The morning of the race. It was quiet, except for the sudden whinnies of excited horses and the occasional snort from a camel or donkey. Nervous tension hung thick in the air, though no one was awake, you could feel the twitchy, excited energy rising from every tent, flowing from every horse. Horses from all over Middle Earth were tethered outside the tents of their masters, neighing loudly in their excitment. There were Arabians from Dagorland, Highland and New Forest ponies ridden by hobbits from the Shire, Standardbred and Morgans from the realms of Mirkwood and Lothlorien. Every conceivable type, size, color and breed of horse were present, a few tents even sported massive Shire or Percheron horses, decked out in full riding gear. If one were to guess how many horses were at the camp, one’s extimate may be around five hundred horses, most of which were just there to carry the well wishers of the racers to the half-way camp and finish line.One horse in partricular was acting extremely wild, pulling at the tightly secured tether, rearing up in a desperate atempt to snap the leather rope, then crashing back to the ground, twisting madly to break free. He was black, black as the darkest night and powerful as the rising sun, he wanted to run! He wanted to stretch his weary legs and cross that finish line first, but he would have to be untied in order to do anything.
The sun was not yet up, and no one stirred within the camp, except for a few weary stable boys walking excited horses to ease their jumpy nerves. A stable hand, wearing flowing red robes, rimmed in gold and hanging gaudily with tassels marched a bay Quarter horse stallion along a row of tents. He passed the black stallion, which imeadiatly stopped, swinging its rear about, so that it was standing with its right side to the bay, ears up, eyes white as it raised its head to the highest it would go. Tail lifted, the black stallion pawed the ground, sizing up the bay, who was also standing, looking wearily back, resisting all of his walker’s atempts to get him to move on. Sudddenly, without warning, the black stallion threw its head down and bucked sideways, kicking out at the bay, making him flinch and rear away, dancing to the other side of the path. Snorting madly, he charged back, to teach the bucking rogue a lesson in manners, but all he did was cause the black’s head to lower, barring his teeth, charging forth to meet his assailant. The halter stopped the black in mid charge, jerking him backwards, choking him as he crashed back to the ground, pulling to get at the other stallion.
They both whinnied madly, twisting away form their bonds to try and reach the other, but the stable hand seemed to have more brawn than brains as he successfully dragged his charge away, to the more splendid row of tents. The two locked eyes before disappearing from each other’s sight, somehow knowing that this would not be the last time that they met, nor the last time they would fight. Enemies from the moment they saw each other, the black and bay would never give the other a look that was any less than contempt or hatred. Bent on showing the bay what for, the black began jerking on the rope again, wanting to chase after the stallion, wanting to bite him and kick him until he backed off.
Everyone in the camp was sleeping, but dawn was fast approaching, and the horses could sense it. Slowly, as if not wanting to start the race, the sun began creeping over the distant hills, the top of its orange head just peeking above the land, lighting the sky gently in pinks and yellows. A loud horn blew across the camp, waking all the racers from their sleep, sending them to their feet in a mad rush to ready themselves. The start of the race wasn’t far off, and many preperations had to be completed before any of the racers could leave the camp. Rising against a colored sky, the sun steadily rose, as if more sure of its decision to wake the slumbering world, and call in the new day. A light wind blew, only powerful enough to make the banners atop tents, and lining the first few yards of the race snap gently in the breeze as the day began.
Men began leaving the tents, often followed by wives or children, most of them were hurridly pouring water down their throats or shoving light breakfasts into their mouths. Stable hands leapt to their feet, gathering up saddles, bridles and fallen spurrs or riding crops. The smell of hay, leather and horses mingled through the air, as the jangling of harnesses and saddles being fastened onto horses rose in a growing turmoil through the dawn stillness. Horses were being led in brisk trots between the rows of tents, camels brayed slowly as they sluggishly walked towards the starting line, carrying race watchers on their backs. Banners on poles were being hastily ripped form the ground and handed to the riders they belonged to in order for them to carry it to the starting line, proclaiming their nation or sponsor. The once quiet camp was now full of bustling energy, one which made the nervous tension from before magnify to a greater degree.
From the tent nearest the black stallion, a tall man walked out, followed by his lover, a dark haired elf with a gentle face and kind personality. He was tired, his blue eyes clearly showing that he was weary, and didn’t like getting up so early. Shoulder length, wavy black hair covered his head, along with a 5 o’clock shadow linging his cleffed chin. Doggedly, he pulled a long tailed leather jacket over his shoulders, tightening his belt as he marched out from under the brim of the black canvas, streaked with silver. Sighing, he looked as though he did not wish to race, as though he’d rather be far, far away from this place. He was the stallion’s owner and rider, Ranger from the North and exiled King of Gondor. He was Aragorn, the greatest endurance rider of them all. The elven maiden followed him to his horse, handing him his pack, which he quickly threw over his shoulder, buckling the silver clasp to hold it tight. The tent’s flap, across from Aragorn, flew open wildly, and four hobbits followed by a dwarf and an elf quickly dashed out, ready to greet their friend. He nodded to them, raising a hand in greeting, but not saying anything.
From the North he had traveled, for three weeks he had ridden, arriving two days before the race was to begin. Invited by a snobby Prince of South Gondor, he had been challenged to beat all two hundred horses that were entering, and do it without any shortcuts, nor more than a days rest. It had seemed foolish at first, to even try and think about winning a race under those circumstances, but in light of the insulting letter that came with the challenge, Aragorn had agreed hungrily, ready to teach the bastard a lesson. Along the way, friends had joined up with him, traveling South with him to support the Ranger in his quest. They were Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Legolas, Arwen, Gimli, Halbarad and Gandalf, all loyal friends and companions of Aragorn at one time. Now they stood before him, waiting for him to untie his fiery stallion and ride to the starting line of the race.
Legolas ran to the pole that was shoved into the ground near the mouth of Aragorn’s tent, hauling the pole from the dirt as he raced back over, handing the symbol of the Rangers to his companion. He took the banner tentitivly, as if he thought unhonorable to carry the symbol of a rag-tag nation into the greatest race of his life. The cloth that snapped in the wind was black, with two silver swords crossed underneath an eagle with its wings outspread, its eye not colored silver but the same black as the feild it flew apon. Nine six rayed stars arched above the bird, with a crown above the ninth middle star at the very top of the flag. Halbarad, his Ranger friend, cantered by on his horse, Captain, followed by a bunch of his companions from the North, who whooped loudly at the sight of the flag, pumpung fists into the air as they charged by.
Aragorn stepped up to Roheyrn, who was swaying on his legs, tossing his head impatiently, ready to go. He reached out his hand, laying it on his horse’s muzzle, which didn’t calm him down in the least bit, in fact, it made him even more nervous, for his master was. He reared back, neighing to the crystal clear sky, that he was ready to go, that he was ready…ready to run. He slammed back to Earth and twisted from side to side, pulling angrily on the rope that held him, willing his master to untie the device from his head. Sighing, and trying to get his edgy nerves under control, Aragorn untied his horse’s halter from his head, setting him loose. Roheyrn did not run, but stood, shaking, shying, tossing his head, waiting for his owner to mount up and tell him where to go. More nervous than he had ever been before a race, Aragorn turned to Arwen, who threw her arms around him, holding him close for most likely the last time, in a long time.
She would be going ahead on the safer road, reaching the half-way camp before any of the racers would, where she would wait for him. He embraced her tightly, not wanting her to worry, but knowing that he couldn’t stop her feelings once he had galloped into the dusty plains before the starting line. Gandalf appeared, leading two horses and four ponies, who were imeadiatly greeted by their hobbit masters. Arwen pulled back from him, giving him a look that meant, quite plainly-‘Stay safe.’ He nodded, watching as she mounted her mare, Asfaloth, who was tethered near the neighboring tent, turning her to face the others, who were now all on their horses. The hobbits smiled at him from atop their ponies, while Gandalf gazed at him in a friendly manner, knowing just how nervous he really was.
Aragorn held onto the banner with his left hand, and closed his right on a lock of Roheyrn’s mane, somehow managing to haul himself onto the broad back of his steed. Roheyrn flinched and sidestepped, turning about to face the main path, where torrents of banner bearing horsemen, followed by their friends were headed to the starting line, kicking up massive amounts of dust. Aragorn’s gut twisted into a ball of sickened muscle, he was glad he hadn’t eaten that morning, otherwise he probably wouldn’t have any breakfast to race on anyways. It was normal to feel this way before a big race, he told himself, why, the minute he left the start behind him, the nervousness would lift away and give way to a new feeling, exhilaration.
Not needing a comand, Roheyrn took off in a fancy gait, with his forelegs doing a face paced canter, yet his hind legs followed in a slow trot. It was a new pace to Aragorn, who could only sit atop his steed and grin genuinely for the first time in days at his horse’s show of spunk. With the others following, he joined the mass of riders moving towards the races beginnings, while trying to look as proper and fancy as possible. A few hobbits on high stepping ponies followed on his right, velvet cloaks extending from their shoulders in flowing rivers of cloth. Elves on bouncing Dapple greys and lead changing Whites rode swiftly past, not even bothering to look at him. Not hindered in the least bit, he just proped the end of the pole on the top of his boot, enjoying the wind passing his face, sitting as straight and dignified as possible on his fancily moving mount.
The two starting towers appeared over the brims of tents, rising into the air, while two people stood on the peak of one, watching the oncoming riders. He looked over his shoulder as Legolas shouted to him that they were going to find a place along the edge of the start, so he nodded, smiling at Arwen who just stared sadly back at him. Roheyrn continued on, pushing through the throngs of crowding horses as the pathway narrowed, squeezing through to the front line, stopping where the race began. He was the middle most rider, on the very edge of the line, being gostled and bumped by other horses who were being moved thorugh the lines by their riders. Snorting, neighing, pushing, shoving, the mass of horses always seemed to be doing something that annoyed a horse next to them, which sparked a fight, or angry whinnies.
A snobby elf in white robes pushed up next to Aragorn, holding a hawk on his left hand, one which flapped its wings and snapped its beak at Aragorn. He rolled his eyes at the bird and waved a hand, spooking it into a fit of flailing wings and flying feathers. The elf looked over at him, speaking in a high bred accent.
“Elven law compells me to speak my mind. I think the entering of a Northern infindel into this race is sacralige, and I hope that the Gods will fry you before the end of the first half, leaving your horse for buzzard food on the desert floor.”
“Good luck to you too.” Aragorn mumbled as the elf backed his horse away, allowing a bay Arabian ridden by a man to take his place.
An old man, with uncountable wrinkle lining his face and a long, whispy moustache that hung from his upper lip began shouting from atop the pinnacal of stone, he voice carrying across the starting line as all the horses and riders present looked up to him.
“You shall ride from dawn ’til dusk each day, then start again with the rising of the sun! Once you reach the half way mark across Dagorland, you will be rewarded with one full day’s rest! Strength to your horses, and may the Gods have mercy on your souls!” He ended.
Servants ran through the group of horses, taking the poles form the riders, being careful not to get stepped on by the horses who were now edgy again, dancing sideways on their hooves, twisting beneath their masters. The old man lifted, with suprising strength, a heavy bow, inladen with runes and silver designs to the sky, fitting an arrow to the string loosely. Roheyrn shifted uneasily beneath Aragorn, while he relesed the pole to a boy and wrapped his hand into his horse’s mane, steadying himself for the arrow to release, starting the great race. Horses reared and bucked, making other whinny in pain or fright, causing them to shift, pushing the whole mass sideways, jostling the watchers on the side lines to back away.
The arrow was doused in oil, while a torch was touched to the tip of the arrow, lighting the whole thing in a crackling blaze. He drew the string back, but held it there, making the antzy horses below even more nervous, until finally, with a heave and grunt, the old man pulled the string back as far as it would go, releasing it with a sharp twang. Aragorn watched the arrow arch up, feeling the horses next to and behind him surge forth, whinnying to the sky as the crowd began yelling and cheering madly. He felt Roheyrn tense beneath him, then leap forth in a powerful bound, arching his neck. The race was on.