‘We should not linger,’ said Rhūnnaro as he wiped off his blade on the leg of his breeches. ‘There are many miles left before we reach Minas Tirith. Tenzin and Turos see to the wounds of the others. Dōranna help if you can. Pick up the scattered weapons and secure them to one of the horses. Lanbriel, help me carry Desolyn to the other grave you have dug. We will cover it with stones before we leave to mark that they fell in battle. The dead hunters we’ll pile in the middle of the clearing and burn.’
He wrapped one end of each of the two lengths of hair he had taken with strips of leather and affixed them to the shaft ends of two spears. At the head of each grave he drove the points hard into the ground. They fluttered in the breeze like banners over the graves of fallen warriors, marking where the brave had fallen in battle, the victory secured.
Wood was piled on the two bodies of the dead Hunters and set alight. In the grim dancing light of the flames as it licked at the corpses, Rhūnnaro brought round the horses urging them all to mount. Fionel rode with Tenzin, his arm around her waist as she sat before him. Lanbriel, Dōranna, Santiara, and Turos each had the luxury of their own mount.
Tenzin and Fionel led the way, while Rhūnnaro followed closely on the group’s heels. ‘Just a short ride over the spine of these hills,' he called out to them, 'then we will head west to the crossing at Poros over the Great River, and North. Your new life is just ahead. Ride on, as free people . . .’
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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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