|
Ferethor watched the others file into the Common Stable, and silently veered to the direction of the Military Stables where the horses of errand-riders of Gondor and captains were kept.
Apple looked up from nipping some hay as Ferethor entered its stall and whinnied softly in greeting. He stroked Apple's snowy mane in a friendly caress in answer. "A loyal companion in battle you have proved," Ferethor whispered, "You are not a steed of war swift and enduring after the manner of the horses of Rohan, Apple. But fair you are and faithful, and we've passed through devouring flame and slashed through arrays of spears like a forest with each other. You will bear me once more, will you?"
Fastening the demascened saddle of scarlet and golden hue, Ferethor leapt lightly on horseback. He was clad lightly, for he had laid down his longbow and quiver of arrows, which would but encumber him in the journey ahead. Ferethor also cast down his weatherstained cloak of green to allow for greater speed, and beneath he was only robed in silver-grey after the fashion of the elves. His slender elven blade was the only weapon he took, hanging by his gilded belt, for he knew that his chance would lie in secrecy and speed rather than battle.
Ferethor the captain of Minas Tirith was lesser in stature and more slender than others of his race, though he was tall. Indeed clad in such a way like an elf out of the forgotten days he seemed, for his grey eyes were thoughtful and his movement swift and lithe to an extent surprising in the race of Edain. Foes that only perceived his slight outward appearance and failed to note the keen gleam of intelligence in his eyes and dexterous way with he handled his blade were met with swift death, for he was perilous in his wrath.
Ferethor set off at an easy canter to join the others by the Common Stables and found them yet preparing. Ferethor nodded in a slight moevment at Atharen to indicate his readiness, and now that his cloak of secrecy fallen from him seeming more like a great captain and a lord of Men, for such he was, whatever his faults. The silvery diamond that fastened his robe shone verily as if it was wrought of crystal flame - his only inheritance from Meren his father.
"Darkness is falling. Shall we not hasten to take leave of Minas Tirith?" Ferethor spoke, looking up at the star-speckled sky and the thin crecent of Ithil gleaming in the Night sky of Arda with a wristful expression. "The sentinels go abroad even in darkness."
|