Recommended listening: Mann – Violin Concerto

CHAPTER XXV: EAST RHÛN MARCHES TO WAR

Truva had not moved an inch when a guard opened the greenhouse hatch to slide a tray of tea, rolls and jam into the room the following morning. As the overcast sky outside signalled time's passage, she sat in a stupor, Aragorn's Star clutched in her worrying fingertips; not even watery sunlight in the early hours could distract from wild thoughts that bit and snapped at each other in her mind.

The fatigued days of her youth in the Hidlands had never allowed Truva much time to contemplate who her parents might have been – and even when they had, the fanciful images she had concocted were in no way similar to the reality facing her now.

When she turned her thoughts to the Eorlingas, the turmoil in her breast threatened to suffocate her; for although Morinehtar seemed well-meaning enough, Truva considered Théoden King her true father, regardless of lineage. Éomer, Éowyn, Mǽgwine, Éolend, Éothafa – all were her brothers and sisters, her blood, her kin. Any daydreams of lost parents or siblings had ceased the moment she found a home in Edoras.

As for Aragorn (the very thought of whom caused her heart to constrict further), already he had pledged his love to her. He was a man of honour, a man of his word – surely this discovery would change little between them, least of all his affection for her.

The entire journey had been a waste. The Blue Wizards had succeeded – to some small degree – in their mission to oppose Sauron, and posed no threat to the West. Truva's lineage was a revelation she desired to be ignorant of once again. She ought to be in the south, protecting her homelands, protecting those she loved – not off on some fanciful venture of no import.

Even in her loneliest days of the Hidlands, Truva had never felt more alone.

It was Óddîr who poked his head through the hatch next, sometime around noon. Finding Truva lying on the thin rug, breakfast untouched, the Easterling guard leveraged himself into the room and took a seat on one pillow. He remained silent a long while, weighing his limited Westron.

'Your breakfast is cold,' he said at last. Deducing from Truva's lack of response that she did not intend to eat it, he helped himself to one of the rolls, only to sputter into a coughing fit moments later. Chugging her tea down as well, he spread the remaining half with jam and observed Truva with a contemplative expression as the roll disappeared bite by bite.

Then, without a word, Truva rose suddenly and made for the trap door. Óddîr leapt up at once, scattering crumbs across the floor.

'Where do you go?' he asked.

'Home,' she replied shortly.

'Wait!' Óddîr scrambled after Truva as she descended to the main passageway, feet slipping on the polished wooden staircase. 'Rhûn is your home,' he said. 'Captain Yicî told me so!'

'I may have been born in Rhûn,' said Truva, her lips a grim line of determination, 'but it is not my home.'

'Wait!' Óddîr repeated, calling after her retreating back. 'Morinehtar requests your presence!'

Truva continued to march down the steps as though she had not heard. It was not until she came before the Wizard's study that she paused and took a deep breath. A final greeting was dictated by manners; the Easterlings had been gracious hosts, after all, and (her own personal misgivings aside) could prove useful allies against both the Iron Hills Dwarves and the troublesome Orcish tribes that still lingered in the far East of Rhûn. Truva's knuckles scraped against carvings of pine branches and sturgeon as she knocked.

'Orj,' came the Wizard's voice from within.

Truva shoved one heavy door aside and stepped into the study. Morinehtar appeared equally as busy as he had been the previous day, though he was far swifter to set aside his work when he saw it was Truva who entered.

'Ah, Truva, so kind of you to acquiesce to my summons.'

'Morinehtar,' said Truva, bowing.

'I wish you would call me Alatar – for that is the name by which Ezele and my dearest friends referred to me. I only became Morinehtar following the earliest Easterlings' insistence upon worshipping something greater than I truly am; I hold no affinity for the title.'

An unsettled feeling came over Truva, for the Wizard's request harboured implications she was not eager to navigate; she was neither his dearest friend, nor an adorant Easterling. Yet it could not be denied that a connection existed nevertheless. She bowed again. 'Alatar.'

This seemed to please the Wizard. 'So, have you come to terms with your lineage?' he asked. 'Surely it did not come as any tremendous shock; you so uncannily resemble your mother's people, and Gandalf's self-serving intentions were apparent as ever – I do not doubt he knew your search would lead you to me.'

Truva did not respond, for she could not. To speak any words confirming her past felt like an insurmountable feat, one which she had not even the slightest desire to accomplish. Instead, she merely stared at the Wizard, who returned her gaze a moment before beckoning her forward.

'Come,' he said, leading her to a pedestal by the window. The rain had grown heavier; droplets pattered down upon panes closed against their assault, and tree branches swept across the glass outside with hushed whispers. Alatar pulled a multicoloured patchwork of silk off the pedestal to reveal a crystal orb beneath, wisps of gold swirling in its pool of murky darkness. Truva gasped in spite of herself.

The Wizard scrutinised her closely. 'You know what this is,' he stated.

'Yes,' Truva murmured in awe. 'It is a palantír.'

'How does one who claims humble origins come to have knowledge of such an object?'

'I have seen one, many years ago – indeed, it was the very reason I first encountered the Eorlingas, for having heard rumours of its resurfacing in the Hidden Lands, they sought that palantír which was once lost in the Forochel's depths. Yet Théoden King could not bend it to his will, and thus proffered it to Saruman. Perhaps you know how that tale ends.'

'A palantír does not accept all masters,' said Alatar, shaking his head. 'Only the rightful King – or those appointed by him to be its surveyor – can wield it with ease; Ezele used this one for many years to keep her allied tribes safe from Sauron's Easterlings. Even so, there are some who, in their folly, attempt to see through a palantír without proper authority.'

'Do you suggest Théoden King was not the Eorlingas' rightful leader?' Truva's voice was steely as she fought to keep the heat rising in her breast at bay.

'Nothing of the sort,' the Wizard said dismissively. 'In all likelihood, Théoden was merely ignorant of the palantír's idiosyncrasies, for the orbs are deceptive and not nearly as simple as they appear. Without guidance, they can be near impossible to wield, even for the most eminent kings of Men.'

Truva did not respond; she was thinking instead of how she had felt when plying her focus to the palantír in Meduseld. The initial jolt of energy, as well as the sheer exhaustion that had plagued her body and mind for the subsequent sennight, were not so easily forgotten. She eyed the object before her warily.

'Look into the palantír,' Alatar whispered, motioning towards the crystal.

Still Truva hesitated, for she full well understood what meaning a successful attempt would hold. Yet there was a small mote of hope, also – that this entire situation was some terrible misunderstanding, the product of assumptions too quickly made. Perhaps she would fail to observe anything in the palantír, just as she had in Meduseld.

She stepped forward and extended her hand towards the orb, allowed its swirling contents to grow blurred before her vision, tried to see past it in the way Théoden King had instructed her all those years ago. Much as it had then, the world about her grew dim and faded away; there was a sensation of becoming separated from her corporeal awareness. Truva steeled herself for the same flash of light.

It blinded her, searing her eyes, yet it did not throw her from the illusion as it had before. Colours began to streak past her sight: greens of trees and grasses, blues of skies and lakes, greys of mountains and cities. It felt as though she were on horseback, but with the speed increased a thousandfold. Truva grew disoriented, her knees wavering beneath her.

'The palantír is oriented southward,' she heard Alatar's voice drift into her consciousness. 'Direct your attention to all that you know in that area.'

Aragorn, thought Truva. She knew not where he might be found – whether he remained in the lands of Umbar, or whether that conflict had been resolved long ago, allowing him to return home to Gondor, and Éomer King to the Mark. Yet surely somewhere southward he lay, and the turmoil Truva had experienced over the course of the past day had engendered in her the most desperate desire to see him again. His eyes alone would convey all the reassurance she yearned for, she knew, she knew. Aragorn, cried her heart.

And then there he was, right before her – though his image was distorted as if she were viewing him through poorly-blown glass. He sat in a room with many other people about – there was Éomer King, too! – and several figures she recognised as Umbarians – and Southrons? – they dined together upon an opulent array of fruit – the room was patterned with curtains and infinite tessellations – and then Aragorn turned – he peered into her eyes—

'Oh,' Truva whispered. With the sensation of being extricated from treacherous water just before drowning, the scenery flashed back past her vision. She found herself standing once more in Alatar's study.

'Incredible!' the Wizard exclaimed. 'In truth, there was still some small seed of doubt in my mind regarding the alignment of our stories, yet now it is undeniable: none save the daughter of King Ezele would be able to use this palantír with such skill – not without extensive tutelage.'

'Are they… real?' asked Truva. 'The things visible in the palantír?'

'They can be – though sometimes the palantír shows events that have not yet come to pass, and such things are never certain until they do. There are also those powerful enough to distort what others see, and lead them astray. I believe that was a tool Sauron used most proficiently.

'All this I can teach you,' he continued, enthusiasm swelling to an intoxicating fervour, the study's stifling atmosphere humming with energy. 'I can show you not only how to utilise the palantír, but also how to harness the latent skills of Istari – which you most certainly boast; the bow you wield evidences that. Who knows what else you are capable of, what power you might harbour, unbeknownst even to yourself? For while you are merely Peristar – half-Wizard – I suspect there are few who would be able to rival you, should you blossom under my guidance. Will you not remain in Karkürem, and learn of your potential?'

Truva stood immobile for a beat, convoluted emotions roiling in her breast, then bolted. She careened back out through the study door and raced down around the spiral staircase, slipping on one stair and tumbling head over heels all the way to the landing below it. But no sooner had she picked herself up than she resumed her flight, leaping and vaulting until she gained the entrance hall.

She did not pause even then, instead streaking along the wisteria-strewn colonnade until she came upon the bustling paths of Karkürem. Shielding herself from the rain with nothing but her arms, she asked several times where the stables might be found, only to lose her way again in the maze-like paths of the garden city. At great last, she came upon the wide entrance of a long, low wooden hut.

There were three attendants on duty, all of whom leapt to attention when Truva burst in. Upon discovering it was not a commanding officer who disturbed their loafing, however, they immediately lost interest and turned back to their card game.

Truva longed for Bron's stolid reassurance. Perhaps more than anyone – more than Aragorn, Théoden or Éomer, Mǽgwine or Chaya – her insouciant equine companion had lent Truva strength in her darkest of hours; though he was incapable of speaking a word, he had known how to comfort her better than any.

But Bron's tawny rump was not visible amongst the horses of Karkürem. He had passed – to wander the fields of the Mark until Truva joined him. A knot grew in her throat, but she could not cry; all her emotions had been stripped bare.

Instead, she sought out Zaĭsan. Swiftly grooming him then throwing a blanket across his back, Truva had no sooner begun to cinch his saddle than her eyes grew unfocused, her balance unsteady. Complete lassitude overwhelmed her, a wave of enervation lashing at her bones and threatening to submerge her. The strap slipped through her hands as she fell against the wall, sliding to the ground until she sat in a nest of fresh hay.

It felt as though everything and yet nothing had changed. She was adrift, unable to pull her thoughts ashore, floundering beyond the guiding gleam of any lighthouse.

The sky had grown dark when she awoke some time later, having unwittingly fallen asleep. Exhaustion still clung to her limbs, ladening them with an unwieldy stiffness as she rose and contemplated her next move. Nothing would come of hiding in the stables, she knew, and yet she delayed just a short while longer, tidying Zaĭsan's tack and plaiting his hair in the Eorling style. He was not Bron, nor even Roheryn; he was – in a most reassuring way – just an ordinary horse. But even in their short time together, a spark of fondness had ignited in Truva's heart for the tricksome beast.

Rain poured down as she made her way back to the tree-tower of Baradorn, losing her way only once before stumbling upon its flowered gateway. When the guards granted her entrance, she nearly collided with Alatar in the main hall beyond. He appeared to be exiting, himself – though whether it was in search of her, or on his own business she could not say. The Wizard wore a cape and hat of tightly woven grass, and several of his guards were dressed similarly.

'So you did not leave, after all,' he remarked, as though he were entirely unsurprised. 'Have you given any consideration to my proposal?'

'I have,' said Truva.

'Wonderful!' A broad smile pulled at his features. 'I assume by your presence here—'

'I have come to no conclusions – only made considerations,' Truva interrupted him.

'Ah.' Alatar's face fell. 'In that case, you are free to linger here as long—'

'Thank you.'

Truva brushed past him and mounted the staircase that led to her greenhouse lodgings. Such behaviour was not exactly becoming of a King's emissary, yet most in her position were never called upon to question their very understanding of their own identity. Even so, Truva felt rather like a petulant child when she dropped the trap door in place behind her.

The door did not remain closed very long, however, before Óddîr propped it open and slid a tray across the floor.

'Your dinner, Marshal,' he said, hopping up as well.

Truva peered at the arrangement of small dishes very similar in nature to those that had mystically appeared in overabundance the previous night. Her stomach turned.

'Have you eaten?' she asked the guard.

'No, Peristar.'

'Do not call me that!' Truva cried fiercely, though in seeing Óddîr's hurt expression, guilt cut immediately into her breast. 'I am so terribly sorry,' she rushed to apologise. Such a title is still unfamiliar to me.'

'I cannot understand,' said Óddîr. 'I am just an Easterling guard. But I forgive.'

'Thank you.' Truva hesitated but a moment longer before adding, 'I am not hungry, but I do not wish to see this splendid food go uneaten.'

Óddîr immediately understood her meaning. He wasted no time in bringing the bowl of soup to his lips, allowing Truva to muse in silence awhile. Though there were innumerable questions adrift in her mind, she decided to begin with that which was most innocuous:

'Why is it that all foods within Karkürem are harvested from plants?' she asked.

Óddîr halted, several steamed pods of okra clutched in his fingers. 'Morinehtar makes the plants grow,' he said. 'We eat what he provides, and are thankful.'

Truva blinked in confusion. 'I recall eating several dishes of fish and fowl in the palace of Agdî,' she remarked.

'Karkürem is lucky. Plants are enough. Other areas of Rhûn are not so lucky. They must eat what they can.'

'I see,' said Truva. She stood and moved towards one bank of windows, gazing beyond the panes down onto the convoluted tumble of streets below. Within the tremendous city walls, a smattering of lanterns glowed with a gentle wash of light, like fireflies dispersed upon tree boughs and between homes – merely hinting at the stories played out beneath those flowered eaves.

'Do you see?' Óddîr asked, his voice no more than a whisper. 'Did you see the farms of Agdî? Did you see the way our people suffer?'

'I fought alongside you in the Orc attack, did I not?' Truva asked, turning to fix him with a searching gaze. The guard's expression was one of earnestness, his thick brows deeply furrowed; Truva could not help but be reminded of the all-consuming apprehension she had grappled with throughout the winter at Aldburg. 'My people have likewise suffered at our enemies' hands, and at the cruel hand of nature.'

Óddîr shook his head. 'You do not understand. In Rhûn, fighting and hunger are endless. The West is sometimes prosperous.'

Truva fell silent then, for she had no response. The Accords of Minas Tirith – and the promise not to take up arms contained within – extended only to those Easterling tribes that had signed them; the settlements of Agdî and Karkürem remained unprotected, susceptible to their neighbours' whims. But while stability throughout all of Rhûn would surely benefit the West, the potential for further peacekeeping deliberations was not Truva's to promise.

Óddîr took several deep breaths before speaking again. 'Morinehtar thinks you will help save Rhûn.' Tears welled in his eyes, so very richly brown like the earth Alatar cherished.

'I do truly see,' Truva insisted. The conflict in Rhûn gave rise to ramifications far surpassing her own shattered sense of identity; it was selfish to think only of her own circumstances. Alatar was, after all, blameless in their separation. Perhaps— perhaps… perhaps there was no need to choose between the person she had been when born, and the person created through a lifetime of experiences.

Óddîr shifted towards the exit, now-empty dinner tray in hand. With only a brief nod, he disappeared into the stairway beyond.

The following morning, Truva arose long before dawn with resolution in her breast. She had tossed and turned throughout the night, yet from the outset knew what was expected of her – not from others, but from her own self. Remaining in Karkürem would not only allow her to discover her past and full potential under Alatar's knowledgeable guidance, but also lend succour to the Wizard in his quest to bring stability to Rhûn.

She did not wait for breakfast, and instead climbed down from the greenhouse in the dim light of a new day. The rain had not ceased since her arrival in Karkürem; it pattered lightly against the windows, having let up somewhat from the previous day.

As Truva circled down the central staircase of Baradorn, however, slight oddities attracted her attention. Beyond the windows, an orange glow filtered between the trees, lending a strange cast to the morning fog and dark pines. There was a subtle noise coming from outside the tree-tower, too – an amalgamation of sounds that slowly became the distinctive hum of activity, exceeding the expected rustlings of a town such as Karkürem at dawn. But in looking beyond the windows, Truva could not spy the source of either light or noise, and so she continued her descent, determination crowding out curiosity.

There was no need to knock upon the Wizard's study; the door already lay open. Alatar stood alone, hunched over a map spread across the desk – though he quickly abandoned it upon Truva's entrance.

'Impeccable timing!' he exclaimed. 'I was certain you were of a mind to abandon me.'

'What is going on?' Truva asked. Perhaps she could afford to indulge her curiosity, after all; it would not do to launch into so consequential a subject matter as identity without preamble. She strode towards the study window, which afforded a clearer view of Karkürem's main gates than the greenhouse on the opposite side of the tower.

Her breath came short to discover an entire company of Easterling soldiers camped along the western reaches of the city, their blazing campfires the source of the strange light. When she peered closer, she could distinguish the Noyon's figure stalking its way through the streets of Karkürem, making for Baradorn. He was no longer garbed in elegant silk robes, but the full armour of battle once again.

'Yes, well,' hemmed Alatar, clearing his throat brusquely. 'Your timing is most unfortunate, you see – for long have these plans been laid; and once they are set in motion, they cannot easily be stopped. Had I known of your imminent arrival, I would most assuredly have delayed this undertaking until you actualised your full potential – or at least, a greater portion of it.'

'Do you go to fight the Orcs of West Rhûn? I will go with you; I am a Marshal of the Riddermark, and you will find I do not require the magic of Wizards to prove worthwhile in battle.'

The laugh that burst then from Alatar's throat chilled Truva more thoroughly than any winter's night spent without shelter in the wilderness. It was a short, staccato-like laugh, and lasted no more than a brief spell. When the Wizard had exhausted his humour he fell silent, the brooding quietude of his study all-consuming as he observed the map for several additional breaths.

'No,' he murmured. 'I do not go to fight the Orcs. Not this time.'

Truva remained motionless, trapped between the army's activity outside and the pensive mood radiating from the Wizard. 'Then whom?'

Alatar moved to join her at the window.

'You have seen how my people languish in these lands,' he said, voice still quiet, 'always bereft of resources and beset upon by their neighbours. And so it has been for countless generations of the short-lived Men of the East. Yet even if we were to wrest power from the Orcs and control the Celduin in its entirety, we would fare little better; it is a harsh existence here, even without the unceasing threat of conflict.'

'You seek to attack the West, then!' Truva exclaimed, aghast. She stared at Alatar's profile in wide-eyed horror as he continued to observe the soldiers – his soldiers – gathered about the walls of Karkürem. The Wizard's pallid skin took on a fiery hue, as though facing down the balrogs of legends past.

'Long has Gondor maintained a monopoly over the most fertile lands of Middle Earth,' he said. 'I long to thrust my fingers into the rich soil of Anduin's floodplains, to show my followers what gifts they might produce for themselves – if only they were not hampered by arid dirt and desiccating winters, seeds stripped of their nutrients and wildlife too scarce to depend upon.

'Too long has the West failed to value fully its many advantages, bought at the price of depriving all others. I will not allow this inequity to endure! A host of the East I will lead into Gondor – for I know their might is greatly weakened by the War – and establish a society in which all Men are granted equal opportunity to provide for themselves and their families.'

'You will never find victory against the Western alliance with such a paltry muster of fighters,' said Truva, her voice quickly rising. 'Even weak as our forces are, Rhûn is splintered – you cannot possibly hope to raise the entire East in favour of such a scheme.'

'And that is why I enlisted the help of the Haradwaith,' said the Wizard.

When he turned towards Truva then, there was a knowing glimmer in his eye. 'It was a far easier task to accomplish following Sauron's defeat, for my emissaries could travel unopposed through the lands of Mordor, on into Umbar and Harad. The Sutherlands, too, chafe at Gondor's unrelenting stranglehold, and were more than willing to collaborate towards a common goal: subjugation of the West.'

'And you thought I might be persuaded to aid in this endeavour?' said Truva, still struggling to comprehend the situation unfolding before her. 'To take up my sword against my brethren, my warriors, my King – my family?'

'I had hoped, but without much conviction,' Alatar shrugged. 'As I said, given my druthers, I would have far preferred to delay the commencement of this campaign – to give myself time in which I might show you the consequence of Gondor's greed, and to explore the full breadth of your powers. Yet the pieces have already begun to move, and I would be a fool to stop them.'

Just then, the Noyon burst into the study. At the very same moment, two thoughts connected in Truva's mind; if Rhûn had allied itself with the South— 'Aragorn!'

'Yes, that is correct,' said Alatar, motioning for the Noyon to restrain her. 'It was our intent from the outset to lure him into those lands, dividing Gondor's already weakened forces even further. And these men you see at my gates, the ones you fought alongside a few days ago – they are but the remnants of a small guard left behind to protect Agdî from the Orcs of Uzdígh. The bulk of my army is already encamped upon the southern shores of Zünuur, awaiting my signal to march West.'

Truva thrashed against the Noyon's vice-like clutches. Alatar drew in close, a curl at the end of his long, skinny beard nearly brushing her knee.

'I will grant you one last opportunity to ally yourself with the side that shall be victorious,' he whispered, the scent of honeyed tea wafting from between his lips. 'And I do not ask that you join us merely because we shall prevail – no, no; it is because those who fight for Rhûn do so in the name of egalitarianism and justice.'

Truva suppressed the desire to spit in his face. 'Not with all the time of eternity could you convince me armed conflict against Gondor was justifiable,' she said, malice cutting with each syllable.

'As I suspected,' quipped the Wizard, then spoke no more. With a mere wave of his hand, he dismissed the Noyon, who retreated out of the study with Truva and half a dozen guards in tow.

'It is a shame you won't be joining us, Marshal,' said the Noyon as he frogmarched Truva down the steps. 'I estimated you to be a reasonable and honourable person, keen to discern the virtuous side of any conflict, as you did in our fight against the Orcs of Uzdígh. A warrior of your capabilities would be worth ten score rank and file soldiers, but I suppose you simply can't perceive the realities of this particular dispute.'

'Why do you not simply speak with Aragorn King?' Truva asked. 'Send an emissary to Minas Tirith with your grievances, and he will do all within his power to see wrongs righted.'

'Do all within his power?' The Noyon laughed incredulously. 'Send an emissary, so that Gondor might deceive and dismiss us, as it did our counterparts that fought in the War? No, we are not fools; it is folly to seek an audience with the West.'

They came upon the entrance hall then, but the Noyon did not cross it to exit through the main doors. Instead, he skirted the inner wall and entered a second, far smaller door. This opened with a cool rush of air onto another stairwell, descending down, down into the roots and veins of the forest floor. The Noyon brusquely shoved Truva along this new passageway, its steps illuminated by infrequent sconces as they proceeded past a series of larders and cellars off tiny landings before reaching the very last step.

Here lay what was unmistakably a gaol: two rows of cells, built of iron and stone, lining a long hall. Most were empty, save a few occupied by tattered, emaciated figures languishing on straw-strewn flooring. Truva did not see the gaoler rise from his desk and approach the Noyon; she did not hear as they spoke, could not feel anything save gasps clawing at her throat as rough hands clanked the lock of one cell open and, with a shove, sent her sprawling upon mildewed hay. She could not form a single coherent thought as acute panic drew sable blankets of unconsciousness about her mind.