A/N: So, here again!

Dare I say another word, or will I be lynched?

Yeah, I'm truly sorry it took this long. Like I told you, I've been pretty depressed, and when you add to that the stress of actually having to handle some stuff that should be handled by my boss... Well, not pretty, tell you that much. Enough about me, just have to say I'm sorry again, now get on with it!

(It's twice longer than the previous one, will you forgive me?)

It had been the longest five days in his life. The travel had mostly been uneventful, although the detour through Druadan forest had broken the steady rhythm somewhat. He hadn't been too excited about the forest, to tell the truth, it gave him chills.

Now, however, he could make out the city in the distance, its highest citadel a white needle against an inky black sky. Afore it was a host and turmoil like of which he had never seen.

There was fire everywhere, some parts of the city seemed to be ablaze and grass was burning in wide arches around them. Théoden led them eastward, gazing at the city, suddenly looking frail to his nephew. Éomer surveyed the scenery before him, taking in once again the mighty trolls swarming at the gates with their spiky armor; the orcs that from the distance looked like ants swarming around a crumb of sugar.

And then he heard his uncle cry:

"Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden! Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter! Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered, a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises! Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!" He seized his banner-bearer's horn and blew it. And right away, so sounded every other horn the Rohirrim had as a thunderous blast. The sound would have been deafening, had not his blood pounded in his ears as battle-lust took over him.

There was orc blood to be spilled, and he couldn't have been more eager.

"Ride now, ride now, ride to Gondor!" His uncle cried again, but he couldn't quite hear. Firefoot sprung after Snowmane down the slight hill and as they reached the base and their enemy, the host started singing.

They sang and they slaughtered, and for then and there, nothing was more natural for Éomer. His rage had boiled up within him for long years, and now he was finally allowed to release it.

oOo

The battle had not seemed to last that long, but it must have. He panted with exertion, only now feeling his weariness. Then, his father's men came to him, speaking of a great winged beast that had driven their mounts with terror so overwhelming they had only then regained control. With them, he rode on, to where the carcass of the monster lay on the ground.

When they got closer he saw the white, blood-stained coat of his uncle's horse, and dismounted. He walked to his uncle's corpse, mute with grief.

He remembered not afterwards the words he spoke, nor that they took from Théoden's banner-bearer's cold hands his standard. He did remember, with morbid clarity, another figure entirely.

His dear baby sister, dearer to him than his own life, lay there, her golden locks released from her helmet during the fray. He cried and wept for her too, until a cold fury took him over and he mustered his men, almost eager and willing to ride to his own doom as well. At that moment, he would have told anyone asking that he wished to share the cold grave with his kin, for no thought of Aefwyn and her hope could penetrate the gloom that had landed upon him.

oOo

It was not until they entered the city with Aragorn the Dúnadan – who had, somehow, survived the Path of the Dead – that he found out Éowyn was not among the dead, but still clung to life. He had expected to find her cold corpse lying still beside their uncle, but when he inquired about her Lord Imrahil of Dol Amroth told him his sister yet lived.

The rest of the day seemed as much a blur to him as had the fight on Pelennor Fields. He could only muster, with vivid and ghastly clarity, the scene amidst which he had found his sister.

He sat by and watched, numb, as Aragorn tried his hand at healing them. The Dúnadan spoke of Black Breath, of the coldness that creeps towards the heart until it can beat no more, of the dark and restless dreams that must now course through Éowyn's mind.

There were also other voices, addressing him as king. Yes, king he must have been, if truly it was his uncle lying on cold stone deep in the bowels of the citadel. The thought only fluttered over his scattered consciousness, not taking hold.

He sat by her side, holding her hand, reminiscing to her their childhood. Unbidden memories of their lady mother's smile, of their lord father's grim countenance that only softened to a smile with his family, the love with which his parents had looked at each other came to him, sitting there. Listening to her shallow, yet strengthening breath as her grip on life strengthened.

Within those memories as often as not he also saw Aefwyn's face, and then among the images of his parents he saw the recollection of her own children, of how his parents would have sat there, watching them play or read or telling them stories. He knew, with a dreamy certainty, that his mother would have approved his choice of bride.

Such memories could never be, but in his exhausted state he was suddenly very certain his parents were smiling upon him that instant, proud that he had left something of himself and them in this world.

For he knew that the war was not yet won, that they must ride out. What they had fought had certainly been a large force, but not all the strength of Mordor.

Suddenly, he heard Aragorn say "Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan", and saw his sister's eyes flutter open. In his subconsciousness, a long time had passed, but awake, only moments.

"Éowyn, Éowyn", he cried, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Éomer! What joy is this? They said you were dead… No, but those were only the dark voices in my dreams. How long was I dreaming?"

"Not for long, my sister, and think no more of it!" Éomer said, grasping her hand tighter in his.

"I am so tired, I think I will sleep a while longer. But first, tell me, what of the Lord of the Mark? Do not tell me that was a dark dream as well, or is he dead as he foresaw?"

"He is dead," said Éomer,

"But he bade me to bid farewell to Éowyn, dearer than daughter. He now lies under the Great Citadel." Éowyn gave him a sad, tired nod before closing her eyes and drifting to sleep.

The next day, when most felt little better rested, the leaders of the Free Peoples and the city and what was left of the Fellowship took counsel in tents erected on the field of Pelennor. The chosen spot was quite near to where Théoden had died, and seeing the soiled ground made a lump rise to Éomer's throat.

It was decided there, that a force of seven thousand was to march to the Black Gate in challenge, to give the Ringbearer a chance to reach the Mountain of Doom. Further three thousand of the still able Riders were to waylay the road to Anórien, led by Elfhelm.

Two days after the battle they were ready to march. Éomer knew as well as his men, that this would most likely be a suicide mission for them. The camp had been quiet the night before, no raucous jokes or scuffles of good nature were to be seen. Éomer had slept soundly, dreaming of Aefwyn. It had been the sort of dream he kept closest to his heart.

In it, Aefwyn had come to him, spoken to him words that had rung in his ears like crystal bells – though he could no longer recall the words –, and walked into his arms, without a single scrap of clothing. He had admired her form, matronly now in her motherhood. Though she was no longer how she'd been all those years ago on their wedding night, her bosom was still high, her hips rounded, her waist a curve between the two, all just slightly bigger. And to that, he held no objection. Instead of waking with a pounding heart at their passion's fulfillment, he had dreamt of slumber against her bosom, her fingers entwined in his hair.

And instead of waking in the morning feeling forlorn and empty as many a dream of Aefwyn had left him when she was not there, he woke like a new man into the first morning of his life. Somehow, she had with her touch in his dreams taken away the horror that had been: Éowyn, he knew, would be well in time and his heart was renewed with hope. Even the death of his uncle seemed not to weigh him as it had, though the pain was still fresh.

oOo

It was not yet noon when the army reached Osgiliath. There were many men at work, repairing and strengthening the ferries and boat-bridges made by the enemy on the western bank and building defenses on the eastern side.

Five miles eastward of the city the army camped for the first night. On a hill near their chosen location was a crossroads and around it a ring of trees. Inside the ring of trees stood a stone statue, and next to it on the ground was a stone head that had clearly once resided on top. Now it had been replaced with a likeness of an orc's head.

Aragorn bid trumpeters to blow a fanfare and raised his voice, seeing the defiled statue, and spoke:

"The Lords of Gondor have returned, and all this land that is theirs, they take back!"

Few men set to the task of removing the orc head from the statue and hauled the figure of a long dead king back atop its place and crowned it with garlands of flowers.

Come morning, they decided to set a few guards at the crossroads, should someone try to circle behind the host from Morgul Vale, and continued on. There were no sightings of the enemy, for every orc this side of the mountains had been defeated at Pelennor.

A dark gloom grew in Éomer's chest. He had not dreamt again of Aefwyn after beginning the march, and the light of hope she had sown into his heart in dream was wearing thin. All around him men looked as worn and worried as he felt. Not even the bright notes of the heralds marching ahead of the host trumpeting their coming could lift his spirits. Imrahil had told them to sound the coming of King Elessar, instead of the Lords of Gondor, for far greater fear would strike their foe with that name.

A ways ahead, an ambush was waiting. They had been warned of it by Mablung, who had taken Faramir's seat in Henneth Annûn for time being. Éomer and his Riders were soon sent out, and the little skirmish re-strengthened his resolve. It was not much of a battle, but Firefoot seemed pleased with himself afterwards and had an extra pounce in his gait for quite a while.

Above them the Nazgûl were circling with their fell beasts. None could see them except Legolas and the sons of Elrond who had ridden with them, but they all knew they were there, for their hearts grew heavy.

On the sixth day since departing from Minas Tirith they came to the edge of the desolation that surrounded the Black Gates for miles around. Some younger, greener men that had not lived so close to the shadow of the enemy could not continue longer, for great was the fear in their hearts of the darkness that lie ahead.

Aragorn spoke to them, and told them to go to Cairn Andros, and to not be ashamed of themselves, for indeed few could walk into their deaths without dread. In Cairn Andros, he told them, they could take up the last defense of Gondor and Rohan, and that they should take it back if it was still held by the enemy to make it their stronghold. Many found their courage after he spoke to them, and continued on with the host, but as many took the road south as Aragorn had told them.

After a quick calculation of how many had stayed at the crossroads and how many turned back now, Éomer came to the conclusion that they still had nigh six thousand men. A pitiful force, compared to Gondor at its full might, but still not one to take lightly.

The next day they continued on slowly. Few had slept the previous night, for even though the moon was new and growing fumes and smoke rose from the ground and hid the sky and many a creature of evil could be heard circling their campfires at night.

At last they approached Morannon from north-west, not knowing that this was the way Frodo had come earlier, before meeting Faramir and climbing the stairs above Morgul Vale. The gates were closed between the Towers of the Teeth, underneath the ramparts of Cirith Gorgor, constantly patrolled.

Éomer found himself wondering how the Ringbearer had ever managed to cross the mountains, though Gandalf said he had. This way he surely had not come, for it would have been foolishness and suicide.

Gandalf and Aragorn, accompanied by Éomer himself, the sons of Elrond, Legolas, Gimli and Peregrin Took rode forth from the main host and stopped a dozen or so yards in front of them. The banner of the King was unfurled, and trumpets were blown, and the heralds cried out in unison:

"Come forth! Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! Justice shall be done upon him. For wrongfully he has made war upon Gondor and wrested its lands. Therefore the King of Gondor demands that he should atone for his evils and depart then for ever. Come forth!"

At first it seemed there would be no answer, and Éomer was already urging Firefoot around when the doors of the Black Gate started to open.

Out of them rode a man dressed in black from head to toe, a hideous man if ever to lay eyes upon. His mouth was like a sore wound, his eyes two empty sockets where a fire burned, and his skin sickly pale.

"I am the Mouth of Sauron," he spoke, after he and his small escort had stopped in front of the delegation of the West. Behind him stood indeed five soldiers all dressed in black, the one in the middle bearing a black banner with a red eye upon it.

"Is there anyone in this rout with authority to treat with me? Or indeed of wit enough to understand me? Not you, at least," he turned to look at Aragorn.

"It takes more than a piece of elvish glass or a rabble such as this to make a king. Why, any brigand on the hills can show such a following." There was amusement in that cold, dry voice. Aragorn did not speak, but his eyes that beheld the ambassador were cold and sharp as pieces of steel.

"I am a herald and an ambassador, I may not be assailed!" The Mouth said, seeing his face. Éomer contained his mirth, for indeed, if looks could kill, the Mouth of Sauron wouldn't have finished that sentence.

"Where such laws hold, it is usually customary to speak with less insolence," intoned Gandalf, and continued:

"But worry not. You shall come to no harm until our business is concluded. But unless your master has come to new wisdom, it seems all your days are in peril."

"So! Then you are the spokesman, old greybeard? Have we not heard of you, twining your webs from afar, ever traveling to and fro? This time you have stuck your nose too far, Master Gandalf, and you shall see what comes of him who sets his webs at the feet of Sauron the Great. I have tokens I was bid to show you – especially to you, should you dare to look." He gestured to his guard, and one of them came forth with a bundle swathed in black cloth.

From it he procured first a small sword, and then a short cloak Éomer figured would suit a Halfling, similar to the ones Merry and Pippin wore; and finally a gleaming shirt of mithril, also of hobbit-size. Éomer heard Pippin let out a cry of anguish seeing the items on display, and Gandalf's command for silence, but he didn't want to stray his eyes from the harbinger and didn't turn his gaze.

The Mouth of Sauron seemed to smile, seeing Pippin, and crowed in seeming delight:

"Oh, you have another of these imps with you! What use are they to you, I cannot fathom, but to send them as spies into Mordor is beyond your usual folly. Still, I thank him, for it is obvious he has seen these before, and it would be in vain for you to deny that now."

"I have indeed seen them, and know their history better than you ever might. But why do you bring them here?"

"Dwarf-coat, elf-cloak and a blade of the forgotten West and a spy from the rat-land of Shire… Nay, speak no more, we all know; these are clearly the marks of conspiracy. Now, maybe he who bore these clothes is someone you would not grieve to lose, or maybe otherwise; one dear to you, perhaps? If so, take quick council with whatever wits you have left, for Sauron has no love of spies."

No one answered him, and in their faces he saw something that clearly pleased him.

"Good, good! Clearly he was dear to you. Or else his errand was one that you did not wish to fail? It has. And now he shall endure the slow torment of years, as long and slow as our arts in the Great Tower can contrive, and never be released, unless as some broken and ghastly creature so as you can see what you have done. This shall surely be unless you accept my Lord's terms."

"Name them, then," Gandalf said, his face drawn and weary.

"These are the terms: the rabble of Gondor and its deluded allies shall at once withdraw beyond the Anduin, first taking oaths never to assail Sauron the Great in arms, open or secret. All lands east of Anduin shall belong to Sauron, for ever, solely. From Anduin to Misty Mountains and the Gap of Rohan, shall all be tributary to Mordor, and men there shall bear no weapons but shall have leave to control their own affairs. But, they shall help to rebuild Isengard, which they have so wantonly destroyed, and that shall be Sauron's, and there shall dwell his Lieutenant. Not Saruman, but someone more worthy of trust."

Éomer was half prepared to cut down the messenger, no matter the consequences, but before he got a chance to put the thought into action Gandalf answered.

"This is much to demand for the return of one servant: that your master should receive in exchange what he would need many a war to win. Or has the Field of Gondor destroyed his hope in war so that he must resort to haggling? And if indeed we rate this prisoner high enough to accept, what says Sauron, the Base Master of Treachery, will keep his part? Where is this prisoner? Let him be released to us so we may consider these demands."

For a moment the messenger was silent, staring at Gandalf intently. Éomer felt his skin crawl as the two stared each other in the eye. Then the messenger laughed and spoke yet again:

"Do not bandy words in your insolence with the Mouth of Sauron! Surety you crave, Sauron gives none. If you sue for his clemency you must first do his bidding. These are his terms, take them or leave them."

It sounded to Éomer like Gandalf would have muttered the words These we will take, before throwing back his grey cloak and revealing the bright white robes within. They shone so bright in the darkness before the gates, that for a moment he had to blink tears from his eyes. Gandalf had gone to the messenger and removed from his possession the mithril shirt, cloak and sword, and returned without a backward glance. The Mouth seemed stunned by the brightness of the wizard's robes, and his guards were shielding their eyes from the light that seemed to emanate from the old man.

"These we will take, for the memory of our friend. But your terms we shall not accept. Begone, for your embassy is over and death is near to you. We did not come here to waste words treating with Sauron, faithless and accursed, nor his minions. Begone!" Gandalf spoke loud enough that his words were surely heard upon the ramparts of Cirith Gorgor.

The messenger looked at him, puzzled. Then, sounds of fury escaped his throat, he turned around his steed and rode back towards the gates. His guards followed him, but as they went one took a horn to his lips and blew it, over and over again.

The gates opened once more, but not slightly as they had when the harbinger had rode to meet them, but fully open, and from them poured out an army. It was not a small one, but all that remained within the Black Land, a seething mass of men, trolls and orcs. Also, as the Captains rode back to their troops, from the hills west and east poured masses of Easterlings and orcs, so that they were surrounded on all sides.

The army had been arranged on two hills of slag, so that the footmen of Gondor surrounded one and men of Dol Amroth and Rohan the other. They stood there, waiting for the enemy to assault, and then the Nazgûl swept low and fear settled upon them.

Éomer thought of Éowyn, of her bravery to have slain the Witch King, and swore he would try his best to cull this herd. The fewer survived their desperate attack, the further would his family be able to flee. He had been raised to protect his country and his people – now truly his as part of a responsibility he didn't wish for – and that he would do, to his dying breath here today.

A/N: Not much of a cliffie at this point, but it seemed like as good a point to stop as any.

I just wanted to thank everyone who has followed, favorited or reviewed this story, and I know it's a cliché, but I really wouldn't have got this far without your support. I love getting email from FF *wink wink*

At this point, I think were only a few chapter away from the ending, and whatever sh*t life decides to throw my way, I swear I will finish this. Probably because I pretty much know how I want to wrap this up already... and let me tell you, it's nothing like I thought it would be when I started writing this ;D But then again, the characters really overpowered me at some point (around chapter 4?) and I haven't been in control in a LONG time...