A/N – This is only the second serious fanfiction I have written, and I have only done so for the inspiration of a certain soundtrack. It has been written rather "Off the cuff", and so if anyone has any suggestions for improvement I would greatly appreciate it.
The gate falls, the horn blows. My blood pounds through my weary veins, as did the log that carved the gate, as I wait, for whatever fate may come to my people, and myself. Helm's horn bellows and sends shivers down our spines, rumbling the very foundations of Helm's Deep, shuddering along the horizon, heralding our renewed strength to the foul host that surrounds us.
A shout rises around me. "Helm! Helm! Helm has arisen and comes back to war. Helm for Théoden King!"
I am to ride with the sun, my heart pounding in my chest. For so long the worm's words poisoned my mind, as I retreated from the darkness that enslaved me. And now here I sit, my steed heaves beneath me, preparing to ride forth and meet the doom so sure to come. Our people shall not be forgotten so easily. No, the people of Rohan will meet their end with honour.
The heir to the throne of Gondor at my side, and my men so close behind me, I shout with pride "Forth Eorlingas!"
We charge, roaring through gate and over causeway, clearing our path of orcs with deft hands upon hilts. I carve the foul flesh of yet another of the white wizard's host, and hear the cries of my men in uprising around me. I look about and see the glory of Rohan return, and now I know why I love my people so. I shall not abandon them to weakness and death; indeed, none of us shall forsake our own people.
A dull thud rises from the ground as another falls from my blade; still we ride through the enemy, the scene around me twisting in measured speed. We stop at Helm's Dike, and turn in awe as the light dazzles us. Sparks of fire land upon sword and spear as we gaze down upon our enemy.
But now the land has altered, in place of the dale there lies a flood of trees, mysteriously sprung from Helm's bloodied soil. The enemy host shivers, cowering under the shadow of the newly awakened forest and the blaze of our weaponry.
A moment later a white light shines down upon us – and we look to see the White Rider, behind him a host of a thousand men. A horn blows in answer to the steady rumbling of Helm, my men shout.
"Erkenbrand!"
The enemy spin around, searching in vain for their escape. They flee under the powerful gaze of the Wizard in white, only to meet their doom by the hand of the Westfold. They spin and flee under the shadow of the trees, but none shall ever return.
We gather to gaze once more to the wood, our hearts filled with joy, but our minds plagued with wonderment. Isengard, says the wizard.
Nay, we have not enough men to take on Isengard, but I cannot doubt any longer. I have doubted and regretted doing so. To Isengard!