Recommended listening: Juon - Elegie from Episodes Concertantes

CHAPTER XXXV: THE HEIR OF GONDOR

A watery dawn rose upon the bustling banks of Eámicel as captive Southrons were ushered back into Osgiliath and imprisoned within gaols scattered throughout the city. Thorough sweeps of Annonaur upturned a fair number of straggling Corsairs and Haradrim, who were swiftly sent to join their brethren, as were those picked up by Gondorian patrols sent out in search of any adversary who may have evaded notice in the night. Thus, full control of the garrison in its entirety was reestablished, long before high noon brought the sun's determined attempts to break through persistent cloud cover.

Messengers upon the swiftest of horses were sent far afield to apprise various lands of the conflict that had raged in Gondor, and to deliver news of victory; they made for as near as Minas Tirith and Cair Andros, to as distant as the Riddermark and Dol Amroth, the kingdoms of Rhovanion and even the Hidlands. Official summons were dispatched also to the Sutherlands, demanding the attendance of Captain Castamir and Ephor Herufoth at the new accords' ratification – for there would no longer be any hope of negotiations for these aggressors.

Yet the most startling of missives was sent in the opposite direction, and received by the commanders of the Northern Host as they reunited after the morning's skirmish. No sooner had they sat down together for conference in Teluelin, joined at last by Éomer King and Elfhelm Marshal, than an Eorling Rider tumbled through the chamber door and crumpled into a bow.

'My lords,' he gasped, short of breath after a breakneck race across the land.

'Bide your time, Rider,' said Aragorn. 'Break your fast at our table. Here is water for you.'

The Rider – one Truva had seen on occasion in Edoras, and knew by the name of Fleófót – grabbed the goblet Aragorn offered and poured equal parts into his mouth and upon his hauberk. Slowly, his breath began to even and his hands trembled less.

'Six days it took Théoden King to lead the éoherë to battle before the gates of Mundburg during the War,' he said. 'I have done the same in four.'

'What is it that drove you with such urgency?' asked Éomer, his voice sharpening to an edge.

'An attack—' Fleófót began, but no sooner had he spoken these words than Éomer, Elfhelm, and Truva all leapt to their feet, followed immediately by Kîzge – who had not quite gathered the full nature of events, but was swift to action nevertheless.

'An attack?' Éomer exclaimed. 'We must ride at once!'

'No, my lord!' said Fleófót. 'All things are well now – though they were not always so.'

'If your words were but a little more obfuscating, I would think you a Wizard,' said Éomer. 'Tell me straightforwardly what has happened!'

'Well, milord, it was with great surprise that we in Edoras spied the beacons aflame, for the summons came so long after your departure, and we had heard little news in the meantime. But Elfhelm Marshal gathered about him as many Riders as could be spared and departed with all haste.'

'Many Riders joined us at Aldburg, for they too had seen the beacon of Halifirien, and were ready to ride out,' Elfhelm addended. 'But we did not leave a large guard, for the last communications we received had said the assault was small and had come from the south; we thought it unlikely our cities would be in any great danger, particularly if we rode out to confront this threat. And yet we came under attack – how can that be? I did not spy any enemies upon Hérweg.'

Fleófót's eyes grew wide; he stared sightless through the chamber windows' vibrant panelled glass. 'They appeared on horseback before the gates of Edoras not two days after the Marshal and his Riders were gone.'

'Who?' asked Éomer.

Each of the leaders leaned in with rapt attention, even Pallando as he murmured in Orcish to the West Rhûn contingent.

'Easterlings, or so they said, though their livery was like nothing that I witnessed during the War. They rode at least a thousand strong – with a Wizard at their helm.'

'Alatar,' Truva murmured.

'He must have turned westwards once beyond my vision,' said Pallando.

'Perhaps the promise of an undefended Edoras proved more attractive to him than truly allying with the Southrons,' said Aragorn. 'Or perhaps that was his intention all along – to leave Osgiliath to be split between Umbar and Harad, and take Rohan for himself.'

'What followed?' Éomer asked of Fleófót.

'The Wizard claimed to be a diplomatic emissary, seeking an alliance against the Southron threat. And though we knew relations between Gondor and the East to have been somewhat eased by resolutions following the War, we did not see fit to trust them, and thus refused them entrance.'

'I should like to hope they subsequently departed without protest or commotion,' said Éomer. 'Yet I suspect this is not so.'

'They attacked,' Fleófót confirmed. 'With many men and horses and fire that could not be extinguished, they attacked. For two risings of the sun we fought, milord, and bitterly; every warrior and citizen who remained in the capital did their part, yet these adversaries were too great in number – too powerful, too well-trained.'

Éomer closed his eyes and rested his head between thumb and forefinger. 'What needless waste, what condemnable slaughter,' he sighed. 'Yet you say all is now well in Edoras? How is this possible?'

'Any news bearing tidings of lost brethren is ill news, it is true,' Fleófót acknowledged. 'But you would not believe it, my lord! Even as the Easterlings poured over our defences, Gríma Wormtongue – yes, Gríma, the disgraced advisor doomed by his own actions to live the remainder of life in servitude to the Eorlingas – that very same Gríma leapt from the battlements onto the Wizard below! There was a brief flurry and tumble, and neither was to rise again.'

Stunned silence filled the chamber. Truva stared uncomprehendingly at the still-breathless messenger, several beads of sweat trickling down his temples. Even Pallando, often the embodiment of composure, appeared a storm of emotions.

Disconcerted, Fleófót babbled on in the lull: 'Following the death of their leader, the Easterlings continued to battle for a time, yet their strength waned and it seemed they lost their will to fight, and were soon overcome.'

'You were right, in the end,' said Éomer, turning to Truva. 'He who once sought to destroy the Mark has in turn saved it – thanks in part to your speaking on his behalf. I did not think Gríma capable of redemption, yet I see now I was wrong.'

'I was not alone in advocating for Gríma,' Truva said, her words muddled. 'Aragorn King also saw fit to spare him.'

Éomer merely pursed his lips at this comment; perhaps his thoughts, like Truva's, were suddenly flooded with memories of Théoden King and his bold confrontation of Saruman at the steps of Isengard all those moons ago. The congregation fell into a contemplative quietude once more.

'Traitors redeemed, enemies become brothers in arms, allies turned against allies,' said Faramir after a time, shattering the dazed atmosphere. 'It is clear, now more than ever, that we cannot assume the true nature of our fellow Man.'

'Or beings of any race,' Maeron added with a nod to Kîzge, who grunted in agreement.

'What of you, Wizard?' asked Aragorn of Pallando. 'Your countenance is unusually pale; perhaps some wine to fortify you?'

'If you will forgive me,' said Pallando, inhaling a rattling breath. He appeared decades older than he had mere moments ago. 'For many turns of the sun did I fight against Alatar; and yet I once called him brother, and sought to defend the Free Peoples of Middle Earth against Sauron with him, standing side by side. It grieves me that he strayed so far from that course, and we are thus parted – perhaps for eternity.'

'Not even Wizards are spared the vile cruelties of war,' said Faramir, regret thick upon his voice.

Aragorn shifted in his seat. 'Let each man to his own grieving of those who are gone, and elation for those who live yet, when we are done with our counsel,' said he, 'and so let us be brief. King Éomer, you may of course move as mood suits you, and so I would not begrudge your removal to Rohan if you so choose – particularly with consideration for the startling news we have just received. Yet were you to remain in Osgiliath, we would gratefully accept your assistance during the accords, when the Southerland lords come.'

'With Fleófót's assurances that all is well in Edoras, I would be more than happy to lend my services to the Stonemark,' said Éomer. 'Indeed, your strength is the Riddermark's, in turn.'

'Lord Imrahil,' Aragorn continued, 'the Southrons' coming gives me pause, though they were left with no more than a handful of dromunds when we flet those lands. Can I entrust to you the task of escorting the emissaries north – from Pelargir at least, if not Tolfalas?'

'If you made no mention of it, I would have proposed the notion myself,' the Prince replied.

'Very well; I leave to you the determination of how many ships will be necessary. As for Rhûn,' said Aragorn, turning to Kîzge and Pallando, 'there is a great deal left to discuss between you and I regarding the nature of our lands' relations going forward. But let us not bore our compatriots – for I imagine we shall have many positions to discuss at length – and adjourn this gathering for the time being. Our troops must be regathered, and our defences rebuilt as much as possible before the Captain and Ephor's arrival; we haven't much time.'

With that, all save the West Rhûnians rose from their seats and exited the chamber. Under Éomer King's direction, the Eorlingas set about the labours of putting a city back to rights. Truva herself spent a greater portion of the day clearing rubble from the streets of Annonaur before joining Maeron in the surrounding fields, where many engines of war had fallen prey to the Southrons' projectiles. Ladders, siege towers, and battering rams were extricated – still intact, where possible – from the dry dike surrounding the western battlements.

The sun was already below the horizon when the dike was once more clear of debris, but still there were tasks to be done. Even as campfires and torches were lit about the Eorling camp, Truva put herself to use in the mess tent, peeling barrels of potatoes before applying herself to the rapidly accumulating dishes. She was standing out behind the tent, sleeves rolled up and elbow-deep in a tub of murky water alongside a pair of young Riders who had been caught taunting a Corsair sailor, when Aragorn appeared. Rather than greet her with joy, however, the King's expression was one of utmost seriousness.

'The Wizard Pallando has posited that I ought to speak with you before any decision is made regarding the future of Rhûn – particularly with regard to the ruling of the East Sea region,' he said quietly, so as not to be heard by the two Riders; their attempts at eavesdropping were far from surreptitious.

Truva pushed the sweaty wisps of hair clinging to her forehead back with one arm. 'What has he told you?' she asked, her caution plain.

'Very little,' Aragorn reassured her. 'He seemed to consider it a personal matter. Do his concerns perhaps have any relevance to your secondary purpose for travelling within those lands?'

'Yes.'

Truva said no more. Allowing the bowl in her hands to slip back into the water, she laid the rag across the tub rim and gave the nearest Rider an encouraging clasp on the shoulder. When she stood, however, her knees wobbled momentarily beneath her. Aragorn was quick to slip a steadying arm beneath her elbow; and though Truva swiftly recovered, he continued to support her as they made their way to the tent assigned the Second Marshal.

'You ought to rest, not flit about both city and camp, exerting yourself beyond measure,' he chastised as they ducked into the tent and Truva felt about for the lamp. 'Our leaders are no good to us when they push themselves beyond the brink of exhaustion.'

'Do you speak such words as Aragorn, High King of Gondor – or as Aragorn, Ranger of the North; the man whose Star I keep even now?'

The lamp's glow flickered into existence, revealing Aragorn's tousled locks and careworn features. His grey eyes glimmered in the light. 'Must I choose?' he murmured.

Truva had no answer. She took a seat on the very edge of the camp bed and allowed her gaze to drift around the cramped yet spartan tent: the low stool Aragorn now sat on, her rucksack, and little else. Gentle rain began to patter on the canvas, mingling with the muffled sounds of camp supper just beyond. Truva's mouth felt suddenly very dry, as though she had walked the entirety of the Laurinairë Aragorn had described in his tales of Harad.

'I spoke to you of my coming to Karkürem,' she began, 'and of Alatar's ultimate betrayal – yet I gave no reasoning as to why the Wizard might expect a captain of his enemy's forces to so easily abandon their own people and cause.'

'I must admit, I thought it odd he offered a stranger the opportunity to join his ranks,' said Aragorn. 'Yet the conceit of some men is so acute it cannot be overestimated.'

'It was not merely conceit that drove Alatar's actions, though he held it in abundance.' Truva's breath came shallow and stuttering now, but her eyes were clear and her determination unfaltering. 'No, there was another reason. You see, it was not merely a conflict over resources that created the rift between East and West Rhûn, or – more importantly – the two Wizards. In his greed and desire for power, Alatar took the King of the Easterling clans as his wife, and sired a child.

'Yet in finally discerning the Wizard's true intentions, the King fled north, taking her daughter with her. There the King died, and her daughter fell into the hands of Dwarf traders bearing east to the Hithaeglir, and to the Hidden Lands beyond.'

Silence consumed the tent as Aragorn parsed her meaning. 'So you are, in all technicality, the King of East Rhûn,' he stated.

'I was born of the Wizard Alatar and the Easterling King Ezele,' said Truva, her tone even and uninflected. 'Beyond that, I cannot say; I do not even speak their languages, nor has any official overture been made – and I am not sure I would or could accept it, even if it were.'

Aragorn's lips grew thin for a time as he pondered the full breadth of influence this realisation might have. At last, he sat up and declared, 'Let this be clear: if you feel you must lay claim to the throne of Rhûn in order to consider yourself my equal, and worthy of the engagement between us, set all such thoughts aside.'

He drew his stool nearer, sitting before Truva to peer deep into her eyes, searching, wondering. 'I cannot lie and say it would not be easier to forge a political path if you ascended to such an eminent position as King of Rhûn; yet the people of Gondor know you to be a warrior of the most elite calibre, from the Rohirrim's highest ranks – a beacon of the brightest light. I know they would accept you without hesitation, regardless of illustrious titles. You are, in and of yourself, enough – not only to myself, but to my people, as well.

'In truth, when first we met, I thought you timid and unsure,' he whispered, caressing Truva's cheek, fingertips just barely grazing her skin. The furrow between his brows grew deeper. 'But I could not have been more wrong; you are steadfast and strong, a fixed star when all the sky is obscured by cloud. How blind I was to not see your passion, your vehemence – for who else is so thoroughly devoted to a land not originally their own? Were you to grant me just a fraction of that ardour, it would sustain me until the end of my days.'

'Therein lies the greater problem,' Truva cut in, voice full of anguish. 'I am merely Peristar; it seems I have inherited some small modicum of magical ability, yet perhaps not the unimpeded skills a full Istari would ordinarily expect.'

'I will love you regardless,' Aragorn insisted.

'And I too shall love you until the very last breath is gone from my breast,' Truva whispered, tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. 'Yet who can say when that may be, how many years after your own passing? For even mixed with the blood of an Easterling woman, that of an Istari is sure to elongate my life beyond measure.

'Do not mistake me!' she hastened to add as Aragorn pulled back, hand falling from her cheek. 'I am more than willing to make the same sacrifice Arwen once promised you; as you once said, all the years of eternity I could endure in exchange for spending the most fleeting of moments at your side.'

'Then what is it that gives you pause?' Aragorn's countenance was stormy, his brows drawn sharp together in hurt and confusion.

A single tear tracked down Truva's cheek. She brushed it away, yet took several moments for her to collect sufficient courage to say, 'There are other sacrifices I do not think I can possibly bear to bring upon myself.'

'Namely?'

Truva's voice was scarcely audible when she said, 'The conceiving of an heir.'

Aragorn leaned fully back. Even as he spoke, he did not appear to fully comprehend her words. 'But you would make the most wonderful of mothers!'

'Perhaps – though I have never had a mother figure of my own, and the thought that I might not have so much as a sliver of nurturing character terrifies me,' said Truva, eyes falling to her lap, where Aragorn clutched her hands so tight her fingertips had gone white. She returned the gesture in kind, equally desperate to cling onto that which she longed for most intensely.

'No, being an unfit mother is not what I fear most – though I most certainly do fear it,' she continued. 'What I fear most is that I shall prove to be a wonderful mother, as you say; and that I shall love my children as deeply as I love you. I fear that I shall fail to pass down my longevity in full, and thus watch each of my children die before me – perhaps even my children's children, and their children, as well. So many generations gone, and I will be left as dust, a mere shadow of hearts broken by the passing of all whom I love. That is a torture I could not bear!

'But you are King, and there are expectations placed upon you that extend beyond your own desires, yet even outside of expectations, I imagine such desires include an heir. I cannot justly ask you to make the same sacrifice I wish to make; I merely sit before you with no expectations, laying the reality of myself before you, at your feet.'

Aragorn stared at her a long while, knuckles clenching and unclenching. Indecision gripped him, pulling at the corners of his mouth. Then he stood abruptly and said, 'You must excuse me.'

In a flash he had strode from the tent, lamps extinguishing in a gust of wind as the flap closed behind him. Left alone in the dark, Truva sat half-stunned, half resigned. Then she fell quite suddenly upon the camp bed, tears bursting forth uncontrolled and unbidden.

The one man who had peeled back her façade of quiet reservation, who had seen her for all that she was, and helped her to see it in turn! He who had not pitied Truva for a history that was beyond her control, had not looked down on her for being some strange misfit amidst the Eorlingas! It was Aragorn who had shown her the humanity within herself, the person beyond the warrior, while simultaneously revealing to her the leader he believed she could become.

He had become to Truva a source of respite when all the tides of the world set her adrift, yet now he had let go – it was he who had set her adrift.

The rain mimicked her tears, growing heavier and strumming down upon the tent. Hour dragged on into hour, sometimes hinting at the freedom of sleep, only for Truva to be pulled back into wakefulness each time. Unable to escape the burning shame of Aragorn's rejection – predictable though it may have been – it was the wee hours of the night before the cycle of insomnia subsided and Truva was at last lulled into slumber.

When she awoke the following morning, still the rain poured down. Truva lay in the grey half-light of dawn, staring up at the canvas roof, pulled taut against the rivulets of water. Thoughts of Aragorn immediately crowded her mind; and the more desperate she sought to banish them, the more intensely they swam before her eyes.

There was nothing to be done save rise and endure the day. But even as Truva sat up on her camp bed and spied the stool Aragorn had sat upon, her hand reached automatically for the Star pinned at her hip. She unfastened it, examining its gleaming features in the dusky tent. With a heavy sigh, she placed it beneath her pillow, determining to return it to Aragorn – perhaps by some contrived method in which she would not have to face him.

Standing suddenly, Truva made for the exit – and yet the Star burned into her back. She paused at the tent door, locked in hesitation for one moment, two. Then, in one impulsive motion, she snatched the Star from under her pillow and repinned it beneath her tunic.

Even so, it was burdened by no small air of despondency that she ducked out of her tent and sought out the simplest of breakfasts, feigning as though nothing were amiss. Expertly though it was prepared, the honeyed pottage offered in the mess tent was thick and ashen in her mouth, rendered tasteless by her disaffection for all things that passed before her.

And so Truva hurriedly set to work like any ordinary day, eager to keep her body busy in hopes that her mind would likewise come to be occupied by thoughts of anything other than Aragorn. Gathering a contingent of Eorling Riders and a handful of Rhûnic Orcs, she descended upon the streets of Annondû, which were still cluttered with the refuse of conflict. And yet it seemed fate was both in her favour and yet not; even as she toiled, Truva caught the briefest glimpses of Aragorn as he strode along the ramparts in inspection of the main gatehouse. Perhaps she imagined it, or perhaps he was equally eager to avoid her as she him; his gaze slid past her when he descended the battlement stairs, and he did not draw near.

Nor was it Aragorn who approached, long after darkness had folded around the motley company and sent them scampering off to their various taverns and dining halls and mess tents. Untempted by the prospect of yet another torturous meal (or the possibility of encountering Aragorn during it), Truva had taken up a position on the heights of Menelrond. She cast her gaze southwards to the distant lights of Harlond, which shimmered through the gentle curtain of rain, superseded only by the towering city of Minas Tirith off in the west.

She fought against the urge to look down, to where Fofrin's limp body had splashed into the waters of Eámicel; for fear the sight would draw her in too strongly.

'I was led to believe you were verboten by Éomer King from both organising and conducting night watch,' said Pallando as he appeared as if from nowhere and settled in beside her. The rain was undeniably lessened in the Wizard's presence, as though he were protected by an expansive, unseen cloak.

'I serve no official capacity here,' Truva replied. 'And Elfhelm Marshal is perfectly capable of organising watch himself.'

Pallando laughed gently. 'Yet I have heard it is the Second Marshal who has an especial knack for grouping soldiers best able to keep each other awake in the long hours of middle watch.'

'You must learn not to take Elfhelm Marshal's compliments on faith, as they often mask his underlying intentions: in this case, to convince anyone other than himself to take a duty he most desperately despises.'

Tepid smiles blossomed, only to quickly fade. Both Marshal and Wizard allowed the river's roar to fill the silence that followed, each harried by their own individual ruminations. Behind them, the march of guards was unceasing; the sounds of revelry drifted up, as well, along with the tantalising scents of roasting fish and fowl.

'I am terribly sorry about Alatar,' Truva spoke at last. 'It is one thing to lose a father I have never known, but another entirely to lose a lifelong friend – regardless of how embittered that friendship became.'

Pallando gave a gentle hmm but said nothing further, his eyes narrowed in thoughts she could not guess. 'I very much doubt it is Alatar's death that grieves you now,' he remarked.

When Truva turned to scrutinise him, the Wizard's profile flickered in the light of torches. 'Whatever do you mean?' she demanded.

'I had come tonight with the intention of resuming your training, now that the immediate threat of war is ended,' said he. 'I was very much struck by the feat you displayed upon the Southrons' escape, and wished to explore it – yet it seems to me there is something more pressing that occupies your mind.'

Truva shifted uncomfortably. 'I must admit, I do not believe myself to be in the right spirit to devote much energy to our research, such as it is.'

But something about Pallando's implied question sent Truva's thoughts reeling. She felt certain, now more than ever, that it had been wise to keep knowledge of the affection between herself and Aragorn a secret. Yet only in that moment did she finally allow herself to truly contemplate the prospect of a future without Aragorn.

Could she remain a dutiful Marshal, guiding the Eorlingas throughout the ages, watching over each King in succession? Or perhaps she ought to assume the role granted her by birth, working in tandem with those who knew what secrets her past held, and what trials she was yet to face? Yet if she chose such a path, it was surely not due to any affinity for the youth she had been deprived of, or a sense of connection to the person she had failed to become.

Truva's chest grew tight at the thought of a life that never was, which continued to rob her of a life she so desperately desired.

'I do not think I shall ever wish to know the name given to me by Alatar and the King,' she blurted suddenly, surprising even herself; yet if the Wizard was startled by this unexpected shift in conversation, he gave no indication. Nor did he push her for any further discussion.

'As you wish,' was all he said.

Then they lapsed once more into silence, allowing the river to fill the space between them even as they retired for the evening.

Another day dawned with equal melancholy. Following another sleepless night, Truva sat in the Eorling mess tent, glowering at her half-loaf of bread and spoonful of preserves. It was in such an absent state that Maeron Captain discovered her.

'Your rations will be snatched from beneath your nose if you continue on like that,' he said, both smile and voice exceptionally cheerful.

'If the others are so hungry, let them eat to their contentment,' Truva replied, offering the loaf to the Rider beside her, who accepted it with unbridled enthusiasm. When she rose and exited the mess tent, Maeron hastened to keep stride.

'Will you and several of your company not deign to lend assistance to my endeavours today?' he asked, flitting about in Truva's wake as she made for the main city. 'We must shift a great amount of debris at Menelrond, and more hands would be greatly appreciated. King Aragorn has said the efforts of your team have been unparalleled, and there is little left to accomplish in the streets of Annondû.'

One corner of Truva's lips drew down. She knew this not to be the case; the eastern sector had scarcely begun to be cleared. The Captain's words merely confirmed what she had already deduced: that Aragorn was eager for her to be gone from his presence, going so far as to request she work in an area where their paths were unlikely to cross.

Nodding in wordless acknowledgement of Maeron's request, Truva banked southwards and crossed Menelrond. Upon spying Gamhelm and a score of Eorlingas on the eastern docks, preparing for the day's labours, she gave a short whistle to alert them. They all converged on the recently-besieged bridge guard tower, where they were joined by a company of Gondorians and West Rhûn Orcs, as well as Lord Faramir.

Thus the northerners began to repair the destruction that had been wrought of their own hands. Long brigades of soldiers passed roofing tiles from hand to hand, or cleared refuse from within the tower and lowered it over the ramparts into the streets below. Freshly-hewn doors were mounted onto newly-forged hinges, doubly reinforced in the hopes that they would never be on the opposite side again.

So caught up in their work were they, that all were blind to the approach of travellers out of the southeast. It was Lord Faramir, pushing through the industrious sea of workers, who first alerted Truva to the caravan snaking its way along the road from Ithilien.

'Milady!' he cried as he leapt down the battlement steps three at a time.

Squinting her eyes against the rain, Truva discerned Éowyn riding within the foremost wagon, sheltered beneath a canvas top and swaddled in the finest furs and silks. She abandoned her pulley at once and sprinted in the opposite direction of Lord Faramir, through the streets of Osgiliath and on to the Eorling camp beyond Annonaur. She ran and ran until she burst through the flaps of Éomer King's pavilion.

'My lord, Lady Éowyn has come!' she exclaimed breathlessly.

Éomer wasted no time on words. Maps and chairs were sent flying as he darted from the tent, Truva close on his heels. Back they raced across Menelrond to the gate of Annondû, just as the caravan pulled across its drawbridge. Already Lord Faramir sat in the foremost wagon, Éowyn and the baby Elboron both wrapped tightly in his arms.

'Sister!' Éomer cried.

A bright smile flashed across Éowyn's face as she beheld her brother. 'You rapscallion!' she chided as Faramir vaulted down and held out a hand to assist her, though she merely passed him the baby instead. Once on the ground, she veritably levitated into Éomer's arms, but did not slacken her verbal assault: 'How dare you worry me so, disappearing into the south for months at a time with nary a word! I was half determined to go in search of you myself!'

'I am rather astonished you restrained yourself,' Truva quipped, finding herself the next recipient of Éowyn's embrace.

'There was very little restraint involved,' said Captain Beregond of the White Company, who sat upon his horse just beside the wagon. 'Of all those who lingered behind once Lord Faramir was called away to defend Osgiliath, milady was the most fiery in her defence of Ithilien; we begged her to seek shelter with the young Prince, yet she was the first to draw her blade against those Southrons who came to plunder our yet-humble settlement.'

Éowyn did not see fit to look abashed. 'Though I have chosen to live out my days as a healer, nurturing all things that grow and are good, still I cannot set aside my old ways, and leave to others the safeguarding of what I hold dear.'

'The hands of a healer are often those most calloused by the sword hilt,' spoke a low voice, and the company turned to spy Aragorn emerging from a northern byway. Truva's chest constricted painfully, yet Aragorn did not look to her but instead to the newly arrived caravan. 'Both death and life are intrinsic to the path of a warrior.'

Éowyn bowed her head in greeting to the King. 'Thank you for ensuring the safety of my husband, and the return of my brother, alive and well.'

'I believe Éomer and I owe each other our lives several times over – which is no less true for Lord Faramir,' said Aragorn.

'I see it was not I alone who took unnecessary risks,' Éowyn replied, shooting a mocking glare to her brother. Éomer's expression suggested he very much wished to deny any involvement in such dangerous circumstances as the Sutherlands had brought.

'I hope you can afford him a momentary reprieve from any admonishment,' said Aragorn, 'and instead grant me an audience, for there is a rather delicate – yet urgent – matter I wish to confer with you and Lord Faramir regarding.'

Éowyn and her husband exchanged a glance.

'Most certainly,' said Faramir, even as Éowyn took Elboron back into her arms.

No sooner had they come than they were gone; Aragorn swept the family off towards Teluelin, failing to acknowledge all others in doing so. Truva was left to stare after his retreating back, consumed by a tumult of emotions she could not disentangle. Not until Éomer laid a hand upon her shoulder did she stir.

'Come,' he said. 'There is work yet to be done.'

Perversely motivated by dejection, Truva redoubled her efforts along the wall, toiling until the deepening gloom called for work to conclude. But even then, she was not yet willing to subject herself to the empty, haunting night hours that faced her; and so she lent her services to final rounds in the infirmary, and to tidying Éomer King's maps (which were always in such a state of disarray), and to the mucking of the Eorlingas' makeshift stables. Any task that was to be done, she sought it out.

So deep was the night that only the sparsest of torches burned when Truva returned to her own tent. She collapsed at once onto the cot, back turned stubbornly to the entrance, willing the outside world to fade into nothingness.

Yet sleep would not come easily. Unwelcome thoughts intruded upon Truva's mind, trapping her in wakefulness; each toss and turn saw unease sink deeper and deeper into her bones. She had, of course, anticipated Aragorn's reaction – for the duties expected of him were in clear conflict with this new understanding of herself. There was no blame to be placed; they were simply not so harmoniously matched as they first believed themselves to be.

Even so, Truva had not believed Aragorn would revert to taciturn detachment so suddenly, to be so cold and so callous. The recollection of indifference upon his face as he turned from her at the gate that afternoon caused her heart, her throat, her eyes to sear in anguish.

Lost in these ruminations, Truva paid little mind to the sound of her tent flap opening and closing. She feigned sleep in the hopes that the intruder would leave her undisturbed; in all likelihood it was Elfhelm, come to request help organising the next night watch yet again. But Truva felt no compunction for her failure to acknowledge the Marshal; she pressed her eyelids tighter together at the sound of the stool being placed near her camp bed, dreading any words that might emerge.

Then Aragorn spoke in the darkness:

'I cannot say I was not surprised,' he said, voice low. Truva's hands clenched involuntarily; the mere sound of his breath, the knowledge he sat a mere arm's breadth away, caused her entire body to shudder in sorrow.

But if Aragorn saw, he did not acknowledge it. 'I suppose this is the very reason Gandalf insisted you venture East – for I am certain he had suspicions as to what complications might arise, following the discovery of your parentage.'

Still Truva did not answer. After a brief pause, Aragorn continued once more.

'I must admit I did not wish to accept your words at first,' said he. 'My line is long and illustrious – for I am the son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, Elendil's son, and can trace my ancestors to Eärendil himself. It is my duty to bring together the realms of Gondor and Arnor, and to restore these lands to their former glory. This I have done, and will continue to do; the preservation of the Reunited Kingdom shall be my life's work.

'Yet as I sat deep in thought these past nights, devastated by the words of the woman I love most ardently, I wondered whether my duty might not end here – whether the lands of my forefathers could be safeguarded after my death through some other method beyond my progeny alone.'

Truva shifted slightly at these words. Aragorn, encouraged by this sign, pressed on. 'I apologise for departing so abruptly, and for my distant behaviour these past few days. You must have been startled – yet I could not inform you of my ideas without first confirming with both Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn.'

Intrigued in spite of herself, Truva sat up, her knees nearly colliding with Aragorn's, so close to the cot did he sit. Rising briefly, she set a flame in the lamp, and light soon flickered to chase shadows into tent corners. The heavy groove of a frown marred her face, indicating she was not yet ready to speak; but even so, she was listening when she returned to her bedside. Aragorn had not moved so much as a hair's breadth.

'I spoke naught of our position to either Lord or Lady, saying only that recent events had inspired in me a fear of my passing before any heir was born, or some such similar circumstance. I merely inquired as to whether they would be willing to allow their newborn son to be declared my heir, and crowned prince should need arise,' he finished, breathless.

Truva's gaze pierced Aragorn then. Her frown eased somewhat, or perhaps it only grew deeper; she could not determine whether she understood correctly. Was this absurd plan one Aragorn had considered in earnest, or had he simply proposed it with the notion of grieving her further for her unwillingness to abide by the typical expectations placed upon a queen?

'Do you speak in jest?' Truva asked, voice raspy for having spent hour upon hour in silence and weeping and slumber.

Aragorn reached out to take her hand. He pressed his thumbs into her palm, massaging away the gnarly knots that had formed there in recent days, and over many a year.

'I speak with all sincerity,' he professed. 'Duty comes above all else – but in declaring young Elboron my heir, I shall be able to execute my responsibilities whilst living joyously beside the woman who brings me happiness and constancy, and whose guidance never leads me astray. Does this not please you?'

Tears coursed down Truva's cheeks, her palpitating heart rendering her incapable of speech, but Aragorn was swift to wipe the streams away.

'I am so terribly sorry!' he said. 'Had I known how much grief this idea would bring to you, I would never have proposed it.'

'No, no!' cried Truva, throwing herself into his arms. 'It does not grieve me; indeed, it brings me far greater joy than you could possibly imagine!'

Her shoulders shook in an attempt to suppress her sobs, prompting Aragorn to draw her even tighter into his embrace. Resting his cheek gently upon her head, he waited with unreserved patience as Truva's tears gradually subsided and she regained her composure.

'I could not have dared to ask so great a sacrifice of you,' she said, voice still choked with emotion and breath coming in uneven gasps. 'For, as you say, your lineage is illustrious, having persisted throughout the ages. Still I do not understand how you are satisfied to allow its sundering to be your doing.'

'There have been many kings before whose lines were broken, and suffered naught for it,' said Aragorn.

'Twice has the House of Eorl deviated.'

'And no Eorling King is any less distinguished than the one that came before.'

'But the line of Elendil is not amongst those sundered.'

'Nor was that of Eorl the Young, until the passing of Helm Hammerhand.'

To this, Truva had no retort. Aragorn planted a gentle kiss upon her locks, thumbs sweeping soothing fans upon her arms. They sat in the deep silence of past-midnight, each content to linger in the peace of the other's embrace, their anguish eased for a time.

Yet Aragorn did not allow the serenity to remain undisturbed long. Only a few minutes passed before he took several deep breaths as if to speak, each dissipating back into nothingness.

'There is something that perturbs you yet,' Truva prompted.

'A kingship without an heir is a far easier fate to accept than an eternity with no discernible end, spent absent the presence of one's true love,' he murmured. 'Are you certain you will not regret your decision?'

Truva drew back from Aragorn's embrace to gaze into his eyes, more steely than the very blade of Andúril itself. How she longed to ease that crease between his brows!

'I consider it my good fortune to assume that burden from your shoulders, and relieve you of its torment,' she said, the soft tones of her voice belying its power. 'It is the slightest gesture I can give unto you in return for the unfaltering strength you have shown me, the unexpected tenderness of your care, your trust in me.'

A smile blossomed at the corners of Aragorn's lips then. He sighed as he bent towards Truva, lips so near she could feel his sweet exhalations upon her cheek. Still, he hesitated to speak his greatest desire, his words no more than a whisper: 'And you will be my Queen?'

As many times as Truva had imagined Aragorn saying such words, to hear them truly spoken was infinitely more wondrous. Her answer was more subdued even than the inquiry. 'So long as you will have me.'

'For all of eternity,' Aragorn breathed.

His kiss sent Truva's heart soaring. This was no sweet, airy brush of the lips, nor even the passionate ministrations that had followed their reunion in Ithilien – no! This was the seal of destiny, the promise of everlasting love and devotion, the very intertwining of both spirit and being.

When the lovers at last parted, they were left in sheer astoundment at having been so highly favoured by fate, each believing themselves to be the more blessed of the two. Yet even as Aragorn wove his fingers through Truva's hair, he said, 'It brings me no joy to speak such words, but it was terribly improper of me to intrude upon a lady's private quarters, especially at so late an hour, and without official business. I had best depart – and soon – for once the others are informed of our intentions, I suspect we shall come under far stricter scrutiny.'

Truva closed her eyes in disappointment, revelling in the wisp of Aragorn's sympathetic lips upon her forehead, and when she opened them again he was gone.