It was a still clear night. The moon shone bright and hard.  The first wisps of ground fog were collecting in the low folds of the land.   

Borondir was awake.  A third night on an empty stomach did not grant sleep.  Nor did his throbbing head, still oozing blood from a Balchoth club during an ambush south of the Carrock.  It had claimed the life of his partner.

His horse lay on its side, snoring lightly, exhausted after days of riding.  Its stomach was bare as well, having eaten the last of the feed two nights before.

He unrolled the map the Captain of the Guard gave him in Minas Tirith in what felt like months ago.  Moonlight lit up the pale vellum, contrasting with the lines, figures and illustrations that were Middle Earth.  He drew his finger along a black wavy line bearing north from Gondor to the far north.

It was the Anduin and by his reckoning they were a half day from the junction of the Langwell and the Graylin whose combined waters sent the mighty Anduin down to the sea.  Then another half day to Framsburg.

It was all the time they could afford.  Their bodies would only carry them so far. But his horse could no longer carry him.  They would walk together to the land of the Eotheod. 

He went to the horse to whisper in its ear, to say it was time to get up and take this last long day with him.  The chestnut snorted wearily, stared at him accusingly for a moment, then made a show of clambering up on aching legs.

Borondir smiled, stroked its muzzle then led it on, north into the night.

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Time passed.  They followed the gentle folds of the land, the Anduin valley a few miles to the west, wreathed in silvery fog.  They stuck to game trails, narrow creases in the wild grasses frosted by the moonlight. 

Fierce stars glittered overhead.  His breath exited in a light fog.  It was utterly silent save the brush of his legs against the grasses and the soft whoosh of the horses’s breath at his side.

After a while the harsh blackness of the night sky began to soften in the east.  Borondir felt a flicker of anticipation for the dawn.  With light they would better see the crossing of the Graylin.  Better light would make them seen as well, or so he hoped.

Another hour and the moon set west of the Misty Mountains, tugging night with it leaving a flat, cold early dawn.  The sound of rushing water ahead bespoke the Graylin making its final rush to merge with the Langwell, forming the Anduin. 

He could now make out the rough stone bridge that crossed the Graylin.  From his instructions nearly two week past, he knew that Framsburg was another few hours march.  There he would find Eorl, son of Leod, Lord of the Eotheod to receive the Steward’s message and plea.

He would not arrive alone.

On the other side of the bridge eight horsemen left their position guarding the far shore of the bridge.  They crossed, split into two groups that sped forward, eventually bracing him on either side, leaving two riders athwart his path to bring him to a halt.

They were well armed, each with light chain mail, battle swords drawn.  An axe was at hand’s reach in a leather saddle sleeve.  A long spear hung in a leather sheath on the left side of the saddle. 

“You there, what is your business” A stern, blond haired young man demanded.

Borondir took him to be the leader.

“I have ridden over a fortnight from Gondor with an urgent message from the Steward”  Borondir replied weakly but relieved nonetheless. 

The leader stared blankly back at him.  Borondir smiled wearily and drew a small greenstone with the Stewards seal engraved on its face. 

“The Steward’s seal” Borondir handed it to him.

He examined it, turning it over and over, then gave Borondir an appraising look.

“You have come far.  I know not of stones and sigils, but it is not of our kind.  We will bring you to our lord Eorl at once.  He will listen to your message.  Your horse is spent.  Eric will care for him while you take his mount.”

A tall, golden haired man dismounted and led his piebald white and brown horse over to Borondir.  As it approached, it shared a glance with Borondir’s steed.  A brief eye contact ensued as the piebald assured the spent horse that Borondir would be safe.

Bornondir wearily mounted the piebald.  The patrol leader motioned to him.

“We will be in Framsburg in an hour.  You will find some bread and dried meat in your left saddlebag.  More will be provided at the Eorl’s table, but for now you must begin to restore your strength.”

Borondir wasted little time fishing a small loaf of bread out of the saddlebag and hungrily tearing a chunk off.  Ahead, the patrol leader’s horse cantered off.  Four cavalrymen surrounded Borondir then followed, making way across the bridge spanning the Greylin, en route to Framsburg.