On foot, though rudely armed, the Balchoth’s numbers had put them on the brink of victory over Gondor’s exhausted, depleted army.  Seven thousand fierce horse warriors changed that calculus.  Now the Balchoth host was reduced to small pockets of die-hard defenders and disorganized remnant groups fleeing west over the grassy plains of the Wold.  Their fate would be no different as Eorl sent most of the left wing of his army after them to be hunted down to the last man.

Aragost quietly eased his horse through the heaps of the dead towards the Steward’s banner.  The fire of battle had passed from him.  An hour of madness, his elven forged sword whirring and cutting, wild angry faces screaming curses, bloody death in his wake. Then suddenly it was done.  No more foes before him, all now dead or scattered.  His breathing began to slow.  Knotted muscles unwound.  Soon had it seemed like the past hour had been something another Aragost had done.  It was.  One he might not see ever again, but one who would be there if the need was manifest.

Across the battlefield he heard shouts and cheers.  The men of the Eotheod, flush with victory, calling out their good fortune to be alive and fulfilling the task of their long journey.

Just ahead he could see Eorl and Cirion, dismounted, talking quietly together.  Beside them soldiers of Gondor were preparing Borondir’s lifeless body for the journey south and an honored burial. 

Then their conversation ceased for the moment.  Both men had urgent tasks with their respective armies, tending to the wounded, gathering the dead.  The time for parley and future plans would be in coming days. 

Eorl mounted Felarof, scanned up and down the battlefield.  Events were well in hand with his wing commanders and eored Captains.  He nudged Felarof.  The great white steed made its way towards Aragost.  Soon they were beside Aragost’s mount.

“You are ready to take your leave” Eorl spoke directly.

Was it that obvious, Aragost mused to himself.   Or was this lord of the north perceptive beyond his years. 

“My contribution is done.  Yours, I suspect is just beginning.  But I will play no part in that future and must return to my duties west of the Misty Mountains.”

“So be it.  Your contribution was more than you might think, even if it goes unheralded.  But you cannot simply ride off now.  You have fought a fierce battle.  The enemy is vanquished.  You have blood on your chain mail.  Your sword needs a fresh edge.  And your horse will throw you if you start a long journey this minute.  I see it in his eyes”

Aragost smiled at Eorl’s words. 

“We would do well with a fresh start tomorrow”

“Then come, Aragost.  We will dine with Cirion tonight.  You can be a trader from the northern lands, a soldier for hire or Aragost.  He knows not at this point. I leave it to you.”

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His horse had been well fed.  Eorl had seen to that as well as getting Aragost’s chain mail and other accoutrements cleaned.  Aragost had taken time to wade into the Limlight and wash off some the grime of battle and several days travel from Framsburg to the Undeeps.  Then he’d walked over to a pair of tents, side by side.  One was green with the figure of a white horse, the second white, colors of the Eotheod and the Steward of Gondor.

A small camp table and chairs had been set up.  Cirion was seated, wearing a grey tunic with white trim.  Eorl had shed his armor for a short deerskin tunic and leggings.  Simple fare was brought, travel bread, dried meat and fruit, mixed nuts and seeds.  They had lived on it for days.

Cirion had watched intently as Aragost came to the table.  Who was this man, dressed in a worn leather tunic, woolen leggings and weathered boots.  Cirion had wasted no time. 

“Eorl tells me you are also from the north, a visitor who has made common cause with him on our rescue.  You are too fit and strong, too skilled with a sword to be a tradesman.  Eorl has no need to hire soldiers.  And you are not of the enemy, not with a face as yours etched in strength and duty.”

Aragost had seen no need for artifice or concealment.  His name and ancestry would be of no bearing this day.

“I am Aragost, son of Arahad, chieftain of the Dunedain of the North”

“You are far from home” Cirion had replied, startled to find a descendant of the line of kings at this remote table on a battlefield.

“Far indeed.  Home is in Eriador, the lands between Bree and the Shire, Weathertop and the borders of Dunland.  Every several years I make way to the land of the Eotheod to share tidings and renew friendships.  No sooner had I arrived than Borondir was brought in very much the worse for wear with urgent news.  I resolved to join the host, to lend my sword and whatever counsel I might offer in hope of meeting your request for aid.”

“And now he cannot wait to depart” Eorl shook his head ruefully.

“Where will you go?” Cirion questioned, genuinely curious about the plans of leader of the Dunedain.

“Back to my duties in the lands west of the Misty Mountains, tending to the needs of my aged father and seeing that my son, Aravorn, will be ready to fulfill his role as chieftain when I become old and grey.”

Aragost sat down on a chair at the table and met Cirion’s eyes.  There was a trace of suspicion mixed with relief.  Suspicion as to whether Aragost’s presence constituted some plan to use his lineage to make a claim on Gondor.  Relief that his pending departure put that to rest.

With that the atmosphere lightened and the three men had talked quietly of the events of the day and what the future might hold.  It had then been clear to Aragost that Cirion had something more permanent in mind for Eorl and the Eotheod. 

But that was something for them to devise in the days that followed.