Chapter Text
TA 2510
The Twenty-Fifth Day of Sulimé
He rode hard, his breath coming in gasps. The forest was dark around him and he could feel his fear rising. He leaned forward willing his horse onwards. At any moment he too could feel the shudder and the force of arrows landing in his back, in just the manner that his companion Duinhir had fallen two days before.
His mind ran through the message that the Steward had bid them memorise, should he reach the Lord of the Éothéod. He had set out from Gondor fourteen days ago on the tenth day of Sulimé, the early spring air frosting his breath. He had been chosen due to his skill with horses and that skill was what had kept him alive so far. But it had been so close. He rode on, his hands coaxing the horse to keep running, despite his exhaustion. “Come, Rohal,” he whispered urgently. “Don’t fail yet. We must keep going!”
His horse ran on, his breath also coming in gasps. He looked ahead, listening for sounds of a river. He had been chased so far out of his way by horsemen since the Gladden Fields that he was not sure how far off course he was. But he dared not stop. In his mind he could hear his pursuers, the sound of their horses echoing in his mind. He kept remembering Duinhir’s gasp as the arrows hit him with a dull thunk and the startled cry of his horse as he slipped from his back. He had to keep riding.
The forest got darker and he fancied that a smoke was rising from the floor. The trees became twisted and gnarled, reaching their branches towards him. His breath came out in tendrils of mist as the air grew colder. His fear rose again. At the corner of his eye he saw incorporeal figures appearing around him, men on horseback who rode so silently. He could feel the hair rising on the back of his neck as he realized that he could see ghosts with familiar faces who looked at him as they rode. He counted, silently. There were five, five riders of Gondor who had won great renown and courage. Men who had volunteered to ride as messengers to Framsburg. Men he had counted as friends. They are dead, then, he thought with anguish and he closed his eyes for a moment.
They rode on, their horses a translucent grey, the ghosts silent. They rode, and Borondir rode with them, his body almost spent. Soon he would also join his slain companions. His death rode alongside him. But first he must reach Éorl and hand him the Steward’s stone and deliver his message. Gondor would fall if he did not reach Framsburg, he knew. It might already be too late. He rode and rode, following the lead of the horses, who somehow seemed to know where to go. Their hooves fell silently and their riders did not speak. The forest thinned slightly then and he felt for a moment a seed of hope. He could hear water rushing fast and he urged Rohal on. His horse was slowing, his exhaustion pulling him closer to death.
They rode fast, reaching the edge of the forest and Borondir could smell the clear air of the mountains, causing him to breathe deep. He surged forward, pushing Rohal again and he left the oppressive air of the forest behind. He could see the high wooden walls of the fortification ahead of him and the twinkle of silver helmets standing in the sun. He could get there! Dimly he realized that he had left his companions behind in the dark forest and he thanked them, bidding them farewell.
The gate began to rise slowly and he could hear shouts alerting the fort that a rider approached. His vision swam and he started to loll, his hands loosening on the reins. He had arrived at Framsburg, but he had barely survived.