Hirgon's Ride.
Hirgon left the gates of Minas Tirith on the swiftest horse in the city, Sulgeleg, yet knew that no steed would be fast enough. Even if Théoden agreed at once, the mustering of the Mark would take time. He could not look back at the city, for fear the thought would take root in his mind that this was his last sight of it. Despair had hung around the white walls of late and Hirgon had struggled to forbid it any shelter in his heart.
He would not stop on the journey, even for the briefest rest. How could he be at ease when his hesitation could end the white city? He rode fast, wishing he could go faster, heedless of the time of day, but conscious always of the passing of precious hours. His heart was a burden to him, heavy and cold. Away from the hopeless city, he began to feel the despair he had been so careful to resist.
Past the Druadan Forest he rode and through Anórien, the Ered Nimrais as awe-inspiring as ever to his left. He followed the Great West Road, Sulgeleg, great-hearted horse that he was, unprotestingly keeping to the fastest pace he could. At journey's end, the horse would be exhausted. At least Sulgeleg's welcome was certain. The men of Rohan would treat him well. Hirgon was sure he would find hospitality too. The Rohirrim would greet him with all honour and friendship, but perhaps they were themselves hard-pressed and perhaps their answer would be no. Then hope was lost and he must ride home to die with his people.
He did not come to hold them to the Oath of Eorl. His message asked them to honour friendship, not sworn words. They were men of honour and would not refuse him. They were men in peril and could not help him. The two thoughts came back again and again. Their oaths had always been kept and that would not change. Their oaths had never before asked so much with so little hope of victory. Hirgon could believe only good of the Rohirrim, but their own recent battles may have taken the best of their strength. His heart grieved for a noble people who must decide whether to fight with his when they had battles of their own to fight. The worst of it was that it could all be too late.
Gondor was his home and the first love of his heart. If it had to fall, he would have to be there to give his last breath defending it. He could not hide in some safe corner, even if one remained, and watch all that was dear to his people fall under the power of Sauron. He remembered the lifeless, hopeless eyes of Denethor. The Steward believed that all was lost. Hirgon could not believe that, not because he had any cause for greater hope, but because to accept such a thought was to surrender to Sauron. If hope were the only form of defiance, he would cling to hope. If, in the end, hope proved false, he would be no more dead than those who had accepted despair. The White Tree shone in his thoughts and he was determined that it should be his last thought.
Through Firien Wood he rode, beneath the Halifirien beacon. The Eastfold lay before him then and Sulgeleg pounded on along the road. Hirgon looked at the arrow he carried, aware of the weight of history it brought with it and of the long and faithful alliance it represented. When he presented it and saw Théoden's eyes, he would know the answer. If there remained any chance of defeating Sauron, it could only be in this alliance. The Gondorians and the Eorlingas together would fight with the great strength and courage they had always shown and the power of Sauron, relying on fear, not love, might falter. Once battle began, the allies would not distinguish between Gondor and Rohan. All would be brothers, fighting their common foe. He knew, as all men of Gondor knew, that any man of the Mark would defend a Gondorian's life even at the expense of his own. For his part, he would do the same for any of them. Old and deep lay the love between the two kingdoms.
He rode on and on, feeling the ebb and flow of hope as he thought of the hardships Rohan had faced and then of the loyalty they had always shown. At one moment, he felt guilty for doubting them, at the next for asking too much of them. On he rode, through Rohan, a land almost as dear to him as Gondor. He made for Dunharrow.
The Púkelmen beside the road were forbidding of aspect, but he did not hesitate. He was more troubled by the ill tidings he brought and the great boon he asked than by statues of any kind. The men who greeted him knew that no messenger from Gondor would have good news to impart. As two led Sulgeleg to the company of other horses and the kindness of the Rohirrim, another spoke words of welcome, sincere but sorrowful, to Hirgon. He was taken to see Théoden and all who passed him looked at him with sympathy or apprehension. No hostility, though. He was a brother and his sorrows were theirs.
He delivered his message to Théoden, glad to see the king's strength returned. The eyes did tell him the answer. They were the eyes of a man who knows the time has come to prove himself faithful. When the king knew all he said that Rohan would muster and ride for Gondor. He expected it to take a week, and that was a blow to Hirgon's hopes, but that they would come, that Gondor no longer stood alone was a great comfort. He would bear home news that might stir his people to fight with more resolve. To hold a city against an enemy forever was a hopeless task. To hold it for seven days and expect help on the seventh would be easier. There was comfort, too, in the the thought that the sons of Númenor and the descendants of Eorl would be together, whatever the end might be. Many had been turned from oaths and friendships by Sauron, but this alliance he could not break. These men were true and would remain true. If death were certain, at least they would die as brothers, their honour and their loyalty intact.
Théoden bade him rest and he gladly obeyed. With the ache in his soul fading, he felt the aches of the journey and yearned for peaceful sleep. Tomorrow he would ride home and tell his people that the end was not certain and the battle not vain and that Sauron had failed to rob them of allies. Saying it, perhaps he would be able to convince himself that the white city could live seven days on such tidings.
The End.