The Ride of The Rohirrim

The horns had sounded, and the men of Rohan, defenders of the Hornburg fortress, gazed with awe upon the new arrivals that marched up the bridge and through the opened gate. Beléniel lightly ran down the flight of stone steps as a familiar face turned towards the king. Aragorn, Legolas, and the Dwarf Gimly rushed down and the ranger warmly greeted the captain of the Elvish archers by enclosing him in an embrace.

Haldir was startled to hear the softly feminine Elvish spoken from his left. The voice was familiar, and he glanced towards it. “Beléniel! You are here?”

Aragorn threw up defeated hands as a reply to the unspoken question in Haldir’s eyes. She neared and smiled. “It has been long years since last we saw each other.”

“Our Lady Galadriel will not be pleased,” he told her. “You are first of her great-grandchildren, and she would have you remain safe.”

“Our Lady, my great-grandmother, knows that until this evil is vanquished nowhere will I remain safe.” With a small curtsy she moved on, taking her place atop the first rampart.

Long before the dark came the sounds of a vast army on the march came to their ears. As the sun fell the sight of thousands of torches approaching heralded the coming of Saruman’s forces. Every man and young male old enough to swing a sword was armed and standing at the ramparts. King Theoden was upon the highest wall near the hall with two of his best men. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli stood with the Elven archers. Beléniel gazed upon the sea of torches and armor below, and as the Uruk’hai began a fearful chant of grunts and growls and howls her thoughts flew across the expanse of Rohan, and she knew a moment of calm as the handsome face of one tall golden Rider entered her mind. Without thought a soft vow of love crossed her lips in Elvish, and she drew her bow and notched an arrow aimed at one Orc’s neck.

…

Eomer suddenly drew his mount to a halt. “Beléniel,” he whispered, feeling her essence reach out to him and wrap about him. His heart raced and beat against his chest in a tattoo that would rival war drums. She tugged at him, and the urge to turn about and race towards her was strong. She called to him, but how he did not know. Nor did he understand. All that he knew was her thoughts were of him, and joy bloomed within his breast to know she loved him.

“A rider approaches!”

The shout broke the spell Eomer was under, and his gaze narrowed as a white form broke over a knoll in the distance and sped towards them. His men all turned their mounts to face what might be a threat, their spears held at the ready. Eomer let his mount pick its way between his men and make for the forefront to meet this rider. As he did so whispers broke out among the Riders. “Shadowfax,” they breathed, and a gladness came over them.

Eyes narrowed Eomer patiently waited for the king of horses to near. Atop the white steed was a man in a gray cloak. “Rohan has great need of you and your men,” Gandalf announced without preamble.

“We are banished from the boundaries of Rohan,” Eomer told him.

“The poison of Saruman has been purged from the king’s mind, and he again leads his people. They have made to Helm’s Deep. Saruman sends his army. If we do not arrive in time I fear none shall survive, and Rohan will be a barren land dark with the evil of Sauron. It shall become home to the Orcs and other fell beasts, and they will run freely to other realms and destroy all of Middle Earth. Will you not return with me, Eomer, son of Eomund, and turn back the tide of darkness that at this moment threatens those you love?”

“You need not ask twice,” Eomer replied. “We ride to Rohan!” he shouted.

His men took up the cry, and the ground shook and the air trembled as the Riders of Rohan, led by their captain and the wizard Gandalf upon the king of horses, raced with all speed to the defense of their countrymen. The closer they got to Rohan the stronger Eomer felt Beléniel’s presence. She was there, one of those he loved, threatened by the might of Saruman. He spurred his horse harder. “Run as never before, Firefoot,” he urged his mount. “Run as never before.”

…

The fortress’ first walls were breached. The ramparts and first courtyard were teeming with Orcs bearing the White Hand of Saruman. Everywhere the ground was littered with the dead, and the stone slick with spilled blood. The blur of faces was as a nightmare come to life. Steel clanged against steel, or thudded against flesh and bone. Death rattles mingled with the crazed cries of berserkers and the screams of the dying.

Beléniel heard Aragorn calling a retreat, and she leapt over a falling Orc and made for the second wall when she heard him call to Haldir. She had forgotten that Haldir still remained on the first ramparts. Glancing up she skidded to a halt as he fell to his knees beneath the weight of an Orc’s sword. Aragorn ran to him, and when the Elf was laid gently down she mourned for the friend she had once known.

An arrow sped by her head, and she heard a strangled grunt behind her. Her startled gaze fell on Legolas who lowered his bow. “Come, we must hurry!” he commanded as he took her arm and pulled her along with him.

Dazedly she let him guide her, and stumbled over a body along the way. Falling she grunted and blinked her eyes clear of wetness only to find herself staring into the lifeless eyes of a boy. A choked sob tightened her throat, and when she was roughly yanked up she cried out in fear.

“Run!” Aragorn ordered her, pushing her before him.

In the hall as the doors slammed shut with a finality that made her wince she stumbled towards a pillar and leaned against it. Lifting a hand she paused in scrubbing at her face, seeing the filth and blood that covered them. They shook now, and breathing became difficult for her. She could hear voices arguing heatedly, but when she glanced upwards the hall swam wetly before her eyes.

A hand fell on her shoulder, and soothing Elvish whispered like a balm over her frayed senses. It told her to be strong, to hold to faith and hope, and to remember who she was. She was descendant of the Dunedain, a ranger of the north, and kin to Isildur’s heir. Reaching up she laid her hand over the one on her shoulder, and thanked Legolas as she nodded.

Outside the thick doors barred to the enemy could still be heard screams and shouts. Not everyone had made it within the hall before the doors had been shut. Defeat began to weigh down the occupants, and despair was a pall hanging over them. But Aragorn was not yet ready to concede defeat. He urged Theoden to ride out and meet the enemy.

Beléniel wasn’t listening. Her head perked up, and her breathing increased. “Eomer,” she breathed, turning towards the east. Sunlight filtered in from a high window. Now she understood what she had been feeling throughout the night. It was Eomer, his presence growing stronger with every league he drew nearer. Somehow she could sense his urgency in reaching her, and warmth and hope flooded within her. He loved her, and light filled her world.

Horses were brought forward, and once again Aragorn lifted her up behind him. Swords drawn they raced for the doors as the Orcs burst through, knocking them aside and cutting a swath through them, and down the bridge. Startled the Uruk’hai were unprepared, and when the thunder of hooves sounded behind them they turned to meet the new threat, lowering their tall spears in readiness. But as riders crested the hill a white light filled the gap, and the Orcs recoiled as it seared and blinded them. The clash of the cavalry into the Uruk’hai was tremendous, the fell creatures falling beneath this new onslaught.

Like a vise tightening the soldiers from the fortress and the cavalry led by Gandalf and Eomer pinched the Orcs between them. Ten thousand strong had come to Helm’s Deep. Now hundreds took flight, crashing through Fangorn Forest in a panicked retreat. The victorious watched the erratic flight and were grateful to have turned away the forces of Saruman.