Then, in that very same moment, the bow began to shift downwards, lifting the stern and freeing it from the chains, as well. This vessel was followed by another, and another.

Corsair skeleton crews propelled the dromunds; the remaining Southrons had fled West Osgiliath to race along the banks of Eámicel under the cover of darkness, seeking to board their ships some distance downriver.

'I myself witnessed the fleeing Haradrim's passing,' said Elfhelm. 'How is it they have already vanished from sight?'

'They will continue southwards,' said Éomer grimly as he spurred Firefoot on. 'They have no other choice. We must come upon them before their ships do – it is their dromunds against our Mearas!'

In one swift motion, banks of oars protruded from the dromunds and splashed down into the water, driving the ships forward past the Swan Fleet – which sat moored upon the opposite side of Eámicel, defending the single lowered chain. The sailors of Dol Amroth scrambled to cast off, yet already the Corsair dromunds pulled further and further ahead; not even a hail of arrows from Gondorians upon the deck of Menelrond slowed their progress.

On, on – on into the dark the Eorlingas rode, the lights of Osgiliath fading behind them. Their eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, but still it was not easy to discern what lay ahead; the gathering mist further obfuscated friend and foe alike.

The splash of oars continued to chase the Riders as the sound of retreating footfalls continued to evade them. Many frenzied minutes passed, the tell-tale splash punctuated only by the horses' snorting breaths. Even as the Eorlingas strained their eyes and ears, the Corsair droumunds seemed to pull ahead – yet still there was no sign of the forces on foot.

Then Gamhelm, rather more keen-sighted than his compatriots, sent up a cry from the éored's right flank: 'The Southrons! The Southrons!'

A series of small, shapeless masses appeared, dark against the inky hillscape and sable Eámicel waters. Clusters of Haradrim were strung out along the riverbank as they ran, as many in number as there were dromunds.

'Elfhelm, take the western position,' Éomer commanded. 'See they do not flee to Minas Tirith. Truva, swing southwards and cut off their advance towards Harlond. I shall attempt to drive between them and the river, preventing their convergence with the ships. If we are lucky, the Stonemark foot soldiers will box them in from the north.'

'Aye, my lord,' replied the two Marshals, each raising their horn to their lips. Upon hearing the Horn of Eofor, those Riders assigned Truva's éored galloped after her as she and Elfhelm arced westwards, bypassing the knots of sprinting Southrons. Yet even as Elfhelm slowed in drawing even with the middle-most companies, Truva pressed on.

The instant her éored began to circle back, an arrow whistled past her left ear. The nearest cluster of Haradrim closed ranks against the approaching Riders, releasing another smattering of arrows, and then a whole volley – one of which struck Truva squarely in the chest, only to leave a small dent in her Easterling armour.

Even as she and the other Riders fell upon the Southrons, Éomer's horn rang across the water. The shadows of his Riders splashed through the shallows of Eámicel, chasing after adversaries who struck out towards the foremost dromund drifting down the current.

The Eorling King's horn was echoed by that of Elfhelm, then of the Gondorian forces – though they still lay a great distance off. Truva lent the Horn of the House of Éofor to the chorus, regrouping her Riders as several Southron companies combined to form a stronger line of defence. The Eorlingas charged forwards regardless, knocking improvised pikes aside as their foes fell away – only to reform the line in a position slightly to the south, following the movement of their dromunds down the river.

This pattern became an exhausting cycle, more Southrons slipping away each time to swim towards their escape. In a moment of chaotic confusion, Truva found herself unhorsed; she struck blindly upwards against an enemy who blended seamlessly into the night sky. Some vital point must have been struck, for he fell beside her, no longer moving.

As Truva remounted, she discerned with immense relief the tramp of Gondor's ground forces in the distance, and the Swan Fleet sails – white visible even in the darkness – approaching from the north. But her joy was contrasted with the Haradrim's despair; the ferocity with which they fought increased tenfold, and chilling howls rose up from their ranks when the Corsairs, sensing the snare closing in, plied their oars to the water once more. The dromunds were suddenly propelled forward rather than kept steady, leaving any ill-fated soldier still fighting upon the banks to fend for himself.

Truva drew her bow. Past tribulations suffered by Gondor at the hands of the Sutherlands flashed in her mind: Pelargir in flames, the betrayal of Aragorn and Éomer in favour of Alatar, the death of Fofrin – and then she considered all the cruelty the Southrons might still inflict, if not defeated and bound by the terms set forth by Aragorn.

Perhaps it was her base emotions that controlled her, rather than calling purposefully upon inner strength when needed, as Pallando had taught her; yet Truva moved with intention as her jaw tightened and limbs jittered. She breathed in deeply, aiming as best she could in the darkness, and loosed a single bolt.

One dromund burst immediately into flame, a second soon succumbing to the conflagration as well. Masses of Southrons leapt overboard, those who had only so recently swum for the ships now striking out towards shore. The Swan Ships fell upon the remainder of the Corsair fleet, blocking both the retreat to Osgiliath and the escape southwards, and swiftly boarded the near-empty decks. Upon the banks of Eámicel, the Eorlingas shepherded dripping Southron soldiers back to their compatriots who, in seeing themselves abandoned, laid down their arms.

Thus ended the Conflict of Reparations.