The pasture around Sarn Ford is not fenced. Defeated, the young Ranger watches the stallion dance away again from his reaching hand. He rests his hands on his thighs, panting and hot, as the horse trots circles out of reach; winter coat rough and fuzzy, tangled mane tossing.

“Roheryn, Aragorn needs you,” he pleads, pauses, and starts back alone.

A nose nudges a shoulder. The great horse stands docile as the halter is slipped over his ears. Pacing quietly, he rolls his eyes at the young man as if to say, “You should have told me sooner it was important.”