He had been summoned from maneuvers on the Pelennor scarcely an hour ago, escorted by two of the Steward’s Guards of the Citadel.  Neither of them had said a word, leaving him to speculate as to what he might have done to arouse the wrath of the Steward, if that was what was in store for him.

“Borondir” Cirion intoned as Borondir was led into the Steward’s private courtyard by the two guards who then wordlessly left. 

Gondor’s leader was a tall man, with dark brown hair swept back from a noble, but serious face with penetrating grey eyes which now focused on Borondir.

“Your reputation commends you to me.  We are in need. Come” Cirion motioned him to a long waist high table.  Borondir untensed his shoulders.  He was not facing punishment.  Another fate awaited.

A great map was unrolled, secured at the table corners with brass weights.  Cirion approached the table and pointed out features on the map.

“North of us the Balchoth marshal on the east side of the Undeeps.  They arrive in great numbers.  I ride out tonight to meet our Northern Army already some days march to the Anduin.  I need you and five others to ride out to seek aid if we are assured to prevail”

“What aid can that be?” Borondir wondered out loud.  “Are we not alone, always alone, facing invaders?”

Cirion shook his head and directed the pointer to a corner of the map.

“Far to the north, over two hundred leagues from where we stand dwell the Eotheod.  Centuries past we fought together against the Wainriders.  A desperate hope it is that they will come again to our aid, but hope we must.  You and five others will ride to them in pairs.  What I tell you must be committed to memory.  You will take this carven stone as evidence of my seal.  The rest…is in the hands of fate.”

Borondir had then listened to and memorized the Steward’s plea for aid, with details of the Balchoth horde, their numbers, weapons and plans as they surmised them. 

Then he was led away through halls and passages, emerging to a paved open space where a powerful chestnut stallion waited.  It was heavily laden with supplies for the long ride.  A captain of the guard gave him final instructions.

“You will ride north from Minas Tirith tonight.  Make way through Anorien, then mark your path to the North Undeeps.  From there follow the Anduin.  A map is in your saddle pocket.”

Borondir nodded, walked over to one of several swollen saddlebags the horse was carrying.  The Captain commented.

“Special feed for the horse.  Your provisions are in another bag.  A resupply station awaits you in west Anorien, at the River Glanhir and at the Undeeps.   Then you  must forage to supplement what you carry.  North of the Undeep you may encounter Balchoth raiding parties”

“Did you hear that?”  Borondir whispered into the horse’s ear.  “We must fly to stay ahead of hunger and murder.  What say you?”

The horse snorted then turned its head, assessing Borondir fully for the first time.  It could sense the seriousness of the emotions of men.  Life would be at risk.  Was this man up to it.

Their eyes locked.  Borondir smiled.  They understood each other.  Equals, partners, the arc of their lives crossing on this mission of peril.

Borondir gently held the horses’s head in his hands. 

“You have heart enough for both us.”  He stepped back, turned to the Captain.

“My partner?”

“He awaits you at the gate to the city.”

Borondir stepped up and swung into the saddle.  A nudge, then hooves clattered on paving stone as they started down the road to the gate, far below.