He returned to his rooms after the choosing was done, slipping quietly through the shadows. For the other Easterlings, this would be a night of raucous camaraderie as they told stories of previous hunts and drank to the success and pleasure of this new one.
His steps brought him quickly to his quarters, and entering, he barred the door securely behind him. Once more he looked over his preparations for tomorrow. From beneath his bed he brought out a small cache of hand weapons he had not thought to bring earler. Now, he slipped them into the pack, hidden beneath the food and water. He nodded to himself, running through his mind the list of items he was taking. All was in readiness.
On his bed laid out in order was all he would need. A methodical man, tomorrow he would pick them up one by one and gird himself for the Hunt.
But until then, until the drums and horns announced the start of it, he would sit here, on the floor, in the unlit room - legs crossed, body held alert. His eyes, unfocused, stared into the depths of the darkness, thoughts flying eastward . . .
Tonight would be for himself alone, and for his thoughts . . . not until tomorrow, at noon, would he give himself to the Hunt . . .
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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