Unwritten Aethos

The Four Hunters: The Horn of the White City and the Golden Plains

The sun sank heavily behind the jagged shoulders of Emyn Muil, staining the vast, swaying grasses of Eastern Rohan with a bruised and somber purple. A wind came out of the North, carrying a lingering scent of old smoke and the foul, unmistakable reek of the Uruk-hai.

Across the rising swells of the sea of grass, four figures moved with an unflagging rhythm, their shadows stretching long and thin before them.

Aragorn led the way, son of Arathorn, his brow furrowed and his eyes keen as a hawk’s. He moved low to the earth, reading the story told by broken stems and the deep, iron-shod ruts in the soil. At his side strode Boromir, Son of Denethor—he who, by all rights of fate, should have been a cold spirit drifting down the falls of Rauros, but who now marched with a step both heavy and resolute.

The armor of the Gondorian was notched and riven, bearing the cruel marks of Uruk blades. His great circular shield, emblazoned with the Silver Tree, remained slung across his back; it had been a wall against the black-feathered hail in the glades of Amon Hen. Though his breath came in great heaving gasps, his gaze was clearer than it had been in many a moon—the fevered greed that had once been kindled by the Shadow of the Ring had been washed away, purged in blood and the bitter waters of repentance.

"The trail grows warm," Aragorn said, his voice a low rasp dry as the wind. "Their pace falters; the servants of Saruman are wearying of their own malice."

"Let them fly," Boromir replied, his voice deep and resonant, like the rolling of distant thunder. "While those two Halflings remain in their clutches, my oath is a debt unpaid. I once sought to seize the burden from Frodo; now, though I must run until my heart bursts, I shall see his kin restored."

Legolas leaped lightly upon a jutting stone, his Elven-eyes piercing the gathering gloom. "I see them. They are leagues distant, a dark blemish against the golden hem of Fangorn. But stay! I see another thing—a cloud of dust rises to the North. The Riders of the Mark may yet be abroad."

"Riders or wraiths, it matters not!" Gimli cried, his face flushed and his beard flying, for though his legs were short, the indomitable spirit of the Dwarves allowed him no lag. "If we do not overtake them soon, my axe will grow dull for want of a goblin’s neck! Boromir, you spoke of fine vintage in Minas Tirith; if I out-slay you this day, you shall owe me a double draught for every league we have trod!"

Boromir let out a short, bark-like laugh—a sound of unexpected mirth in that desolate place. "A bargain, Master Dwarf. Should you prevail, you shall drink the Steward’s cellars dry."

As the stars kindled in the high vaults of heaven, the Four Hunters quickened their pace. Boromir no longer looked toward the White City with longing, though it remained the jewel of his heart. In this hour, his fate was bound to the Ranger, the Elf, and the Dwarf. He was no longer merely a Prince of Gondor; he was a Hunter of the Mark, a brother-in-arms to the small and the great alike.

He felt the weight of the Horn at his breast. Though Aragorn had counselled silence in the wild, Boromir knew that when next he blew it, the sound would not be a cry for aid, but the herald of a kingdom’s rebirth.

"For the Halflings!" Boromir roared.

The four shadows merged into one as they vanished into the trackless dark, running not to escape death, but to challenge it.

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