Dawn’s first grays were softening the night sky when Aragost left the encampment.  He had a long journey ahead of him.  Retracing his steps up the Anduin put him at risk for any lingering Balchoth or worse that close to Mirkwood.  He could not make passage through Lorien.  The Misty Mountains between Fangorn and Lorien were infested with orcs. 

It left the long road west to the Isen.  Then a turn to the northwest on the old North South Road, passing through the ghost ruins of Tharbad then finally the crossing at Sarn Ford, just south of the Shire.  It would be many weeks travel.

Aragost paused his mount, looking back at the battlefield in the early dawn mirk.  They would be busy for some days, tending to wounded, burying the dead both here and at the first battle site.  And they would be building great pyres to render the dead Balchoth to ashes.   

Aragost nudged his horse towards the west.  He was ready to go.  His past life had not shared in great events in his lonely patrols along the East West road, monitoring the Shire from little known trails and lanes.  At the end of the day, his decision to ride with Eorl was to test himself.  Had a lifetime of quiet surveillance dulled his ability to rise to the challenge of a greater demand should it present.

Aragost half smiled.  The wolf in him had come out for a time.  But then retreated to a distant lair.  That was how it worked with him.  He had acquitted himself well.  All the training of his youth, fostered in Rivendell, had not been in vain.  And the strength of the ancient kings still ran in his veins

It spoke favorably for his son, Aravorn and those to follow.  Perhaps one would lead again in a distant future time he could not forsee.  He would not lack the strength at the end of the day.

Aragost took in a deep draught of the cool morning air, savoring the smell of dew and the swell of the west wind drifting across the endless grassy plains.  A fine morning to start a journey.