The Battle of the Pelennor Fields, Last Chance for Survival

[Théoden]

The sound of thousands of hooves beating down upon the earth could be heard as the Rohirrim galloped up the hill. The sun was just beginning to rise as they began their climb, and it cast a gentle glow upon their broze armor, and shining spears. Not a word was spoken between the riders as they climbed, with the ranks of elves and dwarves behind them. All of the riders were led by a single man, who rode upon a white steed. The man was old, but a certain power seemed to flow from his ancient veins as he reached up and pushed his helm further down upon his dull golden hair. At the man's side was a legendary sword, a blade that had belonged to his ancestors for several generations. Herugrim was its name, and it was a weapon that could be wielded by only one man. That man was Théoden, the Seventeenth King of Rohan. He bore the blade as his father did before him, as he made his way to the peak of the hill, and looked down upon the sight below.

From their vantage point on the hill, the Rohirrim could see a terrible darkness covering the plains below. A sea of black covered the green grass, and massive towers seemed to jut up from the earth. They were looking upon a battlefield. Yet the battlefield was not what caught their breath. Just beyond the waves of dark warriors stood a magnificent white city, with a sparkling silver spire at its summit. They had reached Minas Tirith, the City of Kings. The warriors breathed out sharply as they looked upon it, for it was not as glorious as they all knew it should have been. No, the city had been turned black by war. Three of the seven levels burned, and all of the riders knew that they were full of death.

"The White City burns," said a voice behind Théoden. The King turned to look into the eyes of an elderly warrior named Gamling. He nodded, and looked back with a grim expression upon the burning city, and the sea of warriors that looked up at them below. "The battle has already been lost for the Men of Gondor. We have arrived too late."

Théoden sighed as he heard Gamling's words, and he shook his head. His strong hands reached down switfly to his side as he turned back at Gamling, and the attention of the Rohirrim turned towards their King as they heard the sound of steel being drawn. Théoden took the reigns of Snowmane in his hand as he stared at his men.

He could see Ceorl not too far away, staring at his powerful weapons as he prepared for war. Herubrand was at his side, ready to slay all in the name of Rohan. Guthláf gripped the King's banner in his hands, and Wídfara's eyes surveyed the death before him. Éothain was far off to the King's right, and Dúnhere was next to Éomer, the King's nephew. Erkenbrand's mangled face seemed to look upon the battle with grief, and Déorwine was ready to defend his King. Even further off Théoden could see the twin Sons of Elrond preparing their people for battle, beside Haldir of the Golden Wood, and Legolas of the Woodland Realm. Gimli and Thorin Stonehelm were rallying the dwarves, and Bard II of Dale spoke softly to his warriors.

"Éomer," snapped the King suddenly. His nephew looked at him immediately, and nodded his head. "Take your men to the left flank. Erkenbrand!" Théoden cried, and he watched as the words entered the man's deaf ears. He knew that Erkenbrand could not hear the words, but the warrior seemed to understand. "Take the others to the right!" Théoden said quickly, motioning with his arm to show Erkenbrand where to head. The two Marshals of the Riddermark galloped off quickly along the massive line, leaving Théoden alone in the middle. He took one last glance at the battlefield before he looked back at his men, and began to prepare them for battle, and for death.

[Théoden]

Théoden's face bore a grim expression as he looked back at his men. The sun shone upon their armor and seemed to set their weapons ablaze, as they sat upon their steeds and prepared for war. Their eyes seemed to be filled with a mixture of pride, and of grief. The Rohirrim were always full of pride, and of love for their lands. They would fight for Rohan. But in the past several weeks, Rohan had experienced a great deal of suffering. First they had lost Théodred at the Fords of Isen, then they had just survived complete destruction at Helm's Deep. They even faced hardships in Edoras, and now they were preparing to charge into battle again. Thus, Théoden understood their grief, and regret. They didn't want to die, and they definitely didn't deserve to.

"Riders of Rohan!" Théoden began, as he trotted slowly down the line. He drew Herugrim with a flash, and it stood beside the great shield upon the King's arm. As he rode down the line he held Herugrim aloft, and smiled. "The time has come for glory, the time has come for vengeance. Our people have endured a great period of darkness, and now the time has arrived for us to finally break free from its bonds. But it shall not be a simple task. No, it shall not. Already our people have suffered a great deal of death, and now we prepare to enter the darkest battle of all. Yet we must hold strong. For if we are to escape the shadow, we must make one final push, and outride the storm. We must fight!"

The Rohirrim roared as their King led his horse more quickly among them, with the sun glistening in his eyes. He looked at the sun with a smirk, and watched as it rose above the horizon. "A red dawn," he said simply. "A red dawn rises upon this day. A red dawn rises upon the land of Gondor, and upon the race of men. A red dawn rises over the battlefield, a red dawn! A red dawn for glory, a red dawn for death! A red dawn for the Rohirrim!"

There was silence for a moment, as Théoden paused, and looked down at the battle below him. He could see that the orcs were prepared, and that the White City still burned. It would be a dangerous charge, but it was one that they had to make. There was no other choice. "We stand now in the ancient realm of Gondor, looking upon the White City itself. With this burning sunrise, we come with hope. Hope for the race of men, and hope for Middle-earth. For the fate of this battle concerns not only Gondor, and Rohan, but all people. If this battle is lost, then the world shall fall. Life as we know it shall vanish."

Herugrim seemed to grow brighter in the King's hand as he made his way back to the very center of his men. "Long ago, the Steward Cirion made a pact with Eorl the Young. Eorl was the first King of Gondor, and I have become the seventeenth. But that does not weaken our ties to Gondor. We must honor the pact that Eorl made, and fight with the strength of our fathers before us. Today we must fight with the strength that we have, that they had...we must fight for Rohan. We must fight...'till death!"

"Death!" the men cried, causing the ground itself to quake. Théoden cheered along with them, and soon the entire hillside was trembling with the fierce roar. Men began brandishing their spears, elves began placing arrows upon their bowstrings, and dwarves began to heft their axes. Minas Tirith seemed to grow silent as it heard the harsh cries, and as the first rays of light reached the city, it seemed to grow strong and mighty once more.

"Ride now!" Théoden cried, as he pointed Herugrim down the hill, and at the black sea that stood below them. "Ride now for Rohan, and for hope! Ride into the hosts of Mordor, and show them the strength of men. Ride, ride for the fate of the world. Death! Death! Death!" The men chanted along with Théoden, as he turned his back to his people, and watched as Snowmane took her first step down the hill. He glanced back over his shoulder and gave his people a reasurring nod, before raising his shield, and gripping Herugrim tighter in his hand. "Forth Eorlingas!"

[Thorin III Stonehelm]

Thorin stood in silence for a moment, while he looked into the eyes, and at the faces of every dwarf near him, and waited until the last dwarf stood up, and attentively a waited for him to speak. Thorin looked for reassurance to his left and right at Bifur, and Bofur, each returning the glance with a nod, which gave Thorin a reinforced thought of hope. Bard walked up next to Thorin, and placed his hand on his shoulder, and proudly stood next to his dwarf friend. After a moment Thorin spoke “My dwarven brothers, and men of Dale we have come a long way from our homes, and have suffered great losses in the battles thus far…. But we are not alone in this fight it is together along with the strength of men…. and elves in which we must work together to rid the land from the shadow that has been cast upon it”. “Look out at the field it is covered in the shadow of the orcs….. we must cleave a path through them or fight to the death tryi….” Thorin said, and was cut off by a loud uproar from the riders of Rohan.

“Death! Death! Death!” the riders chanted, and Thorin, and the other dwarves joined in the chant the ground beneath them started to shake. Thorin picked up his axe from the ground next to him, and gripped it tightly in his hands, despite the fact the dwarfs wouldn’t be participants in the charge, they would follow up behind the riders on foot.

“I’m off to join my men, and the Rohirm in the charge” Bard said, while he mounted on his horse.

“I’ll be right behind you, just don’t die on me”, Thorin said, as Bard rode up to his troops.

“Forth Eorlingas”, Theoden yelled, and the riders were off, and the ground shook with tremendous force as they all rode to battle. Thorin followed behind the riders quickly running at full speed. Within moments however the riders were far ahead of the dwarves.

Thorin watched a huge volley of crude black arrows land in the huge mass of riders charging, and another volley land in the riders ranks. Thorin stumbled from the shattering noise, and ground shaking effects of the riders crashing into the orcs. Thorin could not tell how the charge went from his perspective. Thorin saw a familiar person on the ground a ways in front of him, and he rushed over. It was Bard his horse had been killed from several arrows, although he was not shot, the fall had shooken him up. Other riders were nearby, some dead bodies of filled with arrows, and some live riders whose horses were killed. Thorin helped Bard up, and after a brief pause of helping the wounded the dwarves, and any stray riders continued towards the battle.

[Éowyn]

Éowyn, as they crested the hill, caught her breath at the sight of Minas Tirith. What would have been a beautiful city was almost in ruins. She thought back to the sight of Edoras, and the children now without fathers or brothers. She set her teeth and glowered at the crawling black figures in front of them. If she could save one child the pain of knowing his kin would never return, then this battle would be worth the fight. She looked up at the White City again, and fought back a tear. The White City was a burned and ruined mess, unable to fight back, but while its lifeblood, the people of Minas Tirith, still ran through its passageways, it lived. She could not, would not, allow it to die. If Minas Tirith fell, the City of Kings, Sauron would have won. The more she looked on Minas Tirith, and the battlefield before her, the more she longed for the coming battle.

Éowyn felt the air around her charge up with the energy of the Rohirrim as her uncle spoke to the Riders. She felt the blood pounding through her veins, and her voice echoed loudly in her ears as she lifted it to join the roar of the men around her. Everything became blocked out, all the grief, all the anguish, in that single moment of anticipation, pride, and fury against the armies of Mordor. Éowyn's horse reared, shaking his mane, as did many others, the energy of the Rohirrim spurring them on. The horses began to stamp, and the chant of 'Death! Death! Death!' was taken up by the Riders. Hundreds of hooves, and clattering of shields made the ground and air itself vibrate. Finally, after what seemed like ages to Éowyn, her uncle gave the order to charge. She slackened the reins of her horse, and felt herself being carried forward, the sound of thunder around her. Black arrows fell around her, one striking the horse in front of her. It went down, and her own horse leapt over it, snorting. Her lance swung down in perfect unison with the other Riders, and another roar swept from them as they encountered the first ranks of orcs. Unlike the battle of Helm's Deep, where she had been in a relatively quiet corner, Éowyn could not pause to watch the others fight. After breaking the ranks of the orcs, her lance was useless - the orcs pressed in too tightly to use it. Driving it through the chest of an orc, she pulled her horse into a rear, and drew her sword at the same time, as he brought his hooves down onto the head of another orc. She smiled grimly, and turned her shield to catch a blow aimed at her horse's belly, bringing her sword down on the orc's head.

[Éomer]

The grip on Éomer's spear tightened, his knuckles turning whiter and whiter as his horse galloped onward. The Third Marshal stayed in his rank, guiding half of the Rohirrim toward the vast amount of enemies that stood before the White City. An daunting sight to see, it was. The White of the stone contrasted the black smoke that erupted from its levels. Those behind the walls could not be seen from such a great distance, but Éomer's heart told him they were there. Boromir and Aragorn would not let the city of Minas Tirith fall into the black hands of Sauron's minions. The wind splashed past Éomer's thick helm and cascading blonde hair. His eyes were sharp, glowing a fierce blue. He gritted his teeth as his company crashed into the first group of Orcs. His spear sunk into the enemy's chest, blood splashing out onto Éomer and his beautiful steed. The rider spat, black blood dripping onto the plains of Pelennor Fields.

His horse continued onward, the Rohirrim cutting through the ranks of Orcs with surprising ease. Erkenbrand's company soon formed up with Éomer's, the entire force of Rohirrim displaying why they hold the titles of "Horse-masters." Erkenbrand soon drew close to Éomer's side, his sword whipping down toward the enemies in flashes. Dúnhere quickly came to his other side, his spear crashing through enemy after enemy. With pure rage, the Rohirrim continued to break through the line of Orcs. King Théoden lead the charge from far out front, Snowmane shining brightly even though a shadow cast over the fields.

The charge was merciless, dozens of brave Rohirrim succumbed to the Orc's spears, but still hundreds sat proudly upon their steeds, fighting a just cause. They fought to free the peoples of Middle-earth from such horrible entities as Sauron the Wicked and Saruman the Traitor. They fought to reestablish the race of Men, through the sacrifices of Elrond, Celeborn, Thranduil and others. The time of planning was over, it was now the action. This was the final action in the end of the War. It was either victory, or pain of death. "Fight on Rohirrim!" Éomer roared. Erkenbrand and Dúnhere kept close to their friend, crushing Orcs with their horses' strong hooves.

[Gimli]

The idea of charging into thousands of Orcs on a pony did not appeal to Gimli. Nevertheless, the brave Dwarf did so, galloping swiftly beside Ceorl and Gamling. Though lower to the ground, he was still capable of slaying many Orcs that slipped through the Rohirrim's steel. He held his battle-axe tightly with both hands, steadily balancing himself on the pony. He swung viscously, avenging those that fell at Helm's Deep. He thought of the Elven Lords, and of his Rohirrim friends. But most of all he thought of his father. He would never forget the haunting night of the terrible battle. But now was a time for a new skirmish. Now was the time for the glory of the Rohirrim. His heart beat quickly, but steadily. It never skipped a beat, nor ceased to draw him breath. Gimli smirked haughtily as he sunk his axe into another enemy. The blood felt good between his fingers. Always a warrior, Gimli yearned for battle. It was his calling, albeit so it was to most Dwarves.

"Gimli!" a voice cried from over the loud roar of stomping hooves. It was Ceorl. He rode beside Gamling and Herubrand. They all fought valiantly.

"Aye?" Gimli questioned, swinging his axe toward another mass of enemies.

"This battle will prove to be most entertaining, eh?" Ceorl commented, a large grin across his face. His broadsword already bore the blood of many Orcs, and it was not yet satisfied. Gimli could tell it's bloodlust was not yet quenched.

"Aye," Gimli repeated, his face growing a grin as well. "I'll try not to kill them all, and let you have some too." He grunted as his axe again cleaved an enemy's head in two clean halves. He watched as Ceorl punctured an enemy in the chest with his sword, and brought it up with his massive arms. He grinned and flung it down, crushing it with his galloping horse.

Soon, the Rohirrim hit a standstill, all of the Riders stopping their charge. They had reached the center of the Orcs, and soon began to spread into a large circle. Gimli smiled as he saw Legolas firing arrows from his white horse. It was true, the Elves were still strong.

[Legolas]

As Legolas let loose every arrow, he felt a part of him leave as well. His mind could not leave the thought of his fellow Elves. He knew that Aragorn still dwelled in Minas Tirith, but his mind would not allow him to focus on such a thought. He fired one more arrow and unsheathed Oropher's sword. In his other hand he drew one of his long white knives. His face remained deadpan as he began to hack down enemies around his faithful horse. Blood sprayed from the Orcs, turning it's white coat to a dark black. Men were soon seen falling from their mounts, resorting to fighting on ground level with the enemy. This proved fatal, for there were such a vast amount of Mordor's Orcs. Legolas sheathed his knife and took the reigns in one hand, whipping them down. His horse set off again. He slowly began to stand upon the saddle, a graceful sight to see. He took his bow again and nocked another arrow in it.

From this vantage point, the Elf was able to strike down many enemies. He watched as their blood splashed onto the yellow grass, their bodies twisting in pain. He took pleasure from it, oddly enough. He was never one to enjoy killing, but times changed him. He was no longer the Elf that left Rivendell so long ago. He was now an orphan, and a king. He was a strong being, one that would live on, whether he perished or not.

He watched as Mirkwood Elves, under his command, began to fire their arrows in similar style. He smiled softly, and hopped back down onto his saddle, having fired his final arrow. He again took up his Grandfather's sword, cutting through the enemies once again. Legolas looked up at the mighty Minas Tirith and could not help but feel sorrow. The White City burned, black smoke flowing from it's many levels. The top level still remained unharmed, the White Tree still standing strong. He could see figures standing on one of the upper levels, watching as the Rohirrim plowed through the monsters of Mordor. He could only hope that there would be time to win this battle, and time for those men to come down and assist them.

[Théoden]

Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that
was blowing?

Théoden fought on top of Snowmane, and Herugrim glistened in the morning sunlight as he killed foe after foe. The orcs were broken by his wrath, and the King of Rohan fought with the strength of his people. The Rohirrim had come to Gondor's aid in man's darkest hour, and now they fought against the hosts of Minas Morgul, together. Dead orcs littered the plains of Pelennor, but the Riders of Rohan pressed on, alongside the elves, dwarves, and men from Dale. They were a powerful force, and the enemy was being driven back by their assault. It was a slow process, but the allies were winning.

“For the Mark!” cried Théoden, as he brought Herugrim down upon yet another foe. The blade struck an orc's helm and cleaved it in two, causing blood and brain matter to spill onto the ground. Théoden pulled his sword out with a mighty stroke, and brought it down upon yet another orc nearby, this time taking off the creature's arm. “Hosts of Mordor! You shall be broken by the brave Rohirrim! For Rohan! For Gondor!” The orcs backed away from Théoden as he swung his blade, and the King smiled. They feared him, and he knew it. Théoden laughed as Herugrim's light faded with the black blood of orcs, and he challenged more to face him.

“Is this the strength of Mordor?” he shouted, as he brought Herugrim down upon an orc's foul scimitar. The scimitar snapped in two at the hilt when the weapons collided, and Théoden stabbed Herugrim into the orc's terrible face. The creature screamed before its life was ended, and it fell to the ground. Théoden brought Snowmane into an abrupt circle, as he faced the sea of orcs around him. He had not noticed it, but he had fought deep into the army of Minas Morgul, and he found himself surrounded now. Still, the orcs seemed to back away from him, as he fought like the Kings of old. Théoden would fight his way back to his friends, and the orcs would fall in his path.

Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair
flowing?

The King of Rohan patted Snowmane on the side, and the noble horse charged off bearing its master towards his friends. Théoden's predictions had been true, orc after orc fell beneath his blade. They hacked at the King as he charged past, but one-after-another they were repelled by Herugrim, the ancient sword of kings. Théoden laughed as he rode, and it was not long before he was nearing his friends. However, the King's laughter faded abruptly, and he was sent crashing onto the ground. He grunted as he hit the earth, and looked over to see a long pike sticking out of his loyal horse, Snowmane, and a foul orc standing over it.

The orc was strong, and it was dressed in thick armor. A long, curved scimitar was in the creature's right hand, and it snarled as it looked over at the King. Théoden simply spat upon the ground, and stood up in anger. The battlefield seemed silent around him, as he focused all of his anger on the orc. He knew it to be the army's lieutenant, and he knew that he had to slay the beast. The orc had killed his faithful steed, and in doing so, had challenged Théoden directly. Théoden would end its pitiful life, before he returned to his friends once more.

“Who challenges me?” Théoden cried, as he gripped Herugrim, and faced the orc. He checked to see that his helm was fitted upon his head, and he frowned as he looked at the orc. “Who challenges the King of Rohan? Name yourself, orc. Name yourself, so that you may be slain!”

“Death,” the orc growled, as it glared at Théoden. “Death is my name. Know it, King of Man. Know that Gothmog shall slay you, and bear your lifeless body towards the Black Land. Know that I shall devour your flesh, and that your people shall fail. Know me, King. Know your death.”

Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire
glowing?

Théoden cried out in anger, and he rushed towards the orc in rage. The orc jumped off of Snowman's carcass with surprising speed, and its black scimitar met with Herugrim in a shower of sparks. Théoden rained down blow after blow upon the beast, and it was driven back by his assault. Herugrim danced about his foe, and soon it tasted the first blood. The blade of Théoden ripped into the orc's arm, and the beast let out a terrible cry of pain, before returning the attack. It was Théoden's turn now to be driven back, and soon he found his back to a circle of orc spears. They prevented his escape, and forced him to engage Gothmog in combat.

“Your blood stains Herugrim,” said Théoden, as he swung the blade at his foe. “Soon it shall pierce your black heart!” The sword was blocked, and the orc swept out with its leg, kicking Théoden in the shin. The King dropped to one knee and barely managed to get his sword up in time, before rolling to the side, and slashing at the orc once more. His sword nicked Gothmog's armor, and he felt a heavy blow strike his own chest. Gothmog had punched him with his massive hand, and Théoden felt the orc's strength as he breathed in heavily. Both warriors fought relentlessly, but they would not be able to fight forever. Sooner or later, one of them would die.

Théoden refused to give up hope as he fought with the Lieutenant of Minas Morgul. The orc was strong, but Théoden had the advantage in spirit. He had to fight so he could survive, and lead his people to victory. Rohan needed him to be its King, and the people needed him to live. He could not abandon them, thus, he could not die. But Gothmog was slowly advancing upon the King of Rohan, and Théoden knew that he would not be able to survive much longer if nothing was done. It was much like his duel with the Uruk-hai Chieftain at Helm's Deep...he fought only for survival.

Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn
growing?

“You have lived long, old King,” spat Gothmog, as he swung the black scimitar towards Théoden. Théoden barely managed to block the attack, and he stumbled as he evaded. Gothmog was on him in a flash, and the black scimitar scraped off of Théoden's helm, leaving a long scar in the metal. Herugrim flashed quickly, and the blade slashed Gothmog's leg. The orc merely grunted, and attempted to strike Théoden once more. The King rolled to the side, but when he stood, he was pushed to the ground once more, and he felt the black blade graze his arm. “But your time has run up. Death has come for you, I have arrived. It is your fate,” snarled Gothmog.

Gothmog allowed Théoden to rise to his feet, and the man looked at the orc with pure loathing. “My fate is my own to decide, orc,” Théoden said. “My life shall be decided by myself, not by some foul orc from Mordor. Your kind shall fall, Gothmog, and men shall rule the world in peace. That, is destiny. You cannot prevent it. Your master shall be sent from his tower, and the world shall grow green once more. The time for this war to end is at hand, and I shall see my people through to victory.”

“The only thing that you shall see, Théoden King,” growled Gothmog, as he rushed forward, and swung his black scimitar. “Is your own death!” Théoden grimaced as the scimitar glanced off of Herugrim, and he swung swiftly at Gothmog. The orc parried his blow with ease, and Théoden winced as he saw a black shadow flash by, and the scimitar entered his leg. Théoden fell to the ground in agony, and blood rushed from his wound. Gothmog stood over him with his terrible face, and smiled. “I'm here,” Gothmog snarled, as he hovered over the King. Théoden frowned, and shook his head. It wasn't possible, it wasn't...

They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind
in the meadow;

A sudden pain entered Théoden's abdomen, and the King gasped when he looked down, and saw the black scimitar enter his flesh. Gothmog growled and twisted the blade, causing Théoden to write in pain. Théoden saw bright flashes before his eyes, and he knew what was happening. The blade was removed, and Théoden knew that he was going to die. Gothmog had been right, his death was at hand. But he was the King of Rohan, and he would not go down without a fight. He could not abandon his kingdom, nor could be forget his people.

Théoden winced as he watched Gothmog's clawed hand reach towards his neck, and felt the orc's cruel fingers wrap around his neck. He felt himself leaving the earth, and within moments he dangled above the sky, with Gothmog holding him up by the neck. Théoden struggled the breath, and he could hear his own blood falling onto the grass. He struggled, but he could not manage to break Gothmog's grasp. The orc was too strong, and Théoden was too wounded too badly.

“Death has come for you,” growled Gothmog, as he bared his blackened teeth. Théoden looked at the orc's terrible face with a look of disgust, and Gothmog squeezed the King's throat tighter. Théoden fought to breath, but he could only manage to get in a few short gasps of air. His vision began to blur, and his limbs began to grow weak. Théoden knew that he would die in the orc's hands if he did not do something. He had to at least free himself from the orc, so that he could die on his own, and at least keep his dignity.

Gothmog's teeth moved slowly toward Théoden's face, and the King kicked his feet in an attempt to keep the orc away. But Gothmog merely dug a hand into Théoden's wound, and the King screamed in pure agony. He was going to die, and he knew it. Gothmog would devour his flesh, and his mangled body would be left for the Rohirrim to find. Unless...

The days have gone down in the West behind the hills
into shadow.

Théoden gripped Herugrim tightly in his hand as Gothmog's face drew nearer to his own, and he slashed at the orc with the blade suddenly. Gothmog howled in pain as Herugrim sank into his face, and Théoden was dropped to the ground. Théoden hacked at the orc's head, and grimaced as black blood flowed from the orc's already terrible face. Herugrim sank in deep, and Gothmog screamed in agony as the blade scraped against his eyelid. Gothmog's face was a terrible sight, as deep cuts ran all over, and blood gushed from wounds. The orc finally turned and fled, and Théoden collapsed to the ground.

The King of Rohan smiled as he gripped the bloody sword, and stared up at the sky. The sun had finally risen in full, and it shown down upon the battlefield, and upon Théoden. Tears formed in the King's eyes as he stared, and all sounds of the battle left his mind. He had almost forgotten where he was, only his wound reminded him. There was a gaping, bleeding hole in Théoden's abdomen, and he knew that he was going to die. Yet he couldn't feel any pain. Perhaps the pain was too strong, or perhaps it was his body's way of preparing for death. All that Théoden knew, was that he was going to die. There was no healer who could save him now.

“Éomer,” whispered Théoden , as he gazed at the blue sky. He thought of his nephew, and the tears fell from his face. “You are a strong man. You were like a son to me, Éomer. It is in you that the bloodline of Éorl lives, and it is you who shall become King. You shall become a just and noble King indeed...look after your sister. Carry my memory on, as I have no son to uphold such things.”

Théoden knew that his nephew could not hear him, but he could not help but speak the words. They were true, of course. Éomer was a great man, and Théoden could not have asked for a better person to become the next King of Rohan. He knew that his nephew would grieve his death, but Théoden also knew that it would fill the man with strength. Théoden's heart was eased slightly at the thought, for he knew that Éomer would not let his death go unavenged. Éomer would finish what Théoden had started, and he would lead the Rohirrim to victory over the Dark Lord.

The King's breath became softer as clouds passed overhead, and he smiled as the tears flowed from his eyes. It was time. It was time for him to pass to the halls of his fathers, and leave Rohan behind. He hoped that he had done well for his people, and that he would be remembered as a worthy King, and as a man who had loved his land and his people. For that was true. There was nothing that Théoden loved more than Rohan. There was nothing that he loved more than his kingdom. He would give his life for it, so that Rohan would survive.

“I am ready,” he whispered, and Théoden looked up at the sky with clear eyes. He felt something touch his arm, and he smiled. There was no pain in his body, and his mind was at ease. Death had come for him, but it was not in the form of Gothmog. Death had come in the form of hope, for it was hope that he had given his people. “I come to you, my fathers,” he whispered. It was a quiet whisper, which he himself could barely hear. It came from his heart. “I come to you, with my task fulfilled. May you look upon me with pride, as I stand beside you in adoration of our land.”

A single breath escaped Théoden's lips, and his grip on Herugrim lessened. His noble eyes glazed over, and his face became pale, as he still stared at the sky. Théoden had fought for his people, and he had led them out of the darkness, and into the light. He had played his part in the survival of Rohan, and now it was time for him to pass on, and leave the role to others. Théoden, Son of Thengel, was dead. The Seventeenth Lord of the Riddermark had passed on, but his people had survived. And that, was what mattered.

Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?

[Éomer]

A strong gust of cool wind blew through the battlefield, rustling the great manes of the Rohirrim's steeds. It was a shrill wind, one that bore bad omens. Éomer's eyes turned toward the direction the wind blew, which was the daunting East. He grimaced, his eyes turning down. Long had his horse stopped charging, and now he sat upon it, his sword blazing across the many Orcs that attempted to tear him asunder. But, as his eyes turned down toward the bloody grasses, a sight he wished never to see crossed his path. Snowmane lay dead, an Orcish spear lodged in her side. Blood flowed down the creature's gently curved side. Éomer snapped Brego's reigns and galloped toward the fallen horse of the King. He leapt from his saddle and landed on his feet, instantly going into a sprint. He swung his sword madly, still running, into an attacking Orc. If fell onto it's back, a pool of blood breaking its deadly fall. He reached the horse, noticing Erkenbrand and Dúnhere at his side, still upon their horses.

Éomer continued to survey the area, finally discovering what he so sorrowfully sought for. Théoden was slain. He walked slowly over to the corpse of his Uncle, Erkenbrand and Dúnhere dismounting behind him. They too walked in silence. Éomer fell to one knee, his bloody hand clutching the cold, lifeless hand of his King. "Are you beyond this world, my King?" Éomer whispered, tears dripping from his eyes. He knew the answer, for blood flowed freely from Théoden's chest. A gaping wound ripped through the bronze armor of the King. "You..." Éomer soon found it difficult to breath. His words became incoherent as more tears fell onto his Uncle's broken armor.

"Éomer," Dúnhere said quietly, Erkenbrand remaining silent. "A noble death he had."

"Nay," Éomer replied, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "A King deserves not to be slain by such creatures..." He paused, picking up Herugrim from the blood-stained ground. He looked at it in great detail. Black blood covered the blade, a fine shine still it possessed. He smiled weakly and placed it in Théoden's open hand. "Rohan does not deserve such an event... We have suffered enough. Do the Gods despise us so?"

"Éomer," Dúnhere whispered sadly, trying to comfort his friend. "War does not take prisoners. War does not bring peace without death. Théoden's death was not in vain. He, like all the others whom have been slain under this shadow, fought thinking of light returning to their lands. Rohan will see that light, Éomer." He stopped and looked down at his King, frowning. "Be it with, or without it's King."

"A King, Rohan has," a voice said softly. Dúnhere and Éomer both turned their eyes toward the speaker. Erkenbrand stood stoically. The broken warrior brought up a strong finger, pointing toward Éomer. The Third Marshal nodded slowly. "Éomer," Erkenbrand whispered. "King." He then smiled softly, having tried his best to read the lips of his companions.

"No," Éomer replied. "Until this battle ceases, Théoden's reign shall. I fight for the son of Thengel, and for my Uncle. May his body remain safe." Théoden's eyes were slowly closed, no longer looking deadly toward the sky. Herugrim was placed firmly upon his chest, both hands gripping it mightily. The three Rohirrim stood in a circle around their fallen King, their blades drawn. Another cool gust of wind blew by them, a signal of more terrible things to come.

Éomer smiled as he gazed at the oncoming enemy. His heart beat faster as sweat dripped tenderly from his brow. He spun Gúthwinë between his fingers and took up Théodred's shield from his back. In an instant, the three warriors of King Théoden fought for their lives. Éomer slew an Orc and dodged an attack from another. He sidestepped as an Orcish spear was hurled toward him. "I beckon the Gods to my blade, and the might of King Théoden to it's tip. From Rohan to Gondor, from King Théoden to King Aragorn. I stand before you a warrior of Men. Break before me, pitiful Orcs. Break before me and my kin. Rohan will not fall. It is the beacon of light, and you are the darkness it must extinguish."

[Dúnhere]

Dúnhere carved through an attacking Orc with his sword. The tip of the blade gliding along the enemy's chest, leaving a bloody gash. Entrails and blood spilled onto the plains. The Orc slipped on them and fell onto his back, Dúnhere's sword slaying it instantly. The warrior's mind was spiraling back and forth between revenge and mourning. Théoden was slain, but there was no such time to express the feelings of sorrow. That was what he hated most of war. If one were to be slain in battle, never would they get the chance to pay their respects to the fallen. It was a terrible thing to think of for Dúnhere, and thus he tried avoiding it coming through his thoughts. "Éomer!" he cried, sending the pommel of his sword down onto an Orc's temple. It twitched slightly, before succumbing to it's injuries. "We are to be overrun!"

Éomer did not reply. He was no longer Éomer, nor a man. He was a beast. A viscous beast. He slew enemies left and right, blood splashing onto himself and the ground. His faithful sword was blinded by the black blood of the Orcs. Words would not reach his ears in this state. It was both a thing of great beauty and horror.

Erkenbrand fought silently, seeming to have adapted to only having sight in one eye. His blade always found it's mark, even though he was slower than he was before the accident. His bones were not fully healed, Dúnhere could tell from the way he moved during battle. Dúnhere always had an interest in watching men fight. Every warrior was different, no matter the circumstances. He felt as though he and Erkenbrand fought similarly, but it was Erkenbrand's strength that separated them. Dúnhere was nimble, relying more on his speed than strength. A bright flash of a steel scimitar cut him away from his thoughts. Dúnhere parried the attack and brought his sword down upon the foe. They fought fiercely, but the other Rohirrim were not as close to the center as they were. Théoden had rushed out in front of his men, making the location of his body reasonable. The sound of hooves did grow louder, but still no sign of the Rohirrim reaching their location could be seen.

[Gamling]

Gamling's battle-worn hands gripped the sword of Elfhelm as his faithful horse trampled through the ranks of orcs. He had lost his sense of direction during the battle, and he found himself away from the majority of the Rohirrim, with only a score of riders near his side at best. That did not prevent him from staining the sword black with blood, however. It sang a song of utter rage as it cut through the air in an attempt to avenge its fallen master. Gamling wielded the blade as best he could, and although his body was old, his mind still desired victory. He fought with all of the strength that he could muster, as the orcs surrounded his small party of Rohirrim. The orcs stabbed at the riders with their foul spears, but the Rohirrim merely swatted the weapons away. They soon formed a circle around Gamling, and watched as the orcs snarled at them as they thirsted for the life-giving blood of men.

"Rohirrim! Brave Riders of Rohan!" Gamling cried, as he looked at the men around him. He could see a large cluster of riders not far off, and he pointed Elfhelm's sword towards them. The men looked in the direction with grim expressions upon their faces, for swarms of orcs stood between them and the other riders. "It is there that we must ride, towards victory! We have been separated from our allies for a reason, for a reason that we have yet to reveal. All that my old mind knows is that we must fight, and it is there that we must ride to. I have seen many battles my friends, and never before have my aging eyes looked upon something so terrible as this. Yet fight we must, and we must fight with hope. We must fight with hope for victory. Rally, Rohirrim. Rally to our brothers, ride towards glory!"

The men rushed forward with a terrible cry, and the first lines of orcs had little time to prepare themselves. Gamling rode at the front of the charge, and Elfhelm's sword cut through the orcs' armor with ease as they pressed on towards the rest of the Rohirrim. A few of the riders fell at the cunning hands of the orcs, but most of them pressed on even harder as they neared the allies. Swords and spears threatened their path, but all of the weapons of the enemy were broken as the Rohirrim showed their strength.

It was not long before Gamling found his group fighting next to the other riders, who Gamling noticed was led by Ceorl. "Ceorl!" Gamling cried in relief, as he watched the man swing his massive weapon. It sliced an orc's head clean off of its neck, and Ceorl seemed to laugh as he turned upon another enemy. Finally Ceorl turned towards Gamling and smiled. The powerful warrior tipped the point of his helm towards Gamling as he looked at the old man, and Gamling smiled in return as he returned to the battle, fighting alongside his brothers once more. His family had lonce since been dead, but he was always at home with his fellow Rohirrim.

[Elladan]

The sword in Elladan's hand had never felt so light. It danced madly through the air as he brought it down upon his foes, who hacked at the legs of his horse with their cruel weapons. He could hear the horse whimpering in pain as it was slashed, and soon the animal collapsed onto the ground. Elladan dismounted the horse swiftly, and with a flick of his wrist, he ended the horse's misery himself. He could not bear to see another fair creature suffer, he had suffered too much himself. The death of Elrond had ripped his heart into shreads, and now that he had recovered, Elladan was focused on only one thing. He had to avenge his father. Elrond had given his life for his people, and Elladan could not let him or his people down. No, Rivendell had to survive the battle. It was with that thought in his mind that Elladan turned to face the orcs with his old sword in hand.

It was not a special sword, it bore no unique markings. The sword was a simple weapon that Elladan used to kill. It was not as magnificent as Hadhafang had once been, and Elladan thought of his father once more as he looked at the broken hilt of the sword that rested upon his belt. He would have it reforged in time, and it would become a mighty, glorious weapon once more. But until the battle ended Hadhafang would have to wait, as Elladan fought with the simple sword that rested in his hands, and the reliable bow and arrows that were slung over his back. They would do, for now. For the orcs fought with foul blades, and their armor was weak. Orcs were easily slain.

Just as the first orc came towards Elladan, a sudden change came over him. The light that always seemed to shine in his eyes vanished, as his grey eyes seemed to turn to chips of grey steel. He gripped his sword tightly in his hand, and as the orc raised its scimitar above its head to strike, Elladan's blade flashed. The orc looked down stupidly at a pile of its own innards before falling to the ground, not even having seen the strike that had ended its life. Elladan dashed quickly to another foe that stood with its back to him. He stabbed his sword into the orc's back without mercy, and smirked as blood oozed out around his fingers, and the orc fell to the ground with a scream. Elladan pulled the blade out with ease, and left the orc lying in its own blood to suffer, and to die.

For the first time in his life, Elladan killed without remorse. The ruthless side of man seemed to lash out in him, but at the same time, the glory of the elves could be seen. He fought with the speed and precision that only the elven lords could, but he also employed a crude fighting style. He cared little what he did to his enemies, as long as they died from their wounds. In his rage Elladan crushed the slender necks of orcs beneath his hands, and laughed as their thick blood rushed over his body. He had become an animal in the battle, a monster that was entirely focused on avenging those that it had lost. Unfortunately for the orcs, Elladan's vengeance would never be quenched. The amount of suffering that he had gone through could not be transfered to the orcs, it could only be given in death.

[Gothmog]

Blood flowed freely between Gothmog's thick fingers as he rushed through the sea of orcs and men. He clutched his black scimitar in one hand as he ran, but his other covered his mangled face. It had to be a terrible sight, Gothmog knew that. The King of Rohan had slashed him several times before he had died, and Gothmog's right eye could not even open or close from the wound. Gothmog knew that it would be a long time before he would be healed, but he also knew that he could not stay and fight. He was a strong warrior, but he did not have the simple mind that most orcs possessed. Gothmog knew that if he were to stay, then it was very likely that some other mighty man would find him, and he would be slain. No, Gothmog would not stay and fight against the race of men. He would turn, and flee.

Gothmog spat as he ran, and he growled with pain and rage. It was not like him to run away from battle. The mark that the Witch-King had left upon his arm burned with an incredible flame as he moved further and further away from the horse-lords of Rohan, but Gothmog moved on. There was nothing left for him to do in Gondor. He would return in time, when his wounds had healed. But for now, he had to leave, even if it ment fleeing from the Witch-King himself. The Witch-King's wrath would be terrible if Gothmog were to be found, but it was a risk that he had to take. The Witch-King was a man, after all. And somewhere, deep within his wretched heart, Gothmog despised him too. For when the Witch-King had branded his arm with his black sorcery, hatred for all men had been placed in him. It was a hatred that could never be quenched, not until the race of men vanished from the face of the earth.

Out of the corner of his eye Gothmog noticed an orc watching him intently as he ran. The creature seemed to stare at its lieutenant, and Gothmog snarled as the orc ran up to him. The orc's eyes opened with a sudden look of shock as Gothmog immediately ran him through with his scimitar, before turning his back on the battle once more. "Man," Gothmog growled as he ran. "Man shall pay, man shall die. They cannot defeat Gothmog, they cannot conquer death. I shall return to you, men of Gondor, riders of Rohan. Death shall come for you all."