Recommended listening: Delalande — Miserere

CHAPTER XXXII: OF BODIES AND BEASTS

Truva gave rein to Roheryn as he picked his way through the masses. Though the sand in her eyes meant she could not fully see, she could most certainly hear the Easterlings' grumbled complaints as they were sat upon the ground and their hands bound, or led off to the confines of Elminas. The wounded were treated where they lay or transported to a hastily improvised infirmary for Gondorian, Orc, and Easterling alike.

Unable to be of much use in her half-blind state, Truva bypassed this commotion and made straight for the Eámicel. No sooner had she dismounted at the river's edge than a heavy thump upon her shoulder nearly sent her sprawling, the unmistakable voice of Kîzge King growling out an expression of approval – or, at least, what sounded like approval to Truva's ears. Before she could respond, the King's bulky figure strode off in the direction of the infirmary.

'She says she would have slit your throat for misleading us about Gondor's numbers, had you not put on such a fine display against the Noyon,' Pallando explained, his sudden appearance equally as startling as Kîzge's. 'Though I believe she is rather put out at having been deprived of the opportunity to kill the Noyon herself; their rivalry extends decades into the past.'

'I would not have resented her for confronting him in my stead,' Truva mumbled.

'Yes, well, all things considered, the ability to feel resentment indicates one is alive,' Pallando quipped, then disappeared after the King.

Truva crouched at the riverbank, sand shifting beneath her feet. When she plunged her hands into the cool waters of Eámicel, the current swept between her fingers, soothing the tensions of battle and bearing them off southward. Steeling herself against the chill, Truva held each eye open in turn and splashed wave after wave into her face. A great deal of water dripped into her armour and drenched the neck of her tunic – but only a moderate amount of sand was rinsed from her eyes, and so Truva resigned herself to her fate.

When she rose, a cloth was pressed gently into her hand. Truva fumbled with it blindly for a moment before blotting her face dry. Squinting through the remaining grit, she spied a sight that erased all thought of suffering from her mind:

'Aragorn!' she gasped, breath sent skyward.

There he stood: far more the Ranger she had first met than the King she had come to know, for he wore the armour of a common soldier, and his appearance was dishevelled – and yet she loved him all the more for it. But in that very same breath, she held herself back, debating whether to maintain the dignified composure expected of a Marshal or to simply leap upon him in joy. But she was spared from this indecision when Aragorn swept her into his arms.

Allowing her impulses to take over at last, Truva returned the embrace; but even so, she could not shake her sense of propriety. 'There are many watchful eyes,' she warned breathlessly, though the very words pained her.

'And they shall see nothing more than two brethren of the blade, reunited after a long and ill-fated separation,' Aragorn murmured. Even so, his hold lingered far longer than Truva suspected it would have, were she any other.

'And Éomer King?'

Aragorn withdrew at last. 'He and the other Riders defend against the Southrons in Osgiliath; I imagine you will soon have an opportunity to greet him, as well – perhaps with equal enthusiasm, as a Marshal does her King.'

Then, spying the trickle of blood down Truva's thigh, he exclaimed, 'You are hurt!'

'So it is true the Southrons attack so far north as Osgiliath?' Truva asked – in part out of genuine concern, in part to deflect Aragorn's attentions; for she did not wish to worry him, and the way in which he looked upon her in that moment caused her heart to ache.

'And your eyes,' Aragorn continued, brushing a delicate caress along her cheek, ignoring her attempt at diversion. 'And here!' He pointed to bloody fingerprints on her left vambrace.

'Superficial wounds,' Truva said with a wave of her hand. 'I must know what became of you – I heard such terrible things!'

'I think it is you who owes a far more pressing explanation,' Aragorn insisted, his kingly air rising once more to the forefront. 'Come, a council awaits – all your questions will be answered there.'

Taking Roheryn's reins in hand, he guided Truva southward along the embankment. A pavilion had been erected near where the stream of Hennethír joined Eámicel, its flaps and pennants fluttering in a breeze that had sprung up; despite the auspicious nature of West Rhûn's arrival, the Gondorians were still hesitant to admit Orcs of any origin into their most vulnerable defences. Beneath the shady canopy sat Lord Faramir and the Wizard Pallando.

'Well it is to see you again, milord,' Truva said upon spying the Prince of Ithilien; a bow quickly followed. 'How fare Lady Éowyn and the child?'

'A fair deal better than we, I reckon,' replied Lord Faramir with a kindly smile.

'Do not terrify the Marshal with such poor reassurances!' Aragorn interjected, only half in jest. 'Our own circumstances are hardly an encouraging comparison.'

'Even so, any reassurance is good reassurance,' said Truva, careful to take a seat only once Aragorn had done so. 'I see you have met Pallando, the Wizard of West Rhûn, and one of the Ithryn Luin.'

Then, at the approach of West Rhûn's premier leader, she leapt to her feet once again. 'And Kîzge, their King.'

The atmosphere amongst those gathered in the pavilion grew strained, even though the massive Orc was yet distant. Muscles tensed and hands shifted towards sword hilts or knives. But Truva's attention was drawn to the Òrlok Agbesh, who strode dutifully behind his King.

'What of Ghazubor Pè?' she whispered to Pallando, who shook his head ruefully in response. Truva's heart constricted; the Orcs' losses had not been many, yet they had been great.

Each and every commander held their breath as Kîzge threw aside the fluttering pavilion curtains and stood looming in the suddenly cramped space. Even Truva, whose fear of the Uzdígh residents had abated somewhat in the past several days, fixed her eyes on her own clenched hands, unsure of what mood would strike their unpredictable Orcish King. But then, without a moment's hesitation, Kîzge fell to her knees before Aragorn, bowing in the manner of her people.

Still, apprehension amongst the leaders was not assuaged.

'I suggest you respond in kind, milord, should you wish relations between our lands to begin on friendly terms,' said Pallando – yet the words had scarcely left his mouth before Aragorn, too, had bent in a mirror of Kîzge's gesture.

'I welcome you most sincerely to Gondor, King Kîzge,' he said when he arose. 'It was with relief immeasurable that we witnessed your arrival in our time of great need – and accompanied by an ally's commander, no less.'

Pallando's murmured translations faded into the background as Kîzge replied, 'Your men fight fiercely; it was a pleasant surprise. Yet I fear our trials are far from over.'

'Indeed, the city of Osgiliath has already fallen into the Southrons' hands,' Faramir interjected. 'The Swan Fleet and Rohirrim assail that garrison at this very moment, but the enemy is firmly entrenched.'

'What of Alatar?' asked Truva.

'He fled southwards even as I advanced,' Pallando explained. 'He rode with nearly a thousand warriors, all mounted. I imagine he hoped to gain the safety of Osgiliath before we could detain him.'

'Yet another hurdle we must surpass when we go to recapture that city,' said Faramir with a shake of his head.

A heavy silence filled the pavilion then, for none held any illusion that their victory, hard-earned though it was, would not also be short-lived.

'We must march at dawn,' said Aragorn at last. 'Our warriors are deserving of a much longer rest – it is a day and a half's hard march to Osgiliath, and into a situation uncertain – but we cannot afford to wait any longer. Our journey would be greatly expedited if our ships were more in number, but alas, we are not so fortunate.'

He glanced around the tent – to Kîzge King, who nodded her approval, as well as Lord Faramir and the newly-promoted Agbesh Pè. Pallando said nothing, but there was no criticism to be had; their paths forward were not many.

'Very well, let it be so,' Aragorn continued as several soldiers carried in platters of what little food and drink remained in Elminas. 'But I believe an explanation is owed – for surely you can understand why I might have believed my lands to have come under attack from two Easterling forces this morn.'

'We deeply regret having caused you concern,' said Pallando, speaking for himself at last. 'Were it possible to ally our forces in any other way, we would have done so. Alas, that our histories – both contentious and uncommunicative – came between us.'

Pallando proceeded to recount the tale he had so recently conveyed to Truva. His Gondorian audience sat transfixed as the sun passed from the east bank of Eámicel to the west, shadows pointing ever further towards Rhûn. When at last the Wizard concluded his account, with the occasional explanation from Truva, Aragorn sat quietly a moment, his brows knit together in stern concentration.

'It is plausible your reckoning is consistent with my own,' he said at last. 'For it is true you wear livery dissimilar to any worn by Sauron's forces during the War, and all that I witnessed in the Sutherlands is easily explained by what you claim. It seems to me the delay Alatar encountered was a result of the Umbarian Captain's abrupt decision to seek a peaceful conclusion – before ultimately resuming the original plan.'

'What precisely transgressed in the Sutherlands?' Truva inquired, no longer able to contain her curiosity.

Aragorn turned his gaze to the ground and inhaled deeply, passing a moment in silence before he began. 'Perhaps it was a lapse in judgement, or perhaps an opportunity missed – yet for whom it shall prove more fateful, I cannot yet say.'

Both Truva and Pallando leaned in eagerly as Aragorn narrated his own experiences, and those of Éomer King and their company – from Umbar's surprisingly gracious welcome, to the trek upon kamelback across the desert of Laurinairë, to the city of Herumoros and the double betrayal: the Sutherlands of Gondor, and Undómírë of her father Castamir.

A multitude of emotions roiled in Truva's breast throughout the telling – fury, most of all, that such forces had conspired to prolong the reign of violence in Middle Earth, so hard upon Sauron's defeat; yet guilt also, that she had not been able to defend both Aragorn and Éomer when they had endured terrible dangers. Indeed, the very thought that Éomer King still found himself at arms caused her immense distress, and sent her thoughts spiralling and her limbs fidgeting. How could she sit, still and inactive, when her presence was needed elsewhere?

Her restlessness did not go unnoticed by Aragorn. Mumbled words were exchanged – or perhaps they were ordinary words; Truva did not hear them in full, her mind occupied as it was – and suddenly she was being encouraged to stand and dismiss herself from the assembly. Their discussions were concluded, someone vaguely noted. Truva was merely grateful for the excuse to be out in the open air again.

The ruddy hues of late evening were cast upon any corner of the earth not covered in shadow. Several Easterling prisoners, knowledgeable in the healing arts, had been granted permission to care for their brethren under the watchful eye of their captors. Others helped distribute food and drink, while a third contingent aided in the digging of burial mounds. To this latter group Truva gravitated, accepting a shovel from one Gondorian soldier and plying it to the earth.

She was just placing the final riverstones atop the grave of a young Gondorian longswordsman, and struggling to compose words sufficient and worthwhile to mark his passing, when a sight some distance further inland drew her breath up short: that of a warrior clad in blue and gold. Not wishing to detract from the Easterlings' mourning, Truva observed as the Agdî guard, Óddîr, and a cluster of East Rhûn soldiers climbed out of a hole nearly as deep as they were tall. The Noyon's body lay supine upon the ground beside them. Their movements were reverent as they proceeded to strip him of his armour and garments – even his shoes – leaving only his helm. This completed, they lowered their commander gently into the grave, head to the north.

Sharp regret filled Truva as the Noyon's body disappeared into the earth. During the War of the Ring, her enemies had been apparent, unquestionable – servants of evil bent single-mindedly upon the destruction of the Free People of the West. She had faced them with certainty, content in the knowledge that what she defended far outweighed the loss she effected with her blade.

Yet here was not the faceless mask of evil. Truva and the Noyon had broken bread together; she had been his guest, had learned from him of the Easterling culture. Despite their tumultuous introduction, Truva was inclined to say she had even enjoyed his company, for a time. Had the Noyon not been subject to Alatar's venomous whisperings, perhaps they might have been allies.

Now he was dead at her hands.

But even as Truva was lured by such miserable thoughts, staring ahead with unseeing eyes, Óddîr leapt forward and snatched the Noyon's blade from the unsuspecting Gondorian guard who bore it. Rather than attack, however, Óddîr darted to where the Noyon's horse stood patiently beside its master's grave and slashed the beast's neck. Before a single Gondorian soldier could react, he shoved the horse into the grave and tossed the sword aside, kneeling with hands raised in surrender.

He fell beneath a pile of Gonorian warriors and was drawn roughly back to the other prisoners, bonds retied. His companions, left alone but under a far more watchful guard, lingered about the grave for a time, though they did not refill it. Eventually they wandered, one by one, back to where Óddîr sat.

'In death, Man becomes life to others,' said a voice at Truva's shoulder. She spun around to find Pallando standing beside her, his eyes also upon the unusual scene that had just played out. 'The Noyon's horse will guide his spirit, yet their fleshly bodies will provide for the birds and the beasts.'

Truva repressed a shudder. 'It seems terrible to think of claws and jaws tearing at one's limbs,' she said.

'As terrible as the Orcish burial, which many in the West consider barbaric?' asked the Wizard, gesturing towards a tremendous bonfire on the opposite side of the battlefield. A waft of evening wind carried across the distance the acrid stench of scorched flesh, which stirred memories long repressed in Truva's mind.

'We have always burned the corpses of our Orcish enemies – those of Saruman and Sauron alike,' she said. 'Do you mean to suggest that is the preferred tradition? I had always thought it rather irreverent.'

'There is no suggestion about it – in all Orcish belief systems I am aware of, it is thought that burning the bodies of the dead sends their spirit skyward as they were in life: unbesmirched by death. There are very few enemies undeserving of an honourable burial, in their own manner.'

Truva pursed her lips in contemplation a moment, staring at the churning column of smoke. 'And so Ghazubor ascends even now?'

'If you subscribe to such beliefs,' said Pallando with a shrug. He then suddenly diverted the topic. 'You have not eaten – though long has it been since last you tasted anything save Orcish victuals, or that which you foraged for yourself.'

'I am not hungr—'

'Marshal!'
The shout came half a moment before Truva was engulfed in a pair of hulking arms. Though she could see nothing but the breast of a grey linen tunic, she knew the voice at once.

'Blackbramble!' was her muffled reply.

'See that she eats,' Pallando commanded as he disappeared amidst the throngs.

'Yes, milord Wizard!' Blackbramble called after his retreating figure, finally releasing Truva from his stranglehold.

'It is good to see you, my friend,' she said.

'And you!' Blackbramble replied. 'I must commend you on the timing and nature of your return. Yet there is another who longs to see you even more than I – for he foolishly did not trust in you or your single-minded doggedness.'

'And whom might that be?' asked Truva.

But the massive Hidlander merely grinned, dragging her by one arm towards the infirmary tent. Truva's heart plummeted, fearing to see someone she loved in pain, or perhaps near death – yet it was an uninjured, youthful face that glanced up as they entered.

'Fofrin?' Truva whispered. The young sailor beamed back at her, needle and catgut held aloft as he sutured a Gondorian's leg wound.

'My lady!' he cried. 'You're alive!'

'The poor saphead despaired each and every night for a full two moons following your departure from Osgiliath, certain you would perish upon your mysterious journey,' said Blackbramble with a sly smile.

'Slander!' Fofrin countered, indignant. 'Never would I doubt the Marshal so! But it is a relief to see you alive, nevertheless. I have been tortured by rumours of your return all day, and now I can confirm the happy fact for myself.'

'Your concern you ought to save for yourself, for I recall having left you in a rather poorer state,' said Truva. 'Yet I see you have done quite well for yourself!' She gestured about at the infirmary tent, and the skill with which Fofrin plied his tools to his patient even as he spoke.

'I am a merely adequate sailor, and an even worse soldier – yet I can stitch with the best of them!' he exclaimed with evident pride.

'Yes, well, apply yourself to healing,' Blackbramble lectured. 'I do not wish to hear any talk of your joining the march upon the morrow.'

'What march?'

'The one you will most certainly not be going on, as you are needed most here at Elminas, to care for these wounded soldiers,' Truva replied, in an attempt to dissuade the eager young man.

'Do not leave me behind, I beg of you!' he implored. 'I defended Osgiliath until we were overrun, didn't I? I can fight!"

'Aye, you've proven yourself in battle, lad,' said Blackbramle. 'But a soldier must also demonstrate that he can follow orders, and perform equally crucial yet less illustrious duties. And – if it be glory you seek – the defence of Cair Andros will fall to you, should we fail.'

But Fofrin was unappeased. Leaving the sulking sailor to his work, Truva and Blackbramble ducked back out into the bustle beyond the infirmary tent. A few soldiers still toiled to shift the Easterlings' siege weapons into Elminas itself, now that the fortress' gates were cleared, but most had abandoned any attempt to right the battlefield. They milled about on individual tasks, preparing for what little was left of their evening.

Truva heaved a sigh as she gazed out across the maze of campfires, struck against the settling gloom. 'Thank you for caring for that scamp Fofrin – and for Roheyrn – in my absence,' she said to her companion.

'Think nothing of it.' Blackbramble flashed a smile. 'In truth, it lent me some sense of reassurance – strange though it seems, now that I put it to words – for I felt you would return all the sooner, the better I cared for them.'

'Had it been so, my return would have come so hard upon my departure it would have been as though I never left!'

'Perhaps,' said Blackbramble, though sadness tinged the cheery gleam in his eyes. He quickly sought a new topic: 'Now, let us see about the strange Wizard's orders!'

There was little food to be had, and even less cheer; though Gondor and its unanticipated ally sat on the field of victory, news of what was to come on the morrow had spread. A new day was sure to bring new battles. And so, after they had scrounged up a bowl of pottage and some rye bread each, Truva and Blackbramble pulled their cloaks tight about them and propped themselves up against their packs, hoping for a few blinks of sleep before duty called.

The following morning, Truva was awoken by a gentle shake of her shoulders. She sat bolt upright, only to find Aragorn gazing at her, his grey eyes a reflection of the colourless dawn sky. They exchanged no words; Truva rose and turned to Blackbramble, rousing him from his rumbling snores. In silence, the three sought out Lord Faramir and the other commanders – a network of gentle awakenings, spread across the field until the entire army set about readying for the call to arms.

It came swiftly. Packs were heaved upon backs, weapons were strapped into place, armour was adjusted, and the entire gathering arranged itself company by company upon the banks of Eámicel, Gondor ahead and West Rhûn in the rear. Following the sounding of Lord Faramir's trumpet, the host marched southward, leaving only the most necessary guard to watch over the Easterling prisoners and Cair Andros itself.

Truva mounted Roheryn and rode beside Kîzge King, who – despite being offered her own mount – elected to march instead. Wrens and blackcap warblers greeted the army as it forded Hennethír, horses' hooves and soldiers' boots splashing in the stream's frigid waters; a bridge that once spanned the waterway had not yet been rebuilt. Faint sunlight offered the possibility of drying their raiment, only to disappear behind thin clouds that skittered across the bleak sky. Around midday, a light rain began to fall, casting a dreary pallor across the land and dampening the soldiers' spirits further. The roar of Eámicel became less a soothing constant and more an inescapable reminder of what lay ahead.

As the long shadows of late afternoon transformed into an unbroken grey cast across the land, a scouting party returned. When they approached Aragorn's position at the head of the Host, Truva's heart plummeted to spy one unmistakable figure amongst their number: Fofrin! He had, of course, defied her orders and set out under the command of a less discerning officer. The young sailor caught her eye and flashed a smile, but was too distracted in his report to see the frown Truva returned.

It was far too late to send him back. Fofrin best of all was aware of that fact.

Dark descended; the wrens and warblers were replaced by song thrushes and nightjars who sent their calls skyward, ignorant of the warriors' plight below. But still the Host trudged on deep into the evening, for there was a great distance yet to go before they would come to Osgiliath. When a halt was called at last, not even the Orcs saw fit to begrudge yet another dismal, fireless night – intimately aware of the precarious circumstances surrounding their march as they were.

Truva had just set Roheryn to drink at the riverside when she sensed a figure approaching from behind. She turned with half a heartbeat of hope, only for it to dissipate upon spying Pallando.

'Oh!' she exclaimed. 'Pallando Wizard.'

'You anticipated another?' he asked, the hint of a roguish gleam in his eye just visible in the moonlight.

'Any friendly face is one warmly welcomed in times of strife,' Truva hedged.

Pallando did not appear fully convinced by her answer, yet he did not press further. 'The most recent scouts have not yet returned, though there is certain to be news before morn. The commanders gather now to discuss all preparations that can be made in advance – and to await any information that may alter those plans.'

'Lead on,' said Truva, following after the Wizard.

Already Aragorn and Kîzge sat about a map of Osgiliath and its defences hastily sketched in the mud, the smallest of lanterns shaded so it cast light only upon the ground. Beside the Kings, Lord Faramir wielded a short stick as he muttered consultations with Blackbramble. The Pè and his remaining Òrlok, Grazud – for Agbesh's own replacement was yet to be promoted – were likewise deep in discussion, pointing at the map in turns.

What followed was a swirl of proposals and counters, increasingly absurd schemes, frustrated sighs, and an ultimate resignation to postpone final tactical details until the scouts' return. As several of the leaders rose to make rounds amongst their warriors, Truva settled against the bole of a cedar tree. It was nearly dawn before the rustling of scouts wakened her.

'It is as you say,' one whispered to Aragorn even as Truva and Kîzge King both rubbed sleep from their eyes. 'Captain Maeron camps upon the east bank, and the Horse King upon the west; yet it seems that any vessel still upon the water is in the hands of the Southrons – save a small flotilla of the Swan Fleet berthed within Harlond.'

'Did you speak with the captain yourself?'

'No, my lord,' replied the scout. 'All this we observed from a promontory still some distance from the city; we feared we would not return before daylight if we proceeded any further.'

The group mused silently a moment before Kîzge King spoke.

'The King wonders whether we cannot simply lay siege to the city,' Pallando translated. 'It seems your forces have already secured the gates. Surely the Southrons cannot sustain themselves infinitely within such a constrained environment.'

'We control Cair Andros, but only just,' Aragorn reasoned. 'Even if we were to divide our ships and transport half over land – opening ourselves up to a concentrated attack in the process – I do not think we have sufficient numbers to patrol both the northern and southern stretches of Anduin, not enough to prevent the Southrons accessing the resources of Ithilien. Combined with all that the river itself provides, and the considerable stores amassed within the city itself, I fear hesitation on our part would only grant them time to entrench themselves even further.'

'Poison the river?' was Kîzge's next proposal.

'The Anduin in its entirety?' asked Faramir sceptically. 'If possible, it could be effective – perhaps overly much so; it would come at the cost of all our lands downstream.'

Kîzge huffed at this, as though she didn't think it too terrible a loss (they were not her lands, after all), but sat back in resignation.

'The Southrons anticipate the coming of reinforcements,' Truva remarked. 'Perhaps they can be convinced to surrender when it is we who emerge from the north, and not Alatar.'

Her words were met with disheartened silence; none dared to hope that so peaceful a resolution might yet be found – not after negotiations in the South had concluded so disastrously. Even if the Corsairs and Haradrim were willing to sit at the table of conciliation, how could they be trusted, having broken the accords set forth after the War?

Eyes flickered over the hastily sketched map, lips twisted into expressions of frustration, fingers fiddled with tunic hems or dagger hilts, but no further suggestion was made.

'Let us delay the laying of plans once more,' said Aragorn at last, 'and come amongst our brethren at Osgiliath ere a decision is made – and thus make it all the more informed.'

There was a quiet muttering of approval and shifting of bodies. Rising, the captains went to rouse their troops just as the first heliotrope hints of dawn blossomed over the horizon. The previous afternoon's rain resumed, but heavier than before, fully extinguishing any wisp of hope that may have sprouted in the soldiers' breasts. They tramped through the soaking grasses of Ithilien, damp earth churning to mud beneath the ranks of booted feet. Farmland and fishing villages passed by on the far side of Eámicel, yet all appeared abandoned; most residents had taken shelter within the sanctuary of Minas Tirith.

It was not long after noon when Truva spied Aragorn glancing back over the ranks to where she rode once more between the Gondorian soldiers and the forces of West Rhûn. At his beckon, she urged Roheryn forward and drew alongside him. Faramir soon joined them.

'What is it, my lord Aragorn?' Truva asked. But he did not speak, and merely gestured ahead.

The Host stood atop a gentle rise, the land before them falling gently away to the Eámicel. From their vantage point, the entirety of Osgiliath and its surrounding lands were visible, though stormy weather obscured Minas Tirith and the Firienwít beyond. Osgiliath's harbour chains had been raised at last, securing the Corsair vessels within the city's belly and keeping the Swanfleet at bay. Before both eastern and western gates was camped a modest host, just beyond range of Southron siege engines.

'Your horns,' Aragorn said to his companions. 'Sound them, so that our brethren will know it is friend, not foe, who approaches. Lend them heart, Truva, as you lent heart to us within Elminas. And you, my brother – let the Great Horn of Húrin resound within the borders of Gondor once more.'

'May we strike fear into the spines of the Southrons,' Lord Faramir added.

Truva raised the Horn of the House of Éofor to her lips and gave it breath. The surrounding air was muffled with damp, yet still her notes floated high upon the wind to mingle with those of Faramir, drifting far across Eámicel to the Pelennor Fields and beyond.

Slowly, as one mass, the Gondorian and West Rhûn warriors descended the slope and approached the encampment just outside Osgiliath's eastern gate. Amidst a maze of makeshift tents, the soldiers of Maeron's company went about their tasks with an air of listlessness; having been repelled quite handily by the Southrons, they had subsequently abandoned all attempts at assault and instead resigned themselves to keeping guard over the garrison. It was thus, with head ducked in mild shame, that Maeron Captain greeted these new reinforcements.

'My lord Aragorn!' he cried, motioning for the guards to remove several chevaux de frise. 'I do not wish to imply we ever doubted your victory, but these past several days have been spent wondering what would become of you and the warriors who went north. Yet what beasts are these that follow in your wake? The very servants of Mordor march to the sound of Húrin's horn!'

'King Kîzge and the Orcs of Uzdígh are allies, and to be treated as such,' replied Aragorn. 'They appeared out of the East unlooked for, brought to our lands in defence of their own, and fought by our side at the very gates of Elminas.'

'As my King orders, so shall it be done,' said Maeron, stepping aside to allow the troops entrance.

'What of Éomer King?' Truva interjected.

'Never you fear, Marshal,' Maeron reassured her with a kindly smile. 'Though our communication is infrequent, the horselord is as well as ever.'

'That is a relief to hear,' said Aragorn. 'But it is not King Éomer alone we must have news of. Come, let us consult together. I am certain you have a great many questions yourself.'

Blazing fires helped to dispel the rain's chill as the commanders settled beneath the shelter of a canvas lean-to. They gazed out across the field of milling soldiers attempting to navigate an uneasy peace between two peoples previously thought to be irreconcilable enemies.

'How is it that these Orcs now come to assail our cities – to our succour?' Maeron asked, disturbing the contemplative silence.

And so, with Aragorn's explanation, the remaining Gondorian forces came to know of the conflict in Rhûn, and of the Easterlings that now sat detained at Cair Andros. There was little to tell in return, for after several failed attempts to take the gates of Osgiliath, Maeron and his men had retreated to construct siege engines and begin the lengthy process of communicating a plan of attack between both the Eorlingas and Swan Knights.

'What of Lord Imrahil and his fleet, that came in rescue of us at Gwathail?' Aragorn inquired.

'No sign of them yet, milord,' Maeron shook his head regretfully.

'And the forces of Minas Tirith that remained behind when we set sail for Pelargir all those months ago? And the soldiers who escorted the residents of Osgiliath to safety?'

'Those that do not defend the capital itself are divided between the port at Harlond – where they maintain control – and the gates of Annonaur in the west of Osgiliath, where even combined with Rohan's forces they have been as unsuccessful as we in their assaults.'

'Is there no indication of Elfhelm Marshal and his Riders' coming?' asked Faramir.

'The beacons have returned blue, my lord. The Rohirrim have signalled their willingness – beyond that, I cannot say.'

'Then let us not consider them in our plans, for now,' said Aragorn. 'It is best we do not rely on those whose arrival, whilst assured, might be delayed longer than we can afford. Tell me what siege engines you have conjured.'

'Aside from those we scavenged from our ships, primarily ladders and rams, my lord.'

Kîzge King grunted a comment then, suddenly slicing the blade of one immense, black hand into the palm of her other. Aragorn nodded as if he understood.

'A swift, secretive attack ought to be our first attempt,' he said with quiet force. 'If unsuccessful, only then should we initiate a protracted siege, and look to mines or other means of destruction. Osgiliath has been reconstructed once already; I have no desire to begin anew.'

'Swift?' Pallando questioned. 'How swift?'

'The Southrons will anticipate a strike hard upon our arrival,' Aragorn acknowledged, 'but I very much doubt they believe us capable of mounting one this very night. It might be our only window of opportunity, before the enemy has time to scout and scheme.'

'They would be right in their disbelief,' said Maeron, shaking his head. 'Such a feat is impossible!'

'With the forces here on the east bank alone, perhaps you are right,' Aragorn admitted. 'But if we strain the Southrons' defences to the fullest, acting simultaneously with the Swan Fleet and also King Éomer's Riders, there is hope of victory – small, but extant nonetheless.'

'Even if we ourselves were able to organise within a few short hours, and perhaps even contact our ships in Harlond, there is no means by which we might convey our plans to the Rohirrim in that time,' Maeron argued.

'It is easy enough to send a messenger south to the harbour,' Faramir interjected. 'The Swan Fleet would be slow in coming, but their aid indispensable once they do.'

'And what of King Éomer?' Aragorn asked. 'How have you communicated with the Rohirrim until now?'

'We have sent our messengers far to the south – nearly to Harlond itself – before doubling back to Annonaur,' Maeron explained. 'But not even our swiftest rider would have any hope of conveying a missive before the night is out.'

The King mused internally a moment, lost in countless calculations. The others joined him, the pensive silence heavy and dispirited.

'Perhaps we ought to resign ourselves to—' Pallando began, but was interrupted by Faramir.

'There is one amongst our number. A sailor. He is slight – no more than a boy – and might be able to pass undetected under the Southrons' very noses.'

'No,' Truva murmured, surprising her own self, although it did not appear any heard – until Aragorn sent her a peculiar look.

'A sailor, you say?' he asked, eyes still upon Truva.

'An exceptionally strong swimmer, even amongst others of his profession,' Faramir continued. 'If he follows the city walls, he might pass from the east bank of Annondû to western Osgiliath without much trouble.'

Aragorn hesitated then, giving Truva a second glance. It was with no happy expression that he said, 'Then let him convey this to Lord Éomer: that in the very last hour before today's dawn, the King willing, the Rohirrim shall assail the gate of Annonaur with all the raucous pandemonium they can muster.'

'And if this child should fail?' Pallando translated for Kîzge, though scepticism was apparent on both their faces.

'Then we shall have to wait for the Swan Fleet's arrival, and convey our intentions to the west bank forces through them – sacrificing both the element of surprise and the cover of darkness in the process. But the attack must be made.'

'I will go speak with the boy now,' said Faramir, rising, but Truva leapt to her feet also.

'Please!' she begged. 'Allow me to speak with him. I know to whom you refer: the sailor Fofrin. I shall present to him the task in terms most neutral and, if he is not amenable, will go in his stead. I am a Marshal of the Mark, after all; it is only fitting that I bear the message to my King.'

Aragorn regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, the pain on his face deepening. Then, with lips pinched tight, he nodded and said, 'If you feel so compelled.'

With a bow, Truva ducked out after Blackbramble (who had taken it upon himself to make the race to Harlond) and went in search of Fofrin. Along the dark, muddy paths, she dodged various companies of Orcs as they bickered over where to pitch their tents, some less than happy to be positioned nearest the Gondorians. The two factions continued to eye each other with equal distrust.

At last Truva spied Fofrin, sitting amongst a quartet of healers who had secured themselves a goat for roasting. She gave a low whistle and the boy came running.

'I hate to disturb your dinner—' she began.

'It is of no consequence, milady!'

'—but I have a request, though even that might be too strong a word.' She gave Fofrin a look askance, perturbed by his overeager attitude. 'It is not an order; on that point I wish to be perfectly clear.'

'I shall do your will!'

'No, Fofrin, you must think carefully and do your will,' Truva reprimanded gently. She lowered her voice to no more than a whisper as she led him away from where any might overhear. 'Aragorn King makes plans to attack tonight—'

'This very night!' he cried.

'—and to have any hope of victory, we must act in tandem with the Eorlingas.'

'You wish for me to secret across the river and convey these intentions to King Éomer.'

'You are a smart lad,' said Truva, more than a little ruefully. 'And so you must make a decision only after thorough consideration—'

'I will go,' said Fofrin without hesitation, grim determination upon his face. Truva closed her eyes tightly, a sigh slipping past her lips.

'Very well,' she murmured. 'Take only what you most desperately need—'

'I have my weapons already upon me.'

'—and keep to the walls of Osgiliath; if you are fortunate enough to arrive without incident, deliver this unto the King: that he is to attack at the very final hour before dawn, and create a tremendous diversion.'

'I shall give him your greeting, as well, and inform him that you are alive and well.'

A grim smile passed across Truva's lips. 'Good lad,' she said, throwing an arm about his narrow shoulders and drawing him through a gap in the chevaux de frise. Beneath the cover of bog-rushes they crept towards the outer walls of Osgiliath, pausing to observe the Southron guards' activity.

'Would that I could go in your stead,' Truva whispered after a time.

'You are not nearly as strong a swimmer as I,' said Fofrin with a twinkle in his eye.

Then he rose suddenly and darted forward, having spied the torch of a guard passing upon the battlements. Even knowing he was there, his figure was soon lost to Truva's eye, for the darkness and rain soon obscured him. There was no final goodbye or wish of good luck.

'Helm keep him,' Truva murmured.

She returned slowly to the commanders' lean-to, unheeding of the preparations that whirled about the camp. Her ears did not hear Aragorn's rousing speech, her eyes did not see soldiers sharpening blades or counting arrows, her nose did not smell their final meals, heart did not feel the tension near palpable in the air. As the forces from Cair Andros took the opportunity of a brief respite, and Maeron's soldiers – far more well-rested as they were – readied siege engines or took to watch duties, Truva nestled a short while in the shelter, eyes closed in a poor mimicry of rest.

The hours trudged by. Watches were exchanged. A few Orc squabbles – heightened by the nervous energy in camp – were quickly stifled. Truva abandoned all attempts at rest and sought out a slight rise from which she could observe the Southrons' movements below. That was where Lord Faramir discovered her.