Chapter 10: The Siege of Gondor

Theoden leant over a map with his head in his hands. It was near midnight and Aragorn and his companions had not yet been gone an hour, but already the ageing King missed the presence of the ranger. His calm yet commanding air had been a permanent fixture in Meduseld, or Helm's Deep or Dunharrow for that matter, for long enough to make Theoden reliant on him.

The recent victory in Rohan had been widely celebrated, but the monarch was not so foolish as Gandalf had supposed. He knew that the battle had only been a tiny taste of the horror Mordor had yet to unleash. The fight in Gondor to which he was now leading his people would cost many more lives, including, Theoden was almost certain, his own.

"My Lord?"

He sighed deeply, recognising the voice as belonging to one of his guards. "Yes?" He didn't bother turning round to face them.

"Another of your men has arrived alone, sir, and he insisted that he be permitted to see you immediately."

Theoden turned around. Sure enough, two guards stood just inside the entrance to his tent, flanking a tall, hooded and cloaked man, the build of whom seemed almost frighteningly familiar. His hood shadowed his face, but the tips of long, dark strands of hair fell forward into the light.

"Very well," the King said.

"I asked to speak with you alone." The stranger's voice reminded Theoden of a voice he'd last heard not too long ago, a voice of one all too dear to him. He nodded to the guards and they left, lowering the flaps of the tent behind them.

Theoden eyed the man, suspiciously. "Who are you?" he asked.

The stranger didn't reply, only lowered his hood, and the King realised why he had seemed so familiar.

"Theodred!" he gasped. "My son!" He reached for the edge of a table to steady himself, his face a picture of fear and shock.

Theodred nodded. "That's right."

"But you're dead!" his father exclaimed. "I wept before your tomb! How is it that I see you before me now?"

"I'm not dead, clearly."

He took a step closer to the King, but Theoden didn't move. "Are you a ghost?" he asked. "Are you a spirit sent to avenge some wrong I have committed?"

"Father." Theodred took another step closer to his father and took hold of his arm, lowering his voice. "Dad, it's me. It's Theo, your son."

His father's face was pale at hearing himself addressed as only his son ever had. Gradually, a smile started to grow on his face. "It really is you!" he whispered. "You've come back!"

Theodred nodded, now wearing a grin almost identical to his father's.

"How?" Theoden asked. "How is it that you come to me now while what we believed to be your body is buried outside Edoras?"

"It's a long story. All I'll say now is that I'm back, and I want to go and fight in Gondor."

Theoden's grin widened and he embraced his son, peals of joyous laughter now escaping his lips. "I'm glad you're back, my boy, so glad."

Theodred sighed deeply in relief and happiness.

"So am I," he murmured. "So am I."

-----

Minas Tirith was in flames, its white walls blackened by smoke, and before it, filling every visible inch of the plain with their foul warfare, was a huge army of orcs, easily more than ten times the amount at Helm's Deep. They lay directly between the Rohirrim and their Numenorean neighbours, and their fiery trenches stretched across the once-fair plains like burning black ribbons, their siege towers towering above even the city walls.

"Nervous?"

Theodred glanced at his father, seated on his snowy-white horse beside him at the head of their column. He cast his eyes back over the massive enemy force.

"Naturally."

"Good. Fear makes you fight at your best."

He looked to his left to see his cousin riding towards them.

"Where am I to lead my men?" Eomer asked almost before he had reached them. Theodred listened attentively as his father delivered his instructions, quickly slipping back into the militaristic swing of things.

"You are to lead the left flank around the outside to the left towards the river," Theoden told him, "And Eomer to the right towards the city. We must cut off their escape."

Both young men nodded in reply, and Theodred exchanged glances with his cousin. "I'll see you after the battle," he said quietly. "Fare well."

"And you."

Their hands clasped briefly in a stiff handshake, before Eomer turned his horse and returned to his men. Theodred turned to look over his shoulder at the soldiers behind him. He recognised many faces; he'd been leading many of these men for years. Then he laid eyes on a rider he did not recognise. They seemed smaller and more slender then the others, with long, fair hair and bright blue eyes that instantly looked down when his met them. Another was seated in front of them, a small figure that seemed to be the Halfling he had heard about from his father. Looking back up, Theodred managed to catch the eyes of the rider, and his heart skipped a beat as he recognised the face of his other cousin, the one he had bid farewell to only days ago.

The name 'Eowyn' had almost formed on his lips before she shook her head slowly. She didn't say anything, but her eyes were begging him not to give her away to her uncle.

He was instantly worried for her, but once he was past that he realised that his once little 'Wyn was now an independent young woman, and, more importantly, a Shield Maiden of Rohan, therefore more than capable of defending herself in battle. Shaking his head and fervently wishing he wouldn't regret it, he turned away, and left her undiscovered, hidden among the ranks of men.

"Theodred!" His father was addressing him, beckoning him to come closer. Theoden leaned forward to speak.

"You'll make a good King."

Theodred glanced at him in confusion, unsure how to take this. "What do you mean?" he asked, though there was already a suspicion in his mind.

His father's eyes were sad as he replied. "You know." He clapped a hand on his shoulder and smiled. "You're the best swordsman in Rohan, go and do me proud."

Theodred could tell it was time for the charge, and, with a last smile at his father, rode away to the men he was going to lead, the horns already blowing behind him.

He heard his father make a speech, his noble words carried away by the wind, but didn't need to know what he was saying to understand. This battle could not be won by the Rohirrim, but they would fight to the very end nonetheless.

Then it was time. Theoden raised his sword above his head and let out an almighty yell, one that was soon seconded by every man present, before the front lines began to move, and the charge began.

The moments that followed were swift and chaotic. Theodred didn't know where to look as his horse slammed into the first ranks of the orcs, but pressed on, shouting to his men to follow him, and led them left. Soon, the orcs began to recover from the initial shock of the Rohirric attack, but the prince madly thrust his sword into anything on the ground that moved, vowing that the enemy would not have the upper half of the battle while he still drew breath.

-----

"Theodred!"

The Rohirric prince spun round on hearing his cousin's cry to block a heavy blow from an orc. An arrow from another of his countrymen saved him the satisfaction of the kill, but he sent a nod of thanks to Eomer nevertheless.

"Take care, cousin," Eomer said, grinning as he rode past. "We wouldn't want to lose you so soon after you've come back."

Theodred grinned in reply and watched as his cousin slowed his horse to hurl a spear at some unfortunate enemy. He'd lost his own horse some time ago: a sore reminder of the lack of his faithful Brego, supposedly now in the possession of a northern ranger he'd heard tell of. But there was no time for thought, and he fought on.

A savage war cry ringing in his ears warned him of the sudden attack of a Haradrim captain, early enough for him to deflect a swinging club. Theodred gathered his wits soon enough to attack before he was forced to defend again, and, using an old trick his uncle had taught him, he went for the weapon of his enemy. He swung his sword down hard on the wooden handle; the anger in the fiery eyes of his opponent only grew as the blade sliced nearly half way through it. Theodred was dismayed to find it made of denser wood than he'd thought, and was forced to raise his shield to the next swift blow. The shield served its purpose but the shrapnel in the club was embedded deep in its front, so he cast it away, leaving his enemy temporarily weaponless.

Now the man of Harad drew a long, broad-bladed knife that had been hanging at his side. Theodred attacked again, but not hard enough.

"Damn!"

The thick leather worn by the Harad had turned aside his already blunt and bloodied blade. Neither warrior paused for breath. Their blades clashed time and time again. The metallic ring was cold and mocking to Theodred, though by no means unfamiliar. The combat was fast and furious, never-ending, death always looming nearby.

"When will you realise you cannot defeat me?" his enemy asked in harsh, guttural tones as their weapons locked.

"When you can prove it."

The Haradrim soldier let out a bitter, rasping laugh. Theodred pushed him back. He took a moment to regain his footing before both went in for the kill, simultaneously.

The clash of a blade being turned aside, the sound of steel slicing through armour and flesh, a suppressed cry of pain. Theodred and his opponent fell to their knees, locked together, eye to eye.

"There's your proof," one muttered.

They were close enough for Theodred to hear the man's heavy breathing; close enough to see the cracks in his war paint.

The fire in his eyes burned brighter than ever.

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A/N: Hey! Hoped you liked this and sorry it took so long to write. I'm not the best writer in the world when it comes to action, but let me know what you think of my attempt in a review please! Many thanks for reading!

the green lama