A oneshot for my favorite Lord of the Rings human. I am considering turning this into a full length story. Here it it, anyhow! The Hour of Rohan
Smoke. Screams. Crumbling marble. Helplessness. Hopelessness. Death.
This what hazel eyes saw as they stared across the Pelennor Fields to the falling city of Minas Tirith. It looked, for those who sought to overwhelm and overcome the power of The Ring, that all was lost. Indeed, many of the Rohirrim marveled that there were survivors left to fight for. King Théoden's nephew never let surprise hold fast to his heart, however. Surprise and fear were a waste of precious time unless they were inflicted upon the enemy. And today, they would be inflicted. The enemy would know terror by the hooves of the noble steed. They would know annihilation at the hand of the horse lord. And their master, the dark lord Sauron, would come to a swift and lonely death by the innocent courage of the hobbit. It was all most absurd, but now none of that mattered.
What mattered was defeating the evil that threatened all of Middle Earth like a looming plague of bitterness and hate; destroying the malice that had divided kingdoms and torn asunder truth and light. Many had died, and many more would meet the same fate on this field, but the Riders of Rohan had been trained to obey orders without question, to move into battle without noticeable fear. And noblest of the riders were their horses, trained just as the men had been, just as brave and willing to die for their masters as their masters were to die for their lord and land.
"Éomer. Take your Éored down the left flank."
"Flank ready!" the warrior replied.
His uncle's firm order was met with a call and nod of the head, and Éomer shifted his body just slightly in the saddle. His noble stallion, the envied Firefoot, needed no words, no, hardly even any action, to understand what his orders were. He moved out, cantering, long and lithe before the portion of the army that Éomer was to be responsible for. If anything was certain in this war, if anything ever had been honest and loyal, it was the stallion, and the leader of the Rohan warrior couldn't have been more grateful to be the master of such an animal. Each motion was like the river, smooth and sure, and while Firefoot was eager for battle, indeed, his muscles were tight and drawn as though ready to explode into action at any moment, the animal's nature was calm and attentive to his rider. Truly he was a magnificent beast, floating like a phantom before the army.
"Gamling, follow the King's banner down the center! Grimbold, take your company right, after you pass the wall!"
Éomer's heart threatened to beat out of his chest as he gave last orders to his men and then gave his uncle his fullest attention. The great warrior had seen many battles before. He had fought monsters that, as a child, he hadn't believed existed. He and his army of banished Rohirrim had defeated large numbers of Sauron's cronies, but nothing could compare with the battle that lay before them. They were far outnumbered, but they would not be overpowered, for within the Rohirrim lay a heart that beat so loudly and so powerfully to the rhythm of courage and truth that it would not be deterred nor broken until every last horse and rider had met his death. Countless were the numbers of the enemy, made of Orcks, and men, and their creatures of burden, but they knew not what awaited them in the seemingly small mass of 6,000 horses. They understood not the powerful barrage that would run into their midst, run over and run through them until not a single hoof was left moving. They knew not the power of the Rohirrim.
Ah, but they would know, and a small smile flitted across Éomer's face as an unseen energy flowed through the ranks, binding each man to the other in a harmony of understanding and brothership. Rohan had seen battle before, and she would see it again. Not one rider would turn and flee; not one horse balk or stray.
"Forth, and fear no darkness! Arise! Arise, Riders of Theoden!"
King Theoden's voice nearly trembled with power as he shouted to his most loyal of servants. It struck every man to the core, and an astounding flow of adrenaline raced through Éomer's blood, so strong that his horse danced beneath him. Now was the time. Now would be the greatest war against Sauron that had yet occurred. Now Rohan would rise, rise, rise in the legends and stories of greatness! Here on these fields, beneath the great sky, for all that was good and right!
"Spears shall be shaken, shields shall be splintered! A sword day...a red day...ere the sun rises!"
Spears were lowered, aimed and ready towards the awaiting evil. Everything suddenly was silent, all breaths held in anticipation, all horses still in preparation. Théoden urged his horse into a smooth canter, floating like air before his troops as his sword was raised high, sliding in encouragement across the prepared spears, an unspoken sign of respect, of honor, and of pride.
"Ride now! Ride now! Ride! Ride to ruin and the world's ending!"
The king's great horse, the mighty stallion Snowmane, pivoted, turning to face the wicked armies that lay before Rohan's best.
"Death! Death! Death!"
The king's cry was echoed in jubilation and power by his men, encouraging their king in return for his encouragement to them, and then Éomer drew in his breath, waiting for the charge, waiting for the call that would send them into a suicidal situation where the odds of winning were horrifically slim.
"Forth Èorlingas!"
The ram's horns were sounded, the only sound heard across the entire field for a few split seconds. The mighty warriors of Rohan felt as though their hearts were about to beat out of their chests as their king moved his steed forward at a walk. Now was not the time to walk, but to run! Let the horses run!
But no, Éomer knew to hold Firefoot back, lest he loose all of his energy and strength before they even touched the armies of the enemy. Now was the time to walk proudly, to follow the king, to remain calm and controlled. Éomer whispered to himself as Snowmane broke into a trot and the other horses followed suit, almost singing to himself the poems that his mother had taught him long ago before she passed on, mercifully spared from seeing these wicked times. The warrior smiled weakly as his horse flicked an ear back to listen to him, though his voice was nearly drowned by the hooves of the thousands around him, was nearly silenced by the pounding of Éomer's own heart and the rugged breath that passed through his lips as he murmured.
"Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?
Canst thou make him afraid as a grasshopper? The glory of his nostrils is terrible.
He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength: he goeth on to meet the armed men.
He mocketh at fear, and is not afrighted; neither turneth he back from the sword.
The quiver rattleth against him, the glittering spear and the shield."
The voice of one of Éomer's men spoke loudly from beside him, speaking aloud the poem so that Éomer's men could hear, so that all could find strength in the ancient Scripture.
"He swalloweth the ground with fierceness and rage: neither believeth he that it is the sound of the trumpet.
He saith among the trumpets, Ha, ha; and he smelleth the battle far off, the thunder of the captains, and the shouting!"
The horses shifted into a canter, a good, strong canter, and then suddenly they were charging, flying, storming the armies of Sauron with an overwhelming intensity. Now was the time to shout, the time to let power reveal itself in the armies of the horse lords!
The men could contain their energy and adrenaline no longer, and all shouted as one voice as they drew ever closer to the enemy. The galloping of the horses was deafening as the beasts surged forward together like a great wave of the sea, ready to overcome the enemy, to trample them underfoot like the snakes and foul creatures that they were.
And then they were there. Horses slammed into bodies, running them over, jumping and bounding, trampling through the fray, and as Éomer drew back his spear for his first kill, a fire ignited within him. This was it! This was the time of triumph! Rohan would not fail! Now was the hour, the hour of Rohan!