‘He was clad as a rider with a cloak of dark green coat over a coat of fine mail; on the front of his helm was wrought a small silver star. In his hand he bore a single arrow, black-feathered and barbed with steel, but the point was painted red.’

-‘The Muster of Rohan’

Book Five, Chapter Three of The Return of the King

It was quite small, this tiny token of hearth and home. Always he had carried it with him, tucked away safe in an inner pocket of his tunic. This token had seen much during his service to the Steward and now it would see his death. Loyal to a fault, he had agreed to this task, a task so important that any thought of his personal safety fell to the wayside.

They had been so close to Minas Tirith when they had the misfortune to come across the army. Even as they had turned westward and tried to flee, their horses where shot from underneath them. The two men from Gondor untangled themselves from their fallen mounts and fled into the night.

As they ran, they could hear the heavy footsteps that followed them, the two knew there was no way to escape what destiny had decided for them. Still they ran. They had to try, for the message they carried was important; the very fate of Minas Tirith may very well rest with Rohan’s answer to Lord Denethor’s question.

The sharp twang of arrows being released was quickly followed by a gasp of pain. The taller of the two men turned to see his traveling partner face down on the ground with several black arrows protruding from his back. He took a step towards him when the injured man lifted his head.

“No! Go! You must try to get back to the city,” he gasped, blood trickling from his mouth. “Run!”

“I...I can’t leave you." The gray-eyed man was torn between staying with his comrade or attempting the return to Minas Tirith alone.

“You must go! Remember the mission; Rohan’s answer to the Red Arrow must be given to the Steward. One of us must return to the city.”

“I am not leaving you!”

The black arrows were falling around him as he reached the wounded man. Taking the man by the collar of his tunic, he hauled him towards an outcropping of rocks. Dragging his injured comrade across the clearing, he was brought up short by a searing pain in his shoulder. The black-feathered shaft of an arrow was protruding from his shoulder, blood oozing from the wound. A burning, itching pain shooting from the area was enough to tell him that the dart had indeed been poisoned.

Pain filled breathing came from the injured man as he was pulled behind a large rock. As he knelt to remove the arrows from the other man, he was stopped when he spoke.

“No, Hirgon, leave them. There is nothing that can be done,” he said. “It is too late for me.” He finished with a cough, bright red blood bubbling from his mouth.

“We have had some good times, have we not my friend?” Hirgon asked his friend.

The man smiled weakly before answering. “Tell my wife...tell my wife that I love...”

A sigh escaped from the lips of the dying man, followed by silence. Absence of the ragged breathing that had been coming from the man was enough to tell Hirgon that he was gone. Bowing his head for a moment, he wished his friend a speedy journey.

Hirgon wiped his hand across his face before he covered the dead man with his dark green cloak. Even though the gesture was pointless and wasted precious time, it allowed him time to think.

Wounded and alone, he was now out of options and out of time. The enemy was fast approaching his hiding spot.

Long had he been in service to the Steward as an errand-rider, proud to wear the helm adorned with the small silver star. Throughout the realm of Gondor he had traveled far and wide. Now this was the first time he had truly faced his own death. He had laughed in the face of Death so many times in the past and walked away, but now it appeared that he would not be so blessed.

The burning in his shoulder reminded him of his wound. Hirgon rested a moment before snapping the arrow just above where it had entered his shoulder. At least this way he would be able to fight without the arrow shaft getting in his way. He was a soldier of Gondor and he was not going without a fight.

Hirgon knew he had made his mistake by returning for his friend. Over the years the man had become like a brother to him, and he could not leave him to the mercy of the invading army. His thought for his friend had jeopardized the mission; and now there was no way out of it. But it is hard to say whether or not he would make the same decision, if faced with it again.

He bowed his head, tired. The last several days had been long and arduous. The ride from Minas Tirith had been a hard and fast one. After spending several days on the road they had caught up with the Rohirrim at Dunharrow. After delivering his message, he and his riding companion had spent the night in the encampment. The next morning they had watched the muster of the great cavalry of Rohan. Hirgon hoped that the Rohirrim king would not tarry and make haste to Gondor. He worried that, even at their speediest, help from Rohan would come too late and the proud Gondor would have faced her darkest hour and failed. His greatest fear during this journey had been that he would return to Minas Tirith and all would be gone, the city, his wife, everything.

Hirgon smiled as he thought of his wife. His sturdy, no nonsense, beautiful wife. Early during their courtship, the woman that he would one day marry pressed her handkerchief into his hand. ‘To remember me by and to remind you to return to me,’ she had said before he had ridden from Minas Tirith on the first of many errands for the Steward. She had also told him that the silver and gold thread used to outline the flowers embroidered in the fine cloth had been hard to come by, and would he please take care of her handkerchief. Somehow, Hirgon had forgotten to return it to her. It was this that he pulled from his inner tunic pocket. The white square of linen was stained from the years spent in his pocket. Even soiled, the care and time she had spent on it was still evident. He smiled again while tracing the outlined flowers with a finger. Had it been daytime the threads used for the flowers would glint in the sun. But he did not need sunlight to see what he traced; he knew every stitch by heart.

An arrow landed with a thud in the ground in front of him, bringing him back to the present and the danger he faced.

“Come out! Come out! We know yer there!” Cried a voice in the night. “Come out now and we won’t let you suffer...much.” Harsh, barking laughter followed.

Hirgon tucked the handkerchief back into its hiding spot. He took several deep, calming breaths before he reached for the Red Arrow. He stared at the red painted point a moment before standing and drawing his sword. The Red Arrow in one hand and his sword in the other, Hirgon rushed from behind the rock and charged those awaiting him...

~~**~~

It was two days later that Elfhelm reported to Théoden-king and Éomer the tale of the grisly scene the scouts had came across. Two dead men and two dead horses they had found. One man had been beheaded and in his hand he clutched the Red Arrow of Gondor. The scouts searched the bodies and only found one thing. In the inner tunic pocket of the beheaded man they had found what they believed to be a piece of cloth, embroidered with silver and gold. Bloodstained and dirty, they had tossed it aside, marking it of no value or importance.

THE END