The two rode in silence, gazing off into the distance. Grima was sore from his almost constant travel, but he dared not show it to the man next to him. Thick, muscled arms stretched from under the man's dusty brown tunic, and calloused hands clenched the horses reigns. It wasn't as if Grima didn't trust Forneth; the man was obviously very simple. But Grima was very much unused to pleasant company, and had no idea how to treat the other man. It was Forneth who struck up conversation.

"Stunning horse you've got. Does it have a name?"

Grima answered, "Maenor."

"Maenor. Beautiful name for a beauty of a horse. Does it mean anything?"

The question seemed strange. Why would have horse have a name that meant anything? It was nothing more than a useful beast. He shook his head.

Forneth grinned. It was a gesture that, Grima learned, he did a lot. "No meaning? See this animal here? When I was out looking for a horse for myself, I almost overlooked this hunk of meat. But do you know what sold him to me? His name: Rokko Apsa. It's Elven for War Lord."

Grima couldn't help but suppress a giggle. The man was so simple! He wasn't sure if he should tell him that the name wasn't Elven for War Lord, but instead for Pack Mule. Not wanting to be rude to his only companion, he merely nodded. Forneth grinned, again, and patted Rokko Apsa neatly between the shoulder blades.

The sun was setting over the plains of Rohan, and as the two weary riders approached, the scene before them took Grima's breath away. There, stretched across the plains, was a long line of riders, all armed and ready for battle. More were arriving from the north, and still more from the east. All were gathering in preparation for the trek to Mordor. . . the final battle.

Unlike the great army that Saruman wielded, this group accepted their fate with a grim sense of reality. They knew there would be a great chance that they would not return to see their families. And yet, they would ride, and they would fight.

Grima smiled at this thought, and, turning to Forneth, he said, "Look at them all. I've seen no sight such as this in all my life."

"Aye," came the other man's response, "Gives a man hope."

And so, they rode to meet them. Grima tried his best to shield his face, but no one seemed to notice them, and they fell in with the rest of the steadily growing army. In addition to the gigantic calvary, there was also a vast amount of men on foot, waving banners with the symbol of the Rohirrim; a single, white horse.

Forneth offered to collect their armor and weapons. He told Grima to stay with the horses. It was almost as if Forneth knew that Grima had no prior experience with the handling of swords and such-like. Nevertheless, Grima was grateful that the larger man would carry the armor for him.

When Forneth returned, he slapped Grima roughly on the back, positioned him, and loaded him up with a breastplate, helmet, and shield, all before Grima could say a word.

Forneth chuckled heartily, "I tried to get the smallest they had. You wear a child's armor. But it suits you well." He pulled Grima's sword from its sheath. "I don't suppose you know how to use this?"

Grima grimaced, "How did you guess. . ."

"Well, from the way you dismount your horse, it sort of gave it away. You are supposed to dismount from the left side, my friend."

Smiling sheepishly, Grima took the sword from Forneth and replaced it in the sheath.

"There will be time to learn to fight," Forneth said cheerily, "But now is the time to eat. I'm famished."