Aragost emerged from the field tent.  It was dark. Cold stars of adamant glittered against the black satin night, casting ghost light on a haze of ground fog. It would be dawn in an hour.  Dawn for seven thousand mounted warriors and three hundred cavalry archers who had arrived late yesterday and camped overnight. 

He still felt a sense of unease.  It was not the fear of battle, injury or even death.  For that he was well prepared despite the solitary nature of his life.  No, it was that he was still of two minds. His training, his birthright, had proscribed his life of a wanderer, a hidden shepherd of those dwelling in the open lands of Eriador.  He was not of Gondor, facing a desperate battle, not one of the Eotheod, warrior horseman riding to save Gondor and fulfill their own destiny. 

He was simply not necessary for the success of their mission.  Just another sword, a most capable one, but just one nonetheless.  Whereas, on the other side of the Misty Mountains, he was at times the only thing standing between men, hobbits, and the dangers of a world beginning to grow darker.  But there had been no great tests west of the mountains, not just yet.  He was seventy nine years old, in his prime as chieftain of the Dunedain, a lonely life he would begin to teach his son Aravorn in ten years.  A duty whose limitations had been hard to accept when he was a young man. 

Everything pulled him in the direction of that duty, to make west back over the pass, down to the East-West road the town of Bree and beyond, the rich farmlands of the Shire.  There to serve out the years until he was old and stiff and Aravorn wore the mantle of chieftain.

But until today there had been no alternative.  And he was made of flesh and blood, mortal, despite his long life.  He would have no other such chance as this. 

No, for all the pull of duty, he could not walk away from the great contest of his time.  To do so would be to give something away of himself, to surrender without a fight, quietly retreat home.  That was not in his blood. In fact at home he was more likely to die facing down an unexpected pack of wolves, outnumbered and alone, than in battle. His great grandfather had died thusly, rent by tooth and claw.   

Off to his left there was a rustle of cloth.   Aragost departed from his thoughts, glanced over.  A tall broad shouldered man with a long shock of blond hair emerged from a tent, mail clad, helm in hand.

“Ah, Aragost, always the first up.”  Eorl said as greeting, walking over, then continued, “I am glad you have joined me.  Do you know why?”

“No, if truth be told I do not.  I have been wrestling with the question of being here, not leagues away, west of the Misty Mountains as chieftain of the Dunedain.”

“I want you here because you are not one of the Eotheod nor a citizen of Gondor.  My advisors and Marshalls may not tell me all of what they really think.  You have no such need to withhold.  They will think only within the ways of the Eotheod.  You are not so bound.   You have lived more than thrice the years I have, received a noble tutelage.  We go to war, Aragost.  I will need your honest counsel in addition to your sword.”

“And you shall have it.” Aragost replied, the last vestiges of doubt being swept away. 

The two of them then gathered in front of Eorl’s tent for a quick breakfast.  The first fingers of dawn were reaching across the fading night.  Out in the plain, seven thousand warriors were finishing their own meal, packing their horses for the long journey.  An hour later they stood tightly packed in an arc below the slope where Eorl waited silently.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The time for tests and maneuvers had passed.  He had seen them perform well, including the three hundred archers whose arrows would be sent to provide death and chaos in the ranks of the Balchoth. 

Eorl looked out at them on the bright, clear spring morning astride white Felarof on a small rise overlooking the entire eohere.  His helm was off, the north wind restlessly tugging at his blond hair.  The sun shone off his polished chain mail.  Felarof stood as a marble statue beneath him, a mearas, lord of horses. 

“Men of the Eotheod.”  His voice was strong and clear, as even the last rider could hear.  “Today we ride to the aid of Gondor.  For if Gondor falls and Minas Tirith is taken, there will be no allies to protect us from the same doom.”

“We have nearly two hundred leagues to ride.  It will test you and your steeds.  But we will arrive with mighty swords, stout shields and sharp lances.  We will cut them down like hay before the scythe!  Are you ready men?!”

A great roar erupted.  Men raised their swords, pounded their shields.  Eorl raised his own great sword, flashing light off the morning sun. 

Behind him the standard bearer rode up, bearing the pennant of a white horse against a green field.  It was the signal for the men to mount their horses.  Eorl then rode down the slope of the rise.  The ranks parted as he and his personal guard led the way.  The eoreds of the center formation followed in order behind him, then the right wing, and the left led by their Marshalls.  Such were their numbers that it was the better part of an hour before they had left the plain on the east side of the Greylin, making their way south.

Their lands, farms, their women and children would trust in their return.  Those too old for the quest would stay behind, still hale enough to provide a modicum of order and protection. 

Freya stood on the bridge over the Greylin, watching the riders disappear into the distance, the ground trembling with the storm of hooves breaking south.  Somewhere in the distant sea of sun glinting helms was Leofric.  His quiet strength now belonged to this task.  She did not begrudge that.  His heart belonged to her.