Author's note: As many regular readers have likely noticed, this chapter is a few days late. I had the great misfortune of slicing my thumb the other evening while doing dishes, and though it was nothing terribly serious, I did have to spend precious editing time in the hospital getting a few stitches. Moreover, not only is the placement and bandaging inconvenient, it turns out the medication makes me incredibly sleepy! Thus it took even longer than expected to finish up editing (and there may be a few more typos than typical) — although I do anticipate being back on track for the next chapter this weekend. Cheers!

Recommended listening: Ichmouratov — Three Romances for viola, strings and harp

CHAPTER XXXVI: THE OSGILIATH ACCORDS

When Truva rose just after dawn the following day, the oppressive cast to the sky had lifted ever so slightly, though a thick fog drifted over river and field alike. No sooner had she emerged into the grey light, stomach still atumble from her conversation with Aragorn the previous evening, than a passing guard exclaimed, 'Felicitations, my lady!'

'Not a lady,' Truva replied automatically, struggling to shake the wafting tendrils of sleep from her mind.

'Perhaps not yet,' was the guard's answer before he disappeared off towards the camp blockades.

Mystified by the Eorling's behaviour, Truva made in the opposite direction. She was met in the same manner more than once along her path to the mess tent: congratulations, fortuitous regards and auspicious blessings from all corners. She responded to each in kind – with a noncommittal nod as she supped on a light breakfast, inspected the guard, and subdued an argument that had arisen between several Riders and a West Rhûn Orc who had wandered into the camp in search of shores for the reconstruction of a belltower.

All tasks seen to and unable to evade the inevitable any longer, Truva at last sought out the destination she most dreaded: Éomer King's pavilion. Even as she stood just outside the entrance, a cough caught in her throat. She imagined all the ways in which he might react to news of her engagement to Aragorn – whether fury at her lack of regard for the position of Marshal, or disappointment that she might perhaps no longer call the Mark home, or the most cutting: cool indifference. Innumerable scenarios flashed in Truva's mind, each less pleasant than the previous.

Summoning her courage, she raised her voice: 'Second Marshal to see you, milord.'

'Enter,' Éomer called from within.

When Truva slipped through the tent flaps, he sat alone at the tactical table, a bowl of pottage cold and untouched before him. He pored over a ledger in his hands, preoccupied.

'Have you come with the morning report?' he asked without glancing up.

'There were no lapses of the guard in the night, and all is quiet upon the defences,' Truva answered, feigning nonchalance.

Éomer nodded as though he had heard but not listened. Then, quite suddenly, his attention diverted from the ledger and came to fix intensely upon Truva. She shifted from one foot to the other as he scrutinised her with eyes narrowed.

'Might you have any insight as to why Aragorn King came to me just now, inquiring how I might feel, were one of my Marshals to fall under his influence?'

'Did he ask such a thing?' Truva asked, eyebrows raised; it was now innocence she feigned.

'And does his query in turn have any relevance to your journey East – the finer details of which you have not yet shared with me?'

'Did he tell you what I discovered there?' Truva's voice was a mere whisper.

Éomer gestured for her to sit down, expression unreadable. 'He did not. Aragorn is a man most circumspect, and insisted such information ought to come from you alone.'

Truva absentmindedly traced her finger down the ledger's neat lines (and Éomer's rather less tidy figures) as she wondered how best to begin. On one hand, she was thankful Aragorn had left her the opportunity to explain, yet some small part of her wished he had taken the task upon himself, and thus relieved her of the agony.

'It was Alatar – the Blue Wizard himself – who sired me, and the King of Easterlings who bore me.' The words tumbled from her lips one right after the other, their momentum unable to be stopped once the first had been spoken. Éomer's face remained impassive; Truva struggled to discern what he made of this news.

'So you shall lead a tremendously long life, many years longer than that of any Man,' he concluded after a time.

'There are no certainties,' said Truva, shaking her head. 'No precedent upon which expectations might be based.'

The King's lips twitched ever so slightly. 'I see,' he said. 'Yet what I cannot fathom is why you saw fit to discuss such things with Aragorn – dear though Gondor's allyship is – before seeking my own counsel.'

'I—' Truva began, unsure of what to say. Did she perhaps detect a mischievous twinkle in Éomer's eye?

'It could not possibly be due to the fact it was not your service but your hand that he desired, surely!' he exclaimed.

Truva's mouth fell open in surprise. 'Please allow me to explain!' she exclaimed, but Éomer had already devolved into gales of mirthful laughter.

'I would have expected it from any other save you, Truva, Second Marshal of the Mark! Not one of us suspected a thing, so scrupulous and mild-mannered as you are! You hid it well, this illicit courtship of yours; but never fear, I hold Aragorn equally responsible. Harbouring the audacious desire to steal away my most promising Marshal – imagine!'

Truva continued to stare, flabbergasted at the King and his shaking shoulders. 'So you will not grant me leave to marry Aragorn?' she asked quietly.

'I do not believe I have the authority to deny you any such desire,' said Éomer, his laughter subsiding and his tone gentle. 'Your departure will be a sore loss to our Muster, but you came to us unlooked for, and have served in a few short years beyond what many of our most renowned Riders have done in their entire lifetimes.

'Moreover, the union can only serve to solidify the alliance between our homeland and the Stonemark; even in your leaving, you render one final service to your people, for which I am eternally grateful.'

'I do not like to think of it as leaving, and cannot imagine it shall be the final service I render the Mark,' said Truva, though Éomer merely gave a subdued hem in response. 'Have you told the others? Is that why so many have spoken such odd greetings to me this morning?'

'I myself have said nothing,' said Éomer with mock affront, 'yet Elfhelm, on the contrary, is a notorious gossip; I suspect he gathered wind of this news far sooner than I, and spent the greater portion of yesterday evening exchanging rumours for pints.'

Truva sighed heavily and rose from her seat. 'In that case, I suppose there is not a soul in camp still ignorant of the news.'

'In camp, and most likely beyond,' Éomer chuckled. 'As reticent as Aragorn King was with me this morning, it seems he was not so tight-lipped the evening last. In sharing the news with his most trusted advisors, they in turn saw fit to speak of such things to their closest compatriots, and so on and so forth. I very much doubt you shall be able to evade the renown you have brought upon yourself.'

Truva grimaced. 'It is one thing to consider the inevitable attention brought by association with Aragorn King, but another entirely to experience it,' she remarked. With a final bow, she ducked out of the pavilion – only to be startled by a deafening 'congratulations!' from a passing soldier.

Joining a mixed company of labourers, Truva worked throughout the day to restore the bridges of Osgiliath, most of which had been hewn only in small portion to prevent easy crossing, although the piles of one had collapsed beneath the Southrons' assault. But Truva could not evade attention so easily; as a mason directed the team's construction of falsework for the centremost bridge, salutations continued to stream forth with equal enthusiasm from Gondorian as from Eorling. Even a handful of Orcs gave deafening barks that Truva could only interpret as congratulatory.

Once afternoon replaced morning, however, the shouts took on a different tone:

'A feast!' came the rumours. 'A feast is to be held in the name of victory against the Southrons!'

'No, 'tis in the name of milord's engagement!'

'How might a feast be so swiftly prepared? In a day? Ha!'

'What does it matter, so long as there is a feast?'

Helpless against the rising tide of excitement and quickly fading diligence, the supervising mason sent the labourers off long before the sun had fully set. 'You'd best go put on your finest raiment, milady,' he advised Truva as the others vanished into the swelling crowds.

And so it was in her cleanest tunic and hose – that provided by Aerin or one of the other tailors of the city – Truva allowed the crowd's flow to carry her to the steps of Thamelen, just south of Teluelin. As many revellers as could fit uncomfortably had crammed themselves into the magnificent banquet hall of the sons of Elendil; Orc bumped elbows with sailor and Rider and soldier alike, all come to celebrate both victory in battle and the betrothal of Isildur's descendant and an Eorling Marshal.

Exuberant song and dance enveloped Truva as she stepped into the hall. A clamour of merry voices rose high up to the lofty vaults, the sounds brighter than the torches burning in a thousand sconces. Even muffled by rich tapestries hanging above and spread below, the boisterous atmosphere could scarcely be subdued.

Still, the shout of 'Truva!' could easily be heard over the bustle. In an instant, Éomer King emerged from the chaos and snared Truva, ushering her towards a cluster of tables where the Eorlingas sat, piled upon benches far too small for their numbers.

'Hearty congratulations!' Elfhelm exclaimed as the two approached. His sentiments were echoed by the other Riders, whose 'hear hears!' were raucous and clearly influenced by several tankards of ale – yet no less sincere for their drunkenness, and perhaps a great deal more so.

'I beg of you, do not abandon me, dear, sweet, valiant Marshal!' said Gamhelm, mimicking deep, wracking sobs as he clutched at Truva's arm.

'You would mourn the loss of your Second Marshal, while your First Marshal lingers yet?' asked Elfhelm with mock affront.

'Aye, that is the very crux of the problem!'

'Do not despair, I am not gone yet,' said Truva, accepting a tankard from Éomer, who had wedged himself into the small gap between herself and Gamhelm. But even as Truva shared in a toast with her brethren, she found her eyes unwittingly scanning the chaos of the hall.

Éomer King gave a knowing grin and leaned in close. 'If it is Lord Aragorn you seek, he is not here – not yet, anyway.'

'It is little matter,' Truva replied. 'Far greater is the victory we share this night.'

Éomer did not appear convinced, although her words were not entirely false; Truva was more than content to linger amongst the Eorlingas for a time. She knew not how long she would remain in their company, after all.

Nearly an hour passed before Truva spied Aragorn slipping surreptitiously into the hall, though he did not go unnoticed by the others for very long at all. He too found himself herded in a very similar manner as Truva – but in the opposite direction: towards the Gondorians' tables by an insistent Lord Faramir. Even in such deeply personal moments, their lives were not their own.

As her gaze swept back towards her Eorling companions, Truva laid eyes upon Éowyn, tucked away beside a roaring fireplace in the corner of the hall nearest Lord Faramir, Elboron cradled in her arms. Setting her tankard of ale down (though it was soon picked up by the nearest Rider), Truva excused herself and set out across the hall. She was forced to sidestep and lunge in time with the hordes of dancers, her progress slowed even further by the constant stream of congratulations along the way.

'You are the last I'd have expected to be the cause of such ado,' Éowyn remarked with a teasing smile as Truva fell into a seat beside her.

'In that regard, you and I are the same,' Truva replied wryly. She reached out to relieve Éowyn of the squirming infant, to which Éowyn gratefully acquiesced before immediately falling upon the pheasant and other delicacies Faramir had prepared for her.

'He is such a terrible fuss!' she said between mouthfuls. 'I cannot put him down for more than a second without his charging off. I am convinced he crawls faster than that golem creature!'

Truva smiled and gave the gurgling infant a bounce on her knee. 'Of the many peaceable children I have met, it is true I would not consider little Elboron one. It is fortunate he bears the endearing beauty of his mother!'

'On that very same subject,' said Éowyn, suddenly far more circumspect, 'if you will forgive my forwardness, perhaps you might prove illuminative on the oddest of requests put to me by Aragorn only yesterday. At first I thought little of it – save the intensity with which it was made – but upon hearing of your betrothal that immediately followed, I could not help but think it very peculiar.'

Much to little Elboron's chagrin, Truva grew very still as she considered how best to broach a subject she felt certain would find little sympathy in the Princess' ear. Yet her unease was alleviated – and her heart launched skyward to flit about a tapestry of Anárion at the Battle of Dagorlad, hung at the very peak of Thamelen's rafters – when Aragorn suddenly appeared beside them.

He bowed in acknowledgement of Éowyn, but his eyes lingered on Truva. 'A word, if you will?' he asked, just loud enough to be heard over the feast's hubbub.

Truva did not return Éowyn's inquiring look as she returned Elboron (whose yawns now came swift and thick) and followed Aragorn along the walls to the servants' entrance at the rear of Thamelen. Few eyes were upon them; the revellers' attention was fixed intently upon the bevy of bards vying for adoration in the very centre of the hall. Even as Maeron set into a lively reel upon his set of pipes, Aragorn glanced quickly around before ducking into the tiny doorway.

'We ought to inform Lady Éowyn and Lord Faramir of the full breadth of our intentions,' he said, voice still quiet as he strode along a series of narrow passageways. 'That it is not simply a matter of if, but when little Elboron shall ascend to the throne.'

'Even if we speak not a word to any other, it would not be right to keep them in ignorance,' Truva concurred, though she fell silent as a parade of bustling attendants streamed past.

When they were alone again, Aragorn drew her into a secluded alcove and waited for a second trickle of attendants to come and go. 'Do you wish for me to speak with them?' he asked.

Truva shook her head. 'I will confer with Lady Éowyn, for it is due to my own personal misgivings that such a situation has arisen in the first place, and she is like a sister to me. She can bring the matter privately to Lord Faramir, for it is no easy decision, and should not be made lightly or with undue influence.'

Aragorn nodded, though he had a faraway look in his eye. 'I will abide by whichever method you think best,' he said, then fell silent for quite some time. He gazed upon Truva with expression unreadable for so long that she felt compelled to prompt, 'Whatever is the matter, my lord?'

'I am so very sorry,' he said, breaking into a smile as he reached out to tuck an errant wisp of her hair into place. 'Even seeing you before my very eyes, I struggle to believe we shall at long last be married.'

Truva ducked her head, hiding the bashful grin that appeared unbidden. 'Have you summoned me for no other reason save to look upon me?' she asked. 'For though I surprise my own self in feeling pleased at such a notion, it seems rather out of character for milord.'

'It is true I do not feel my rightful self, but I do not think that is such a bad thing,' Aragorn replied. After a moment longer, however, his smile faded and he shook his head as if to clear it, taking Truva's hands in his. 'But there is yet one more topic I had hoped to speak with you regarding.'

'And what topic is that, milord?' asked Truva, wary of the hesitation in his voice.

Aragorn took a very deep breath. 'It is my intention to order the reading of the banns on the morrow,' he said, rather quickly. 'What say you? I would very much like to be wed three weeks hence, if you'll allow.'

Truva's mouth fell open slightly in astonishment; it was one thing to imagine being married, another entirely to hear a date proposed aloud. When she regained her senses, she brought the back of Aragorn's hand to her lips and said, 'My only regret is that it cannot be sooner.'

'As is mine,' said Aragorn, a faint smile returning, 'but in this I am bound most strictly by the confines of tradition – and though there are times when tradition aligns with a King's desires, this is most certainly not one of them. But if you'll consider a mere two days' further delay, we might also be wed on Loëndë.'

'Mid-year's Day?' Truva breathed. 'Have the days flown so fleetly? Yet nothing would please me more than to usher in the season's height with you, followed by an eternity at your side. Let it be so!'

Ecstasy spread across Aragorn's face, though he seemed to be focused far too acutely upon their intertwined fingers, a furrow marring his brow.

'There is one further matter,' he murmured. 'That in the reading of the banns, we must also determine where the ceremony is to be held.'

Truva's breath faltered. She thought of Mundburg and its stark white walls, so uninviting and devoid of emotion. Not even the tiny garden in the Houses of Healing could claim the slightest wisp of grandiosity boasted by the natural world beyond. Yet for a Gondorian King to be wed in a foreign realm – even one with as close of ties as that of the Riddermark – was unthinkable.

'You spoke to me once of how Minas Tirith does not hold any sense of home to you,' Aragorn continued, rubbing his thumb across the back of Truva's fingers. 'And though I have spent many a year in service there, and Legolas has devoted a great deal of effort this past winter in bringing Elven sensibilities to its stolid atmosphere, there is something quite bleak still about the Tower of the Guard.

'I was raised in the wildlands of the north, and in the beauty of Imladris. I too would rejoice at being married beyond the city walls. We cannot remove very far, I don't think, but could you perhaps agree to holding the ceremony upon the Field of Cormallen?'

'Oh, Aragorn!' Truva murmured – further words escaped her. She pulled him into an embrace, expressing unspoken gratitude, and Aragorn in turn wrapped his arms about her. Together, they relished in the last few remaining moments of peace afforded them before returning to the feast.

Subsequent to the banns' reading, enthusiastic chaos battled with the necessities of daily life for which garnered more devotion. A week passed, and then several additional days, as both wedding preparations and efforts to restore Osgiliath continued. Of the Eorlingas, all save the King's Company and Elfhelm Marshal returned to Edoras with the intention of commemorating those who had fallen during Alatar's assault. Were it not for the fact that the entirety of Gondor readied for her wedding, Truva would have returned with them – for each recollection of Gríma brought to her mind complicated sentiments she wished to address. Instead, she was forced to content herself with the knowledge that the redeemed advisor's grave would be marked in its own way, and that she might visit it someday.

Though it was unlikely such news would reach them in time for their presence to be expected at the ceremony, a messenger was sent to Legolas in the Woodland Realm, as well as to Gimli in Erebor, and a great many other dignitaries who would be welcome at the wedding of the exalted King of Gondor and Arnor.

Yet it was not they, but Captain Castamir and Ephor Herufoth who arrived before a fortnight had drawn to a close. Heralds from Pelargir were first to inform those in Osgiliath of the Southrons' imminent arrival; these messengers were soon followed by the horns of Harlond sounding a warning. Then a single, tremendous chelandion glided into view, its black-tarred sides ominous in the summer sunlight, scarlet serpents emblazoned on sable sails writhing in the wind.

A mad rush to the banks of Eámicel followed the vessel's appearance. Their counsel regarding watch passwords interrupted, Éomer King, Elfhelm Marshal, and Truva all raced amidst the throngs through the streets of Annonaur, crossing Menelrond even as the easternmost harbour chain was lowered. The Southrons' chelandion was directed to berth at the docks of Annondû, where an immense guard converged upon the ship and escorted its commanders towards Teluelin.

The Ploíarkos and Yüzbashı, released from confinement, were last to be marched into the council chamber and sat beside the Captain and Ephor, opposite Aragorn and his numerous northern counterparts. The room felt airless and taught when crowded with dignitaries at such extreme odds with each other, its glass windows constraining. Tensions mounted as glares and grimaces were exchanged without word; given the King's stony expression, there was no question as to who was expected to speak first.

'We received word of your demands, by way of carrier pigeon,' Castamir spoke, once the silence had extended far beyond any semblance of comfort. 'There are some stipulations we believe are less than amenable.'

'Less than amenable?' Imrahil questioned. 'You are bold to test your luck, pirate!'

Aragorn raised a hand to stay the Prince. 'What is it you do not find to your liking, Captain?' he asked, both tone and expression impassive.

'Liaisons,' Castamir insisted. 'They will serve no purpose in ensuring security within the region. In fact, I think quite the contrary: their presence will inspire mistrust in the position of Captain; my people will think me no more than Gondor's lapdog. This perceived weakness will only serve to incite violence and coups, and I can assure you, any who replace me will be even less receptive to Gondor's overtures than myself.'

'This is not a point open to negotiation,' Aragorn stated, his tone brooking no argument. 'Of those who travelled with me into those lands, Captain Maeron shall be dispatched to Herumoros. As for Umbar, the youngest son of Lord Imrahil, Prince Amrothos, shall take up a similar position there. You will grant them unfettered attendance at your counsel tables, and unrestrained movement across your lands. Any attack made upon these deputies will be considered an act of war.'

Castamir sat back and stewed in silence a moment, his vexation undisguised. He exchanged a brief glance with his Ploíarkos before the latter added, 'As for the forfeiting of our warships…'

'None save those used in the fishing sector shall be spared.'

'Have you learned no lessons from the past?' exclaimed Herufoth, his voice thundering as he struck the table and rose to his feet. A dozen guards leaped forward in response, hands upon sword hilts, but the Ephor advanced no further. 'Each time you subjugate the Sutherlands further, the more desperate we become! What do you think will come of exacerbating already severe punishment?'

'In seeking to take advantage of an armistice following the War, you initiated a full-scale attack upon these lands at a time when the Stonemark was weakest,' said Éomer King. 'Even so, we have bested you; and now you would beg our hand be gentle, when you would most certainly not grant the same favour were our positions reversed?'

'There is but one concession I am willing to grant,' said Aragorn with steady mien as the Ephor reseated himself. Truva leaned in close; during the northern commanders' counsel weeks prior, she had listened with rapt attention to the debate that raged over the Sutherland slaves – perhaps the time had come to address that contentious issue.

'And what concession is that?' spat the Captain.

'The Oliphaunts shall be returned to you – provided the beasts themselves choose to go.'

'Our Mûmakil?' scoffed the Yüzbashı. 'Is that all?'

'Have you the strength to demand otherwise?' Maeron asked pointedly.

Aragorn placated the northern Captain with a glance. 'Your men shall be released to you also,' he addended. 'Boat by boat, they may return to the Sutherlands; but never more than five score at a time. Otherwise, the terms remain precisely as outlined by your Ploíarkos and Yüzbashı.'

The congregation fell silent. More than one significant glance passed between the leaders of the north; so Aragorn had elected to rely on Captain Maeron and Prince Amrothos to broker the dissolution of a slave system heavily entrenched in the Southrons' culture, with the aid of a princess they had good reason to distrust. Many participants' mouths pressed into a grim line of dissatisfaction.

And yet it seemed the Southron commanders were not unaware of this unspoken concession. Even Castamir appeared relieved by this supposed oversight; for though Umbar most of all found itself the victim of Harad's less scrupulous tendencies, his own lands were clearly not free of the practice.

'There are to be no financial reparations?' Herufoth confirmed.

'None,' Aragorn assured him.

The Captain and Ephor leaned in close, their hushed conversation scarcely audible even in the chamber's stillness. The Yüzbashı spoke in turn, as did the Ploíarkos, voices rising on occasion, but even when their words were discernible, they spoke in dialects unknown to any amongst the Host of the North. Finally, the small party turned back to face Aragorn King and the others.

'We agree to these terms,' Herufoth declared.

Without a word, Aragorn produced a paper upon which the accords' full script had been written. Already his sable seal – bearing the White Tree of Gondor upon one side, the Seven Stars and Silver Crown of Kings of the line of Elendil upon the other – was affixed. He slid the document across the table towards the Southron commanders, alongside silk ribbon and scarlet wax cakes.

The Ephor snatched up a ribbon and threaded it through the bottom of the document, drawing his seal from a leather pouch at his waist. His fixed glower did not stray from Aragorn even as he held the seal over a candle flame, or as he placed two cakes of wax upon each matrix and closed the stamp about the ribbon. Castamir's obstinate refusal to so much as look at Aragorn as he followed suit with the Captain's seal spoke equal volumes of fury.

There was no fanfare, no celebratory feast in recognition of this newly-signed treaty. The lords of Harad and Umbar did not so much as stay the night; indeed, their stamps had scarcely hardened before one hundred Southron prisoners were marched out under heavy guard from the depths of Teluelin to the docks of Annondû, one after the other in a long file. Gondorains, Eorlingas, and Rhûnic Orcs alike jostled for any position with even a sliver of a view, eager to observe as their adversaries boarded the massive black chelandion.

The Southrons seemed just as eager to depart, for no sooner had the gangplank been withdrawn than the vessel cast off, rowing towards the massive arches of Menelrond. Once beyond the city walls, it continued on, escorted by a flotilla of Swan Fleet skiffs – to ensure the Southrons did not cause trouble along their journey.

Yet an ebullient spirit swiftly returned to Osgiliath, and was soon redoubled by the arrival of delegations from near and far. Tempted by the prospect of revelry (and having been informed all fighting and danger was concluded), Azgaur Queen of West Rhûn was the first to appear, leading a grand caravan that included several Kine as an offering of goodwill. Minister Tinnedir soon followed, sailing from Pelargir once the first ship of freed Southron captives had passed by without incident.

A second ship from the south soon followed that of the Minister, as Prince Imrahil had sent for his remaining heirs, so that they might witness the first wedding of the line of Elendil since the days of Eärnil II more than ten centuries ago. Yet Lothíriel and Erchirion alone sailed north. Wary of the Corsairs' passing, Amrothos elected to maintain protection over Dol Amroth, as he had during the War.

They were, however, accompanied by Radagast, whose boisterous reunion with Pallando served to distract from the more subdued meeting of the Princess and Éomer King. Even so, the young duo's murmured greetings and bowed heads did not go unnoticed – particularly by Truva as she took in the proceedings from the heights Menelrond. It was there she was discovered by Radagast, who joined her in looking out across the Eámicel.

'I shall miss old Bertha the most,' said the Wizard with a sigh.

'Beg pardon?' Truva asked.

'No sooner had the Corsair chelandion drawn aside the docks of Pelargir, white pennants of peace raised high, than dear, sweet Bertha burst past our defences to climb aboard,' Radagast explained. 'She and Alfred were the only Oliphaunts that elected to return to their homeland. Though it deeply saddens me, I suppose the warmer weather shall be kinder to her senescent bones.'

Truva laid a sympathetic hand upon the Wizard's arm. 'Let us seek out Prince Imrahil, and request that his son send word of the Mûmak herd's wellbeing at every opportunity,' she said, turning from the docks to afford Éomer King and Princess Lothíriel some modicum of privacy.

Yet the most peculiar arrival of all to Osgiliath was not a dignitary of any sort. One morning, mountainous bushels of dried fruits, sack upon sack of pine flours, and thick slabs of salted venison and boar appeared within the Anonnaur gate, following a night when mysterious drums had been heard sporadically throughout the darkest hours. The King's Chef fell gratefully upon these wares, caring little for from whence they were sourced – so long as a more grandiose banquet could be prepared. Both Truva and Aragorn, however, knew the Drúedain had come and gone without so much as rousing the suspicions of a single guard.

Such events only served to amplify anticipation surrounding the ceremony. But in spite of the numerous grand figures that had gathered, and the detailed arrangements being devised, still something felt amiss – that is, until a single, small canoe of the Woodland Elves' make sailed in from the north.

Afternoon sunlight streamed down bright and balmy, causing rivulets of sweat to trickle down Truva's forehead and back as she balanced precariously upon a timber beam, aiding in the construction of a pile along Osgiliath's most damaged second bridge. So focused was she, and so blinded by her own perspiration, that she failed to spy the little craft as it drew abreast.

'Ai-oi, lassie, don't go falling in – for I shan't rescue you a second time!' cried Gimli, startling Truva and nearly effecting the very fate he warned against.

'Master Dwarf!' she replied, dropping deftly into the canoe and bowing as low as space allowed. 'It is very good to see you again, my friend! And you, Legolas – you look well as ever.'

'And she has the audacity to act surprised by our arrival!' Gimli scoffed. 'Imagine our own surprise when we encountered Aragorn's messengers coming northwards to tell us the news, even as we journeyed south!'

'It saddens me to think – had we set out any later – we might never have arrived in time to witness the betrothal of two very dear friends,' said Legolas, laying a hand upon Truva's shoulder in the greeting of his people.

One of Truva's eyebrows rose ever so slightly at the Elf's suggestion that she was a 'very dear friend'; yet the notion pleased her, and so she made no comment. 'How fare things in the north?'

'As well as might be expected,' Legolas answered. 'Which is to say, not particularly well at all. I fear Rohan ought not expect friendly overtures from Erebor any time soon, though my father continues to navigate an unsteady alliance between Calengroth and the Lonely Mountain.'

'I imagine Aragorn shall wish to hear of such developments,' said Truva, guiding the canoe towards the docks of Annondû and escorting the pair to Teluelin. There, they were greeted with a particularly enthusiastic embrace from Aragorn, as well as all the wares from his kitchens that could hastily be assembled.

'Tell me, my friends,' said the King, pushing an array of the Drúedain's cured meats towards Gimli before repeating Truva's own inquiry: 'What news from the north?'

''Tis a right mess, make no mistake,' the Dwarf conceded. 'King Thorin considered the Marshal's words an accusation by association, and his ire was further inflamed by the Woodland Realm's pressing of the issue; he considers Thranduil's position to be mere opportunistic antagonisation.'

'I ought not have been so straightforward in speaking with Thorin King,' said Truva, shaking her head ruefully.

'I do not believe there was any manner in which such a sensitive topic might have been broached without provoking Thorin's malcontent,' Legolas reassured her. 'Yet it could not go unaddressed.'

'Nor were you the only one to voice such concerns,' said Gimli, though he seemed rather more occupied by the salted pork laid before him than the flow of their conversation.

'Oh?' asked Truva.

'Not two days after your departure, King Bard II of Dale arrived before the Lonely Mountain, with many officials arrayed about him,' Legolas explained. 'Having heard your own tale, he came to substantiate the claims made against the Iron Hills Dwarves – for the Aelrim, too, have suffered the disappearance of many a youngling.'

'Yet in being met with King Thorin's obdurate temperament, and sensing no hope of concessions, he enacted an embargo that remained in place even as we departed,' Gimli added.

'Trade between Long Lake and the Lonely Mountain is not insubstantial,' said Truva. 'Even so, when Buri escorted me through Erebor's tremendous halls, it seemed the Dwarves had made tremendous strides towards self-sufficiency. As well-intentioned as Bard King's actions may be, I cannot think it will have any considerable impact.'

'And therein lies the problem,' said Gimli. 'King Thorin has become increasingly isolationist, and sees no compelling reason to compromise.'

The company sat in silence a while, brooding upon the complexities of their situation, before Aragorn heaved a deep sigh. 'Whether it be through arbitration, trade embargo, or any other means, the Iron Hills will not remain overlooked,' said he. 'We shall see to it – make no mistake. But let us speak on more pleasant things as we sup.'

Thus sombre talks gave way to tales of the friends' wild adventures since last they parted. Glad as she was of Legolas and Gimli's company, Truva was most thankful for the fleeting excuse to linger in Aragorn's presence; for even in the days since their betrothal, each had been busied by the unceasing responsibilities before them. A King could not abandon his governance, nor a Marshal her leadership – regardless of how ardently their love was felt, or how hard it had been come by. Ever wary of watchful eyes, Truva and Aragorn were forced to content themselves with a brush of hands here or a secretive kiss there, always beyond the view of others.

Those most eager to impinge upon what little time Truva did not dedicate to her official duties were the Wizards, whose curiosity proved ever insatiable. The onslaught escalated one morning when Radagast cornered Truva in the Eorling mess tent several days after his arrival, flopping down into a seat beside her as she picked apart her breakfast of barley bread and butter.

'Pallando tells me he has been instructing you on how to wield your powers, as it were,' said the Wizard, holding a pipe to his lips (though it seemed to have gone out some time ago) and gazing about distractedly.

'It has been no easy task, though not for any lack of effort on his part,' said Truva. 'I imagine, even without the interruption of battles and such, we still would have been met with minimal progress.'

'And he told you the feeling starts from the chin, did he?'

'That seems to be his impression.'

'Utter codswallop!' Radagast exclaimed quite suddenly, causing Truva to jump. Smoke began to curl up from the bowl of his pipe. 'It begins from the heels, where the body meets the earth most firmly!'

'It most certainly does not!' said Pallando, appearing at the mess tent entrance.

'Surely, as a horsemaster of Rohan, you understand the significance of keeping your heels down?' Radagast insisted, pointedly ignoring Pallando. 'Can you not feel it, even now? Go on, give it a try – set fire to it.'

He withdrew a tiny hemlock pinecone from a pocket hidden in his robes and held it before Truva with the very tips of his fingers, expectant. Pallando drew near, curious in spite of himself.

'I haven't my bow,' Truva mumbled, averting her eyes.

'You need it not,' said Pallando, surprising both Truva and Radagast. 'You need only to find the source within yourself.'

Truva glanced about. Eorlingas came and went from the tent, cavorting about as soldiers are wont to do during mealtimes. Though they paid little heed to the strange proceedings in their midst, Truva couldn't help but be distracted by each Rider who brushed past.

'Ignore the others,' Pallando urged. 'The bustle here pales in comparison to the utter chaos of battle, as you well know. Simply focus your intention as I have taught you.'

Radagast gave a contemptuous snort but otherwise did not respond.

Truva bent her mind towards the pinecone, taking in each detail, every little flake of its curved scales and knobbly stem. She pressed her heels into the trampled grass of the mess tent, allowed the pressure to build behind her nose, devoted every fibre of her awareness to the pinecone's grooved features.

Nothing happened, of course.

Time and time again, Truva stared at the pinecone. She stared until her eyes ached and crossed, and her head spun; until all her senses felt both dulled and unbearably sharp at the same time. But aside from Radagast dropping the cone in a momentary delusion that it had grown hot, however, the results were negligible. Eventually, Truva could bear no more and fell back in her chair, utterly spent.

'So you see, the heel is equally ineffective as the jaw,' Pallando declared triumphantly.

'It is because you have impressed upon her the wrong notions from the beginning!' Radagast persisted.

The Wizards' argument flowed over an oblivious and exhausted Truva, only to be repeated ad nauseam each subsequent time the three converged to explore her uncooperative abilities. Yet in the days following the Osgiliath Accords, it was not this magical power – nor her fear that perhaps she harboured no extraordinary nature at all – that became the greatest burden in Truva's mind, but rather the duty of explaining the full ramifications of Aragorn's proposal to Éowyn and Faramir.

Truva devoted a great deal of energy to avoiding Lord and Lady, hoping to conjure both suitable words and suitable opportunity. But it was not long before she resigned herself to the fact that no timing would ever be perfect, nor any words sufficient. Thus, one evening when she could no longer endure the tension, Truva sought out Éowyn's accommodations in the marble halls of Teluelin.

On finding the rooms empty, Truva stood before the doorway, frowning. Relief and frustration wrestled in her breast as she considered whether to continue her search or simply abandon the venture and attempt again the following day, knowing it would require a great deal of effort to reignite the courage to return. But even as she turned to make her way back to the Eorling encampment, a passing guard slowed, then paused.

'If you are looking for the Lady Éowyn, she is in the gardens,' he offered, bowing low when he realised it was the Marshal he addressed.

'The gardens?' Truva inquired. 'I have walked the perimeter of Teluelin several times throughout my stay in Osgiliath, and never once observed anything that resembles a garden or courtyard.'

'That is because they are not to be found without the building, Marshal. Follow the northern wing's central corridor, and it will intersect a tremendous hall spanning the full length of the building north to south. It will appear as though you can go no further, but there is a tiny door opposite – little more than a service door. Beyond it lies the conservatory.'

'Thank you, soldier,' said Truva, making off in the direction indicated, indecision resolved.

When she slipped through the gardens' heavy door, she was brought up short in awe. There were no walls – merely a series of pillars and high windows towering into an arched marble ceiling. Beneath her feet lay a pathway of ornate mosaic tiles, flanked by rank upon rank of citrus and olive trees marching towards the far wall, their boles struck into vast beds of soil. An elevated walkway encircled the full length of the hall above.

In spite of the cool evening outside, the conservatory interior was warm and mild. Truva breathed in the musky scent of earth, thick upon the humid air, and allowed it to cleanse her heart and mind.

'It is truly magnificent, is it not?' spoke a gentle voice not far ahead.

Truva stepped forward to peer around the nearest thicket of colocasia, where Éowyn sat alone upon a bench. Lamplight illuminated the Princess' soft features, rendering her beauty all the more ineffable. Truva took a seat wordlessly beside her.

'The conservatory is still in its first stages of infancy,' Éowyn continued. 'Faramir described to me how the orchardists brought a variety of specimens from Lossarnach, Dol Amroth, and beyond – and though the lemon trees fared most poorly along the voyage, it seems King Aragorn's hands can heal more than the mere wounds of mortal Men.'

Truva feigned not to notice when Éowyn's hand moved surreptitiously to her shield arm, instead turning her eyes upon the rayed petals of nearby jasmine. 'It is a wonder such splendour survived the Southrons' assault,' she remarked.

'I would like to think even those soldiers of Umbar and Harad were capable of acknowledging the beauty and significance of this endeavour, and thus could not bring themselves to destroy it.' Éowyn smiled gently and reached out to run her fingers through the jasmine blossoms, sending up their delicate perfume into the air. 'Still, to speak of such regrettable events does not strike me as your purpose in seeking me out this evening.'

She then fixed Truva with piercing scrutiny. Unable to bear the intensity of her friend's gaze, Truva lowered her eyes to stare at her hands twisting in her lap.

'I wished to speak with you regarding Aragorn's request that Elboron serve as the Crown Prince, should the need arise,' she said.

Éowyn did not respond, but nor did she look away. Truva cleared her throat several times before summoning the courage to continue.

'When I set out for Rhûn, I did so at the behest of Gandalf, and with the purpose of discovering my lineage there,' she said, voice no more than a whisper. 'But the Wizard's charge was a mere façade to mask hidden ends – for which I was thankful; I was far happier serving his purposes than mine own.

'For I thought surely I was the daughter of farmers, or perhaps of nomads or traders – those nameless, least able to raise a fuss when their children go missing. To trace such familial lines is an impossible task, and I was content with this lot: to consider the Eorlingas my only kin.

'But oh, my friend, how wrong I was! And how miserable I am, to know I was born of a man determined to overthrow the lands I have come to call home, and whose very blood has condemned me to a life I do not wish to lead!'

Tears began to course unbidden down Truva's cheeks at these words. She went to speak further several times, but each attempt was met with a sharp, compulsive gasp.

Éowyn reached out and took her hand. 'Whatever do you mean? What lineage could possibly cause you such distress?'

'I am not the daughter of some undistinguished, ordinary commoner, but of Alatar the Blue Wizard himself!' Truva blurted, burying her face in her hands.

Éowyn's brows knitted together in confusion. 'The late companion of Pallando, who led the Easterlings against us in the Battle of Cair Andros?'

'He who was slayed by Gríma before the gates of Edoras,' Truva confirmed. 'The very same.'

Then, just as quickly as they had come, her tears abated. Inhaling a shaky breath, she used the sleeve of her tunic to wipe her cheeks dry. 'I'm sorry, I've allowed my emotions to run rampant too much of late; it is just that I am so very tired.'

'And understandably so,' said Éowyn, patting Truva's hand comfortingly. 'For in a wild twist of fate, you have come to undo all the ills of your sire. But surely you must know by now that family delves deeper than blood; the Eorlingas shall ever be your kin, as they shall ever be mine, and your legacy shall spread further than even that of Alatar.'

Truva smiled at the Princess' misguided encouragement – to transcend a Wizard! The thought! Yet her face soon fell to consider the other half-truths; for while there are some ways in which one's fate can be guided by their own hand, there are also some things that cannot. Truva knew there were ramifications of her lineage that could not be ignored.

But Éowyn had already arrived at the next line of thought; she sat puzzling a moment, a perplexed expression twisting her features.

'You must forgive me,' she began, 'but as unsavoury as such knowledge of your relation to Alatar might be, I cannot fathom what relation it has to Aragorn's request.'

Truva hesitated only briefly. 'Aragorn's line is long and proud,' she said, though her voice still quavered. 'Now I discover mine is that of a traitor, who submitted to greed and failed in his task to protect Middle Earth. I cannot in good faith sully Aragorn's descendants with my own blood.'

'And Aragorn feared Isildur's weakness would manifest in himself, and prevent the destruction of the One Ring; yet we sit here in this magnificent orangerie, free of despair and darkness. Tell me, my friend, what is it that truly worries you?'

Silence filled the space between them. Truva closed her eyes, dreading a retelling of that which she feared Éowyn would not understand. The Princess had already given birth to her blessed son, being met with no obstacle to the union with her true love; she lived, and would live, in the manner expected of a member of the royal house of Rohan.

At a gentle squeeze from Éowyn's hand, Truva took a trembling breath.

'I have seen too much loss,' she continued at last. 'Already in my life, I have watched the young pass before me too often, said final goodbyes to too many loved ones, seen too much suffering of the innocent; yet this is the fate that awaits me as the long-lived descendant of Alatar, whether I will it or no.'

It was Truva's turn then to fix her friend with a keen gaze. 'Éowyn, I cannot watch my own children die before me. I cannot.'

A brief lull followed this declaration; but rather than look away, Éowyn met Truva's eyes squarely. 'And so Aragorn elected to name Elboron as Crown Prince, for you will give him no heir.'

'I did not ask it of him!' Truva hung her head, for she sensed accusation in Éowyn's impassive words. 'On the contrary, I was certain the illusion would shatter at long last, and Aragorn would finally see me as the poor candidate for Queen that I am – a rejection I was more than willing to accept; as grievous as the loss of Aragorn's love would be, it paled in comparison to what I believed the alternative to be.'

Éowyn mused silently upon these words for a time, her lips pressed tightly together. The grip with which she held Truva's hand, however, only tightened.

'I have been granted the good fortune of choosing for myself the path of a healer,' she said after a time. 'And I, too, saw fit to defy convention when riding into battle upon the Fields of the Pelennor. I do not see how I can enjoy such privilege whilst simultaneously denying it to you.'

Truva's brow furrowed. 'I do not understand.'

'Further,' Éowyn continued, ignoring the interruption, 'I need only think of Elboron and the unendurable torment I would suffer, were he to be taken from me – let alone by death. I do not believe I would make the same decision if I were in your place, yet I cannot fault you for your choice.'

Truva stared at Éowyn blankly, for she had been so certain of facing the Princess' outrage that it took several moments for realisation to dawn upon her. Yet when it finally did, her heart swelled with love and acceptance – only to immediately deflate. 'You comprehend, of course, the enormity of the task that is now certain to fall to little Elboron?'

'It fills me with tremendous unease, it is true,' Éowyn admitted. 'Yet the lives we weave are mysterious, and their ends invisible; not until the warp is stitched back in shall the tapestry's image be revealed to us.'

'And you will speak of this to Lord Faramir?' Truva pressed. 'It is not a decision that can be made alone.'

'Yes, though you can be assured he will not disagree.'

'But to all others—'

'Your secret shall never leave our lips,' said Éowyn, rising. 'Come, do not be in such dispirits! Let us take a turn about the garden, and gossip about all the pleasures that are to come with your impending nuptials.'

Truva stood as well, and at first a smile passed between the two, and then a long embrace – a gesture of gratitude, and of love, and of reassurance, as would pass between kin. Then they linked arms and cut through a copse of orange trees, ascending the wrought-iron spiral staircase to the conservatory's suspended walkway.

'And what of little Elboron?' Truva asked. 'Is he abed already?'

'I have left him in the care of my husband and brother,' Éowyn explained. 'And though the Lady Lothíriel accompanies them, I deeply doubt she is up to the task of keeping those troublesome three in line. As delightful as it has been to take two breaths on my own, I ought to return – but not too swiftly!'

And so it was that the two shieldmaidens strolled high above the treetops, and looked down upon the foliage below before descending once more to meander through the close paths between peach and pomegranate trees. With each step Truva felt her worry ease, and her enthusiasm for her marriage to Aragorn return, and her affection for Éowyn redouble.