Author's note: This is the FOURTH installment of The Hidden Chronicles. It will not make much sense without having first read the preceding installments. For any readers who may have read up until this point but forgotten some of the details (understandable, as it takes me FOREVER to write), there are summaries of all three installments in the Ancillary Resources over on AO3, where there are also maps of significant places — canonical and otherwise — for reference, as well as a glossary for the many names. My username there is blueoncemoon.

Like The Coronation of the King, this work was initially intended to be a sort of interlude between the more substantial The Marshal of the Mark and the last and final installment of The Hidland Chronicles; and to some degree it is. But unlike Coronation, this work is a bit longer and touches on many topics that will be crucial to understanding the final installment. There is, however, more meandering and less plot than might otherwise typically be expected in foundational story.

Recommended listening: Bruckner — Symphony No. 0 in D minor

CHAPTER I: THE TOMB OF THE FAITHFUL

A refreshing wind chased away the heavy, muggy air hanging over the lowlands of Belfalas, sending tufts of lavender and thyme undulating across the faded scrubland. Tall eucalyptus trees with shredded bark whispered secrets to the ears of any who would listen, their subdued concerto joined by the cooing of wood pigeons. Far off in the distance, the city of Dol Amroth and its tower of Tirith Aear sat perched as a delicate rumour upon the very lip of the Bay.

A full twelvemonth had passed since Truva ascended to the throne of East Rhûn – since she had donned the diadem of the Shonkhor tribe and taken her place at the head of the Ovgïn Council, and initiated bilateral construction on the Ulāngól dam. In that time, summer had circled back around once more, bringing with it the fire of an unshrouded sun. Beads of sweat rolled down Truva's temple and trickled along her spine as she sat upon Roheryn at the crest of the road through Dor-en-Ernil, taking in the sweeping landscape before her.

'Did you imagine yourself returning to Dol Amroth so soon?' murmured a voice behind her.

Truva turned to share a subdued smile with Aragorn, who rode up on Shadowfax to take the space beside her. 'Perhaps,' she replied, 'but certainly not under such circumstances – both joyful and sorrowful.'

'King Éomer and Princess Lothíriel's impending marriage is most certainly joyful, but I cannot conceive of why you would find it sorrowful. Perhaps you think their betrothal overly hasty?'

'Overly hasty?' Truva gave a gentle breath of laughter, though it was soon swallowed by the grim line of her lips pressed together in spite of Aragorn's attempt at levity. 'In regard to sorrow, I speak of Prince Imrahil.'

Both she and Aragorn glanced towards the caravan that followed behind. Its pace was slow and reserved; in the very centre was a wagon borne of four great white steeds, the wagon bed shielded from the fierce rays of South Gondor's sun by a blue silk canopy. Truva lowered her eyes, memories of that fateful campaign to the Iron Hills suddenly flooding her mind. Beútan's fading heartbeat still pulsed beneath her fingers even as they clutched Roheryn's reins.

'Besides, who am I to accuse others of being overly hasty in their affections?' she questioned, turning back to Aragorn. 'In the eyes of most others, you and I were betrothed and married within the span of a few short weeks! No, what I do not understand is why we travel to Dol Amroth at all. Darling though I find Lady Lothíriel, Éomer King is of higher rank – and the groom, at that; why is the ceremony not to be held in Edoras?'

An arch expression passed across Aragorn's face. 'It is a deviance made at my request.'

'Oh?' Truva's piqued interest was evident in her lilting voice.

'But the reason is secret.'

'Even from your own wife?' Truva asked, incredulous.

'Especially from my own wife,' said Aragorn with a puckish smile, 'for I fear – despite her unerring loyalty and circumspect nature – any information I choose to share would immediately wind up in the ear of Éomer.'

Truva gave a huff and spurred Roheryn forward, descending easily along the newly-hewn path of Annabonrad towards the flatlands below, followed by Aragorn. The less expedient caravan trailed at quite some distance, kicking up a cloud of golden dust in its wake as it threaded back and forth between the hills of Dor-en-Ernil.

The setting sun cast a golden glow across the land as the company came to the lower slopes of Dor-en-Ernil. Ennebyn the Oliphaunt handler was there to greet them, standing in the midst of a cluster of buildings. The area was significantly quieter than when Truva had last visited in the company of Radagast; what had once been a bustling labour camp was now a subdued sanctuary.

'Milord, milady,' said Ennebyn, bowing low before Aragorn and Truva.

'The repairs to Pelargir are remarkable, but I see your efforts have also not been wanting here,' Truva remarked. 'When last I came amongst you, construction of Annabonrad was scarcely begun; now the way from Pelargir and Dol Amroth is wide and easily traversable.'

'Once the roadway was finished, the Oliphaunts did all they could at the port before retiring back to their accustomed barns here,' Ennebyn explained. 'But to tell the truth, I think they have grown a touch bored. Perhaps they might be inclined to help out at Edhel—'

'I am certain there are numerous projects that can occupy our beloved beasts, should they wish it,' said Aragorn, cutting the trainer off with the flash of a smile.

Ennebyn's eyes grew wide before a smile of his own spread across his features. 'Indeed, milord – many projects, many projects! My immense friends are always at your service…'

Though the oliphaunt trainer welcome them with a modest meal and all the hospitality he could muster, the company spent no more than a passing evening – and a brief inspection of those Oliphaunts who had chosen not to return to Harad – at the southwestern reaches of Annabonrad before resuming their journey.

Thus they came soon upon the looming walls of Dol Amroth, from which sounded the Belfalas horns. But when the gates were opened, the atmosphere within was solemn, grave – entirely distinct from the scarcely-constrained enthusiasm that had greeted Truva and the other Eorling and Gondorian warriors those many moons ago. Gone was the joy at their vanquishing of the Corsairs' navy at Pelargir, replaced with utter grief.

There to greet the company was the proud figure of Elphir, newly-anointed Prince, and those of the House of Dol Amroth: Erchirion and Lothíriel, and their father-sister Lady Ivriniel, who in her advancing age leaned heavily on Erchirion's arm. The Prince's young son, Alphros, was there also, watched over by the careful eye of his mother Linwen. Absent only was Amrothos, still away in Umbar – though his arrival was rumoured to be imminent.

Those of the House who were present fell in ahead of Lord Imrahil's bier as it was guided through the gathering of silent mourners. This procession traversed the city to the very walls of the citadel Bar-in-Ciryn before turning sharply eastward. There, in the middle of the wide avenue, rose a towering podium which surpassed in height even the roofs of facing buildings. Stair after stair after stair led to a small platform, surrounded by peripteral columns and capped with a roof and pediment: the Tomb of the Faithful.

Taking the bier upon their shoulders or into their arms, Truva and a score of others ascended the immense steps – each nearly half a body high – and passed through the row of columns. In the very centre of the platform stood a statue carven of purest white marble, depicting Galador son of Imrazôr, first ruler of Dol Amroth, and beside it a catafalque of the same black stone that guarded both Minas Tirith and Isengard. Upon this catafalque was piled a nest of wood, where the company lay the body of Imrahil.

Truva knew not what Dwarven magic lay upon the Prince's form, but his visage appeared every bit a statue as that of Galador – and yet his expression was peaceful, as though he were merely at rest. Even when Elphir stepped forward, burning brand in hand to light his father's pyre, the scarlet flames merely served to paint more life into Imrahil's pale features.

Not one word was spoken, not a single voice lifted in lamentation; the congregation stood, bound by the weight of silence and woe, unmoving even as nighttime swallowed the sky and constellations began to arc overhead. The fire blazed on until the very last ember's glow faded away into darkness.

Only then did Lady Ivriniel take up a golden-handled brush and sweep the ashes into an urn of seafoam chrysoprase, inlaid with silver swans upon the waves of Belfalas. She worked with focused intent, each stroke of her withered hand casting silver clouds of the erstwhile Prince's shade up into the air. The sound of Mearas horsehair bristles against the marble catafalque was deafening in the quietude.

When every last mote of ash was contained within, Lady Ivriniel passed the urn to Elphir, who took it in his hands and turned slowly to the stair. Back down he led the procession, down to the avenue where a concealed door set within the platform stairs now lay open, illuminated by torches. Its dark maw was simultaneously beckoning and foreboding.

A soft hum began in that moment – at first nearly inaudible, only ever growing to a gentle wash of sound even as each and every onlooker joined in. It was the lament of the southern shores, its origin lost to the ages. Then, as he stared into the tomb of his forefathers, the Prince lent his voice to the chorus, sending it up in song:

He threaded his path o'er the aftermath
of the splendour of the Sun,
and wandered far past many a star
in his gleaming galleon.
On the gathering tide of darkness ride
the argosies of the sky,
and spangle the night with their sails of light
as the streaming star goes by.

Then he glimmering passed to the starless vast
as an isléd lamp at sea,
and beyond the ken of mortal men
set his lonely errantry,
tracking the Sun in his galleon
through the pathless firmament,
till his light grew old in abysses cold
and his eager flame was spent.

Even as he sang, Elphir took up a torch and stepped into the tomb's sloping entrance, followed first by his family. Then came Aragorn and Truva, and all others – counsellors, advisors, nobles, merchants, farmers, traders, children, grandfathers. The Prince set a fire in each sconce as he passed down into the catacombs, ignoring narrow passageways that branched off here and there. The illuminated walls were shell-encrusted and inset with row upon row of loculi, each containing its own multicoloured urn. Truva read the plaques as she passed: first the lesser members of the House of Dol Amroth, siblings or spouses of those who had ruled, arrayed in their own family trees.

But as the procession neared the passage's halfway-point, directly below the pyre platform above, Elphir paused and turned towards the southern wall. Before him spread a vast mosaic of gems and stones, coloured in as many blues and greens as contained in the sea and arrayed as the waves of its most tempestuous storm. Here the niches were lined with lapis and inlaid with golden workings, glimmering in the light of flickering torches. They soared up to the tallest reaches of the catacomb, where the nameplates' runes were incomprehensible to Truva in spite of her recent studies of the many languages still unfamiliar to her.

'Galador,' Aragorn whispered by way of explanation, nodding to the topmost niche before indicating the nearest passageway. 'The tombs of Imrazôr and Mithrellas, his father and mother, lie just beyond – a position of honour, though neither ever ruled Dol Amroth.'

The First Prince's name struck a memory within Truva, but she set it briefly aside. 'It is said that Mithrellas was Elven-kind,' she replied instead, so quiet not even Lady Lothíriel beside her could hear. 'Is that true?'

'Many things that are spoken are untruths, though of late I'm inclined to believe such tales more and more. They have an uncanny habit of bearing out.'

But he fell quiet when Elphir summoned a deep breath and stepped forward, extending his arms towards the twenty-second niche. His hands trembled as he settled the urn within a nest of flickering candles, but Linwen rushed to steady him. After an additional moment they retreated and, joined by little Alphros, bowed deep and long. With a final heave of his chest and a surreptitious wipe at his eyes, the Prince turned and continued along the passage.

Erchirion stepped forward next – no longer the cheerful, oblivious youth Truva had come to know in the loomshop of Edoras, but a proud, bold commander of Dol Amroth. He, too, bowed low before Imrahil's loculus before striding after his brother, emotions hidden by brusque movements.

Thus followed Lady Ivriniel, and Lothíriel, who paused only a moment longer than her brothers to withdraw a smooth stone hidden in her skirts and place it beside her father's urn. When she stepped aside, she bowed also to Aragorn, and motioned for him to pay his own respects.

Truva was startled by the grim expression that crept over Aragorn's face – a sight which she had not seen since the Wars. Muscles twitched in his jaw as they did only when he was truly upset but did not wish to show it. Truva rued wearing the more practical Gondorian travel uniform rather than the voluminous skirts common in Rhûn, which would have allowed her to take his hand in hers and secret them away from view.

But in an instant, when Aragorn arose from a long bow, her concern for him was superseded by all the thoughts she had staved off throughout their southward journey, and indeed for the past cycle of the sun – thoughts that had been steadily mounting until they burst forth, unwilled and uncontrollable.

It was her fault Prince Imrahil was dead.

She had been the one to bring the issue of the Iron Hills to the southern realms' attention. She had been the one to push for a northern campaign. She had been the one to let Beútan's last breath slip out from beneath her fingertips.

If only they had waited longer, if only they had worked harder to establish diplomatic overtures, if only—

Aragorn's strong grip clutched at her arm, pulling her to her feet as the next advisor in line stared in equal parts surprise and pity.

'My apologies,' Truva managed to mutter, bowing to the advisor. She then bowed also to Imrahil's loculus for good measure – in the haze of her consciousness, she couldn't recall whether she had already done so – and stumbled after Aragorn. He linked his arm tightly about hers, though even the main passageway sloping back up through the catacombs was quite narrow, and he struggled not to bump against either side.

'It has been quite some time since last you succumbed so heavily to grief,' he murmured.

He did not speak accusatorily; it was Truva's own mind that made the accusation: however virtuous empathy may be, it was a poor reflection upon Gondor for its queen to be so little in control of her faculties.

'I thought my composure improved,' Truva answered as they emerged from the catacomb and stepped out into the night. She inhaled a heady breath of air off the Sea of Belfalas, allowing its briny scent to anchor her more solidly in the present. All about the avenue, the citizens of Dol Amroth continued to hum as they slowly drifted towards the western entrance of the catacombs, filing one by one past the final resting place of their beloved Prince.

'Pallando has guided me well,' Truva continued. 'I was simply unprepared for how deeply I would be moved by Prince Imrahil's passing.'

But she allowed her words to peter out as the royal family, clustered a short distance away, drew near.

'Please allow me to thank you for your service, my lord and lady, in bringing my father home,' said Elphir, sweeping into a bow – a gesture Truva still had not become accustomed to. Salutes from subordinate soldiers was one thing, but bows from Princes entirely another.

'It was our honour to accompany him,' replied Aragorn. 'Imrahil was a good man, brave and valorous, worthy of the House of Dol Amroth. Long did he defend the southern coasts of Gondor, and I am proud to have served beside him upon the fields of battle.'

'I could spend all the ages of this world enumerating my father's praises, and still it would be insufficient,' said Elphir. 'But come, you must be weary. My family has chosen to honour the three-day fasting period, but you are not so bound – there is dinner waiting already for you in the halls of Bar-in-Ciryn.'

But Truva would hear nothing of the sort. 'We will observe also the fast,' she declared, her tone brooking no argument.

'We have come into Dol Amroth with the intention of marking Lord Imrahil's passing in the manner expected in these lands,' Aragorn added.

If Elphir was surprised, he gave no indication; truly he was his father's son – stoic and possessing the impassive face of diplomacy. 'Your solidarity is met with deep gratitude,' was all he said before motioning towards the palace gates. 'If that is your wish, I will show you to your rooms.'

And so Truva and Aragorn retired for the evening in the finest accommodations the palace offered, save perhaps the Prince's own chambers – though even that was not certain. But for all its finery, the room and its contents did not compare to the beauty of the sea view beyond. As Truva leaned upon the windowsill, gazing out towards the harbour lights, Aragorn came up behind her and slipped his arms about her waist, drawing her tight against his chest.

'I missed you terribly,' he murmured, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

'And I you,' Truva agreed. 'A palantír is a marvellous tool, indeed, but it is no adequate replacement for seeing you with mine own eyes, and feeling your warmth beneath mine own fingertips.' She ran her hand along his forearm as if to emphasise her point, or to remind herself that he was real.

'And a funeral caravan offers less privacy than a market square at noon on auction day,' Aragorn complained. 'But now at long last we're afforded a few days of peace—'

'Ah,' Truva interrupted, turning about in Aragorn's arms to face him. 'As grateful as I am for our time together, I made a promise – a promise which I have already broken once in coming to Dol Amroth all those moons ago.'

'What promise?' Aragorn gazed down upon her with no small amount of exasperation, though it was tempered by a dash of amusement and curiosity.

'There is a soldier by the name of Galador, whom I met in Ithilien after the Battle of Morannon,' Truva explained. 'In expressing my desire to see Dol Amroth, he invited me to seek him out when next I found myself in Belfalas, so that he might show me about the city. Our straits were so desperate after our venture in Pelargir last year that I had not the opportunity then, and I am afraid I cannot possibly disappoint him now.'

Aragorn mused silently a moment. 'It will be no easy feat, going about the city with so many gathered for the Prince's funeral. We will scarcely be able to make it beyond the gates of Bar-in-Ciryn,' he concluded.

But Truva's eyes danced in anticipation. 'I have a plan.'

Come morning, Galador was sent for. The young soldier bounded into Truva and Aragorn's chambers not one punctum later, with a bright countenance and a thousand words of greeting.

'Alae!' he exclaimed. 'Sad was I to see you sail away under such dark storm clouds when last you came to these lands, but tides both fair and foul have seen fit to return you here long before I might have dreamed. Welcome back, milord and lady, to Dol Amroth – may you see it in a light typically unfamiliar to those in great standing such as yourself.'

'Well met, my friend!' said Truva. 'It makes my heart light to be reunited under more favourable circumstances. It seems an age and a day since the Unified Host bested the Southrons in Osgiliath and we greeted each other 'neath the Rammas Echor. But here I am at last; and by your words, I presume you were able to fulfil my request?'

Indeed, Galador did not come empty-handed. In a great bag he brought the traditional dress of the Dol Amrothinian people: short, wide-legged trousers and an equally wide-armed tunic of hemp for Aragorn, to be covered with a black wool surcote, and a skirt of many narrow pleats for Truva. He rifled through the many garments before selecting also a bodice embroidered with threads of bright red and gold, as well as a wide blue sash. Each outfit was accompanied by appropriate headwear: a wide, flat cap that half-hid Aragorn's face, and a veil of lace that obscured Truva's entirely. The clothing was, most importantly, well-worn and showing evidence of many patchings and hemmings.

''Tis a shame your object is secrecy,' Galador lamented. 'I would have liked to see your highnesses in Belfalas' finest ceremonial dress; the buttons alone weigh nearly as much as you yourself!'

'There is time yet, never fear,' Truva reassured him as she laced up the bodice's final eyelets. Then she gave Aragorn's costume a quick assessment. 'You look terrifically handsome, milord.'

But Aragorn only frowned in response. 'I do not like that I cannot see your beautiful face,' he said, gently fingering the hem of Truva's lace veil.

'It is the style of a maiden betrothed yet unwed,' Galador explained, somewhat apologetically. 'It seemed best suited to your purpose, as it not only hides your features, but obscures the fact that you are already married.'

'It is a cunning disguise,' said Truva.

The trio slipped undetected from their accommodations. Their presence continued to go unnoted even when they turned a corner and came suddenly face to face with Princess Lothíriel's chambermaid. Both Truva and Aragorn leapt in surprise, but the young woman showed them not one hint of deference, and indeed seemed almost irritated at her work being interrupted as both parties sidestepped in the same direction several times before managing to pass one another.

Aragorn sent Truva a startled but significant glance but said not one word as the trio made once more in the direction of the citadel entrance. In encountering first one servant and then another along the passageways of Bar-in-Ciryn, their presence continued to be met with the same disinterest; even the guards opened the gates with the barest of formalities.

Beyond, a stream of mourners filed slowly across the main thoroughfare, making for Tomb of the Faithful. They bore candles and nosegays of blossoms native to Belfalas and walked with heads bowed. The hum of voices, unceasing throughout the night, continued even now; and indeed could be heard throughout the city.

'It shall be a small wonder if all who wish to pay their respects are able to do so before the sealing of the tomb,' Galador remarked with a shake of his head. Then he turned from the procession and his eye took on a hint of mystery. 'But first, a most necessary visit!'

Truva and Aragorn had to step quickly in order to keep up as Galador diverted along a series of increasingly narrow side streets. Warm limestone façades – crammed so close they formed maze-like walls and nearly came together overhead – boasted lush vitis leaves that crawled along door and window frames and stretched from house to house, casting shade below. Tufts of lavender, sage and rosemary sprouted up through each promising crack of the cobbled street underfoot.

The trio's luck continued to hold. Flocks of Dol Amrothinians – many of whom were dressed in more elegant garb than the King and Queen – passed by without so much as a first glance in their direction.

Truva relished in this newfound anonymity. It had not been long since she ascended to Marshal, let alone Queen, and yet it was not until that very moment she realised how very heavily the incessant attention wore on her. Earnest though her service to her people was, it afforded her very little opportunity to simply exist. A quick glance towards Aragorn revealed she was not alone in these sentiments; he flashed her a conspiratorial smile.

'Ah, here we are!' said Galador, stopping below a wrought-iron sign bearing the tailor's shears in an impossibly tight alley. He opened the troublesome door with a sharp shove of one shoulder and called out to the house in general, 'I've brought guests, my love!'

'No, no, you mustn't come in!' a distressed woman's voice answered. 'It cannot be seen by anyone in this state; I'll surely be hanged for treachery!'

'Aerin?' Truva questioned.

The seamstress emerged from a backroom and stared in confusion – until Truva lifted her veil.

'Bless me, but if it isn't our Marshal-turned-Queen!' Aerin exclaimed. 'How well you look in the garb of Dol Amroth, threadbare though it may be. And how very clever – I would have taken you for any other resident! Have you come to pay your respects, then?'

'To both Lord Imrahil and to Lady Lothíriel,' said Aragorn.

'And to you, my friend,' Truva added cheekily.

'Come now, nobody likes a flatterer.' But the flush of Aerin's face spoke otherwise. 'You've come to no trouble or harm since last we met – not even in the wild, distant lands of Rhûn?'

'Nothing worth reporting. Rhûn is not nearly so queer as some would have it. But what of you? How do you find married life in Dol Amroth?'

'Ah! It goes well enough, but first I must thank you so very much for the bolts of silk you sent – and the worms and craftsmen to produce more! It is the finest silk I have ever seen. I'm rather ashamed to admit my own wedding garments looked even more queenly than those I designed for you.'

'There is no call to apologise, dear Aerin,' Truva reassured her. 'Your elegance, crafted by your own hand, was and is well-deserved. I am only sorry I was unable to attend the ceremony myself.'

'We go now on a turn about the city,' inserted Aragorn. 'Will you be joining us?'

'Oh dear me, no!' bemoaned the seamstress. 'I've three weeks' worth of work to complete on the Princess' gown in as many days – you must go without me!'

Truva let loose a warm laugh. 'So Lady Lothíriel too was not blind to the splendour of your creations!'

'Yea, and promised to pay royally, too!' Aerin enthused. 'The Princess was so enthralled with the gowns you wore that she sought me out personally – personally! Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn's wedding garnered my little shop a great deal of interest, but ever since your nuptials last midsummer I have been so busy I am forced to turn away orders.'

'Your prospering business is every bit as deserved as your joyous union,' said Truva, laying a kindly hand upon the seamstress' arm.

'Come,' said Galador, ushering Truva and Aragorn back out the door. 'Let's leave my lovely wife to her work, otherwise the complaints I'll hear will be all the louder.'

They would visit no guilds, nor tour the city's defences; Aragorn and Truva were not privy to the inner workings of these places, ordinary citizens as they temporarily purported to be. Out of respect for Prince Imrahil, they also bypassed vendors offering balls of rice stuffed with tomato and mince, or shell-shaped pastries filled with cream, or roasted pork bread rolls, the tantalising fennel scent of which sent Truva's stomach rumbling. Instead, they flitted about the merchants' stalls, taking in the brilliantly-painted ceramics, the handheld looking glasses backed by complex marquetry, or iridescent shells carved with portraits, ships at full sail, seabirds – crafts the skills of which evaded comprehension.

Truva stared in increasingly rapt fascination at each new sight, though Aragorn – having been many times into the land of Amroth – found more amusement in Truva herself. He smiled widely at each of her exclamations, but would also pair each with an additional complaint at not being able to see her joy.

The trio wend through the city, many streets crammed so tight with stalls that they were often forced to inch forward single-file, connected to each other with hands grasping the backs of garments. Eventually they emerged into the central market square, which was a swirling kaleidoscope of colour and activity. Then, over the commotion, a man called out from atop a pageant wagon tucked along the square's southern side.

'Draw near, my friends, draw near!' cried he. 'Draw near, and hear a tale most befitting our days of late – a tale of woe, yea, but a tale of love, also, and of devotion.'

As if compelled, Aragorn and Truva joined the swarms of onlookers crowding about the stage. They were shoved most unceremoniously towards one side, and once the space became so cramped they could move no more, even Aragorn – blessed as he was with the height of the Dúnedain – was forced to arc and crane to see about the sea of hats. The pair stood lost amongst those who were entirely unaware they rubbed elbows with the King and Queen of Gondor and the Reunited Realm. The notion brought Truva great comfort.

'Our tale begins in the distant northern lands where, beneath the eaves of golden-boughed Lothlórien, there dwelled a prince,' said the narrator. As he spoke, a young actor emerged from behind the backdrop: a swath of canvas painted with blue and emerald waves, and the artist's closest approximation of the golden mallorn leaves.

Thus the tragic tale of Amroth and Nimrodel unfolded, made all the more poignant by the quiet hum of mourners mingling with the performers' own chorus. Truva thought back to her brief encounter with Prince Imrahil in the halls of Bar-in-Ciryn, when she had stopped before a magnificent tapestry and spoken on the history of Dol Amroth with the Prince. A flood of unanticipated grief washed over her.

But she was not alone. Many a stifled sob was heard when the actor depicting Amroth cast himself off the stage into a pile of hay symbolising the Sea of Belegaer, and later when Nimrodel came to find her beloved gone. Truva was grateful her veil hid her tears, though Aragorn was not so fortunate. Galador's face was a sheen of sorrow.

But scarcely had Truva wiped her face and thrown her hands together in appreciation of the players than a murmur rippled through the gathered crowds. 'The Southron delegation is here! The Southrons!'

Aragorn cast a startled glance at Truva before they rushed to follow the others towards the city gates, Galador hard on their heels. Already the main thoroughfare was lined with curious onlookers crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, though Aragorn succeeded in squeezing forward to a position near the front. There they spied one entrepreneurial flower merchant waltzing along the roadway before he could be chased off by the guards.

'Lilies!' he cried. 'Lilies for the ladies of the Southlands, and for our returned Prince Amrothos! Lilies!'

Aragorn turned to Galador with a puckish expression. 'What have you to say about the lilies of Dol Amroth, my friend?'

'They're the pride of our realm, milord – and in full bloom at the moment,' Galador answered. 'They're worth a pretty penny, I'd wager.'

In a startling movement, Aragorn threw up one hand and beckoned the merchant to come near. 'I will have one of your lilies,' he said, holding out a small copper coin.

'For your bride, good sir? Then I shall give you two – may she be more beautiful than the blossom, with a heart more pure than its white petals.'

Aragorn accepted the flowers with a word of thanks, and passed them to Truva with a self-contented smile upon his face. 'Would that I could see how greatly you outshine even the most beautiful of blossoms,' he complained once more.

'Why do you give me two stems, when one is so clearly intended for you, milord?' Truva asked playfully, holding one back out in return.

'What am I to do with a lily?' Aragorn asked, feigning incredulity and refusing to accept the flower.

'You might wear it as a lady does,' Turva teased, reaching out to tuck the lily behind his ear. The long, bulky stem stuck out quite comically. 'It suits you, milord,' she laughed.

Just then, the horns of the city sounded, heralding the Southrons' arrival. Over the heads of the crowd reared an immense Oliphaunt, so large it was only just able to fit through the gates. Atop its shoulders sat an ornate litter, gleaming gold in the midafternoon sun, strands of gemstones swaying with each of the creature's steps.

The beast elicited a gasp from the crowd. 'That is not one of ours,' they whispered. 'It is far too large. Have they brought one all the way from the Southlands? Whatever for?'

As the procession drew nearer, striding along the central avenue towards Bar-in-Ciryn, Truva could make out three figures perched within the litter. In the very front, standing before a throne-like chair, was Amrothos. Lounging behind him upon a chaise lounge was Indil, swathed in robes of bright yellow.

But that was not what set the whispers into a furor.

At Amrothos' side, their arms intertwined, was Undómírë.

Truva knew them at once, having heard from Aragorn each and every detail of his venture in the Sutherlands. He had described them perfectly: the lighthearted daughter of Harad's Ephor, always with a smile on her face, and the bold, brash Princess of Umbar – who now, by all appearances, was also a Princess of Dol Amroth.

'Helm,' Aragorn swore quietly, having picked up the rather unkingly habit from Truva.

'So this is who you spoke of,' she said, almost admiringly.

'It is,' Aragorn confirmed through gritted teeth. A dark shadow clouded his brow.

'Undómírë is cunning, no doubt, to have allied herself with a prince of the south. And Amrothos likely fell with ease into her machinations; he is not nearly so discerning as you – though it was by your order he was sent to Umbar in the first place,' Truva quipped gently.

Aragorn gave a huff of unamused laughter. 'I did not think a son of the House of Dol Amroth capable of being false. It seems the Faithful line no longer holds true.'

'Perhaps it is not political manoeuvering Undómírë seeks,' Truva suggested. 'Perhaps she truly loves Amrothos, and this union will benefit both Umbar and Dol Amroth – and thereby all of Gondor.'

But when she turned to look at Aragorn, she saw in his eyes the same disbelief that was thick upon her voice. He shook his head.

'I ought never to have sent him into Umbar.'

'Well, what's done is done,' Truva sighed. 'We shall have a rough time of it, attempting to keep Lady Indil at a respectable distance from Éomer King, as it is.'

But in spite of Truva's attempt at jest, the frown between Aragorn's brows did not ease, even as the Oliphaunt drew near. Its three occupants waved and greeted the throngs, but where Amrothos appeared almost disinterested, Undómírë's sharp, discerning gaze swept across the gathered crowds – and fell upon Aragorn. She was not misled by his dress; she had seen him far too often, and far too close, to be fooled by such a simple disguise.

Then her eyes flickered to the veiled figure of Truva at Aragorn's side.

Undómírë moved to the very edge of the litter, pointed directly at the pair, and cried out in a voice loud enough to be heard even over the blare of trumpets and bang of drums:

'You debase yourself, milord.'

Whether she referred to Aragorn's garb, the oddly-placed lily, or Truva herself – or perhaps all three – it was not clear. All nearby onlookers craned their necks to catch a glimpse of those Undómírë indicated; even Galador turned with curiosity to his companions. Aragorn ducked his head to shield his face from view.

'We must be gone from here,' he murmured before taking Truva's hand and weaving back through the masses, leaving Galador who elected to stay behind in order to catch the last few glimpses of the Southron Princesses. Now the streets were far more traversable, as nearly all the residents of Dol Amroth were gathered along the main avenue; and indeed Truva and Aragorn made almost as good of time as the procession, slipping in through a postern gate shortly after the Southron delegation had arrived at the front.

'Let us quickly change before properly greeting the new arrivals,' said Aragorn, turning towards their chambers, but Truva caught his arm.

'No,' she insisted. A petulant streak coursed through her, and her eyes gleamed with uncharacteristic opposition. 'Let us go exactly as we are, and show that we are not ashamed.'

A slight smile played at Aragorn's lips. He said nothing as he linked Truva's arm in his own and made instead for the dining hall. It was abuzz with greetings and words of exclamation when they entered, though it fell near-silent at once. The new arrivals were already sitting down to a light noon meal.

'Ah, Aragorn!' declared Amrothos, rising and stepping forward. Aragorn made no remark of this improper form of address, though there was a visible tightening of Prince Elphir's jaw at his younger brother's audacity. 'How can I ever thank you for sending me into the barren wasteland that is the Haradwaith? For it has most fortuitously brought me together with my exceptional wife!'

If Undómírë took offence at Amrothos' dismissive attitude towards her homeland, she did not show it. Instead, she merely took a place at his side and inclined her head. 'Milord.'

'My sincerest congratulations,' he replied with an affected candour that would have fooled even Truva had she not known him better. 'This renewed unity between north and south is welcome news, indeed.'

'A wise and circumspect king, you are!' exclaimed Amrothos, daring to go so far as clap Aragorn on one shoulder.

'You have travelled long,' said Aragorn, turning quite pointedly towards Indil, 'and it is no easy journey from Herumoros especially. I must say it is a pleasant surprise to learn you came at our invitation – sincere though it was, we did not expect you to make the trek for a ceremony which bears little significance to the Sutherlands.'

'In truth, I was merely glad for the excuse to explore beyond the borders of Harad,' Indil responded cheerfully. 'My father wished to send his regards, to both you and your Queen, and to those whose nuptials we await – and I seized the opportunity to convey those sentiments.'

'It seems making amends for the misdeeds of the elder generation falls once more upon the younger,' Undómírë interjected.

The gathering shifted uncomfortably.

'Amends have been made on all accounts,' said Aragorn diplomatically. 'Let our gathering here be evidence of that, and no longer make such calculations.'

'I am glad for my part to make the acquaintance of those I have not met, and to be reunited with those I have,' said Indil. 'But while I see many new faces and a few familiar ones before me, there is yet one missing – a most significant one. Where might the King of Rohan be?'

Indil was not so artful as Aragorn in masking her emotions; there was not one member present who did not note that her polite disinterest was feigned, and poorly at that. Aragorn's thumb tapped against Truva's wrist, hidden from view. Truva stifled a smile; the gesture spoke clear enough: See? Incorrigible.

'King Éomer makes his way from Edoras even now, abiding by the Dol Amrothinian tradition of abstaining from laying eyes upon his bride for as many days as he is years old preceding the ceremony,' Prince Elphir explained.

When Indil laughed, it was youthful and joyous, and bore no hint of malice even when she declared, 'You northerners are so cold!'

'Perhaps if you were to bear witness to more than a brief glimpse of our city, you would see it is not so,' said Erchirion, pride quickly flaring.

'If that is an offer, I gladly accept it,' said Indil. Her broad smile sent Erchirion sputtering.

As discussions of a tour about the capital – and the paying of respects to Prince Imrahil – sprang up, Truva and Aragorn slipped away, retiring to their chambers. At great last they disrobed from their disguise. But even as Aragorn pulled at his turnshoes, a pensive expression dominated his features.

'I do not trust this union.'

He did not have to clarify in order for Truva to understand he spoke of Amrothos and Undómírë.

'There is little to fear, methinks,' she reasoned. 'They wield no great power; Amrothos is third in line after Prince Elphir's little son Alphros and Erchirion. What leverage is available to him? At best, the joining of Amrothos and Undómírë will effect long-term peace amidst the lands of the Bay, and provide Gondor with even greater resources. At worst, it will disincline the Sutherlands to raiding our coastlines – and even that is a very good outcome, to be sure.'

Aragorn shook his head. 'It is not Dol Amroth I fear, but Harad rather. Our position is just as it was during the Conflict of Reparations; an alliance between Umbar and Dol Amroth is sure to put Herufoth on edge. Defanged though it might be, a serpent still has the potential to inflict harm, should it strike true.'

'Do you not recall the news we had from Maeron Captain of late?' Truva countered. 'The Ephor is preoccupied with petty fighting amongst the tribes of his land, and with Fuinoros. Even if Harad maintained the same force as before the War – which the treaty ensured it would not – Herufoth is not in a position to pose a threat to the north.'

Aragorn fell silent a moment, his lips pursed tightly. His eyes drifted off across the azure waves of Belegaer as he sat deep in thought.

'I have underestimated Undómírë once before,' he said at last. 'It cannot happen again. Amrothos is wholly subject to her will, that much is clear, and will likely fold to even her worst machinations. But what concerns me most is that I can conceive of a thousand ways in which the Princess might seek to usurp our hard-earned peace, and yet I am blind to which path she might ultimately take.'

Truva reached out and laid a hand upon Aragorn's forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze. 'Whatever challenge she presents us, we shall face it squarely, with all the might of Gondor and Rhûn – and the Riddermark – at our backs.'

'Together,' said Aragorn, resting his forehead against Truva's. 'We shall face it together.'

It was thus shadowed by an overcast mood that they greeted the coming of Éomer King two days later, having gone to great lengths during the interim to spend as little time as possible in the company of Undómírë and Amrothos. Upon hearing news of the Eorling King's arrival, Truva made directly for the Tomb of the Faithful and awaited him upon the eastern side, for he was sure to pay his respects at once and not pause first at Bar-in-Ciryn.

A steady stream of mourners continued to trickle through the catacombs; still the gentle hum had not ceased. It vibrated in Truva's very bones as Éomer emerged from the crowds clustered about the exit.

'Sister,' he said, voice subdued out of respect for the proceedings, but the embrace he drew Truva into was all the fiercer for it.

'Milord,' she muttered, harkening back to days of long ago, when even proper forms of address were unknown to her.

Éomer released Truva and gave her an amused smile, but then his attention was drawn over her shoulder. 'Brother!' He strode to clasp arms with Aragorn, who had materialised between a pair of nearby buildings, having spent the better part of the day off on a mysterious errand.

'Well met, my friend,' said he. 'I trust your journey from Edoras was uneventful?'

'All save a brief incident in which my very wedding robes were blown into the Langflood while boarding the Alcarindur,' Éomer replied. 'Of all the ill-favoured signs! But I will pay it no mind, and you mustn't speak a word of it to Lothíriel – she is so very superstitious.'

'What of Éowyn?' Truva asked.

Éomer did not reply, but merely turned to indicate his sister, who had just finished paying her own respects. Elboron – no longer quite so small – was tucked against her hip.

'The last leg of your journey passed well enough, then?' Éowyn inquired of Aragorn.

'Indeed, it seems your wedding party was met with rougher seas than our funeral procession,' he remarked.

'I ought to have sailed with you out of Osgiliath,' Éowyn bemoaned. 'The caravan from Edoras didn't come for another three days, and then all that followed were series of increasingly absurd delays.'

'Ah, but unfortunately it seems your troubles are not over,' said Truva, then nodded to Éomer. 'It is not your betrothed alone you'll have to avoid here in Dol Amroth, but another admiring princess also.'

Éomer stifled a groan. 'Indil?'

'The very same,' said Aragorn. 'Talk of the Southrons' arrival has nearly drowned out that of your own approaching nuptials. But come, not since last midsummer have we been gathered together like this; let us speak on more lighthearted matters.'

And so, with warm embraces and equally warm greetings shared around, the company drifted towards the citadel. They retired to Elphir's study, where they were joined by the Prince and Erchirion. The evening was spent exchanging stories which were, for the most part, inconsequential – the kind of news that accompanies times of peace and prosperity, and joyous occasions such as weddings.

But come morning, the solemn mood had returned, creeping into each crack and crevice of Dol Amroth's limestone homes and shrouding the heads of lavender and agapanthus which bobbed in mourning. The sun had scarcely peeked its head above the rolling hills in the east before the entire city converged about the Tomb of the Faithful once more. The humming, omnipresent ever since it had first been struck up, crescendoed until it could be felt in each bone and and ear and heart.

Prince Elphir, surrounded by the House of Dol Amroth, stepped slowly from the gates of Bar-in-Ciryn and walked with measured stride to the tomb's western entrance. There, a company of Swan Knights stood aside the massive slab of stone that served as both stair and door to the catacombs. Each laid hands upon the rough stone, breathed in as one, then heaved. Inch by inch, the slab gave way and slid slowly back into place.

Elphir and the Swan Knights straightened, turned on their heel, and divided neatly in half as they marched about the Tomb to the eastern exit. The crowd drifted with them to witness the same actions repeated with exacting likeness. But this time, as the door neared the catacombs' black maw, the fervour of the crowd's hum grew all the more; and in the very same moment the stone slab ground shut, the hum cut abruptly off. The ensuing silence was so profound it hurt the ears of all those gathered.

'Thus ends the story of Imrahil, son of Adrahil, twenty-second Prince of Dol Amroth, Councillor of Gondor and of the King, Galador's son, Imrazôr's son of Númenor,' cried Elphir. 'May he sail upon the Great Sea in peace forevermore.'

This declaration was met with a communal exhalation, as if the gathering was suddenly free of a tension that had steadily been mounting the prior three days. Serenity washed over them.

Then Elphir turned to Lothíriel. 'And thus opens a new chapter,' said he.

Author's note: To be perfectly frank, I am debating whether or not to continue uploading to FFN. First and foremost, it is just so hard to keep my writing up to the standard that I prefer through FFN's editing system. Not only have I recently learned that any reader who has downloaded the fic for reading offline will receive notifications each and every time I update/edit, but the process itself is beyond frustrating. Compare FFN's chapter editing process to that of AO3, starting from the stats page (my landing page):

AO3:
Click work → Click chapter index (if not editing first chapter) → select chapter → click go → click edit chapter → (make edits) → (optional: click preview) → click update

FFN:
Click publish → click doc manager → (find chapter in what is an absolute mess, even if you properly organise your files by fic name and chapter number and title) → click chapter → (make edits) → click save → click manage stories → select story → click content/chapters → click replace/update chapter → click select existing chapter → select existing chapter → click choose document to replace chapter → select document → click replace chapter content with document → (desperately hope you didn't accidentally select the wrong chapter in the aforementioned mess)

But also, while I never expect — let alone demand! — reader interaction, I received precisely two comments on The Marshal of the Mark. The first was disturbingly racist hate speech spam, and the second was a numbers bot. Meanwhile, on AO3, both Lady and Marshal are some of the most-commented and decently kudosed works in the Aragorn/OFC ship.

This is not begging for interaction! It's just explaining that the extreme degree of effort I put into writing The Hidland Chronicles in comparison to just how difficult it is to upload to FFN and the crickets the story receives here is teetering on the edge of not being worth it for me.

But in the meanwhile, as I debate internally with myself, and in keeping with tradition: 'Forth now, and fear no darkness!'