A/N: Ok, now it gets good. They've left Edoras, Dernhelm and Merry, and have gone with the army to Minas Tirith. Hehehehe, I'm excited. I had so much fun writing this one. I have changed some of the lines with Dernhelm and the Witch-King; otherwise I can't call this really cool bit mine. You'll be able to guess mine; they're the crap ones. This is an updated version. My sister refused to read it and point out my silly spelling mistakes. They have been fixed.

Disclaimer: All characters, places etc. are the work of J.R.R. Tolkien.

Chapter 15: Théoden's Darkest Hour

            Merry was hidden from sight beneath Dernhelm's cloak, but could see a little of the scenery from under it, as it sped past him. Dernhelm was a skilled rider and did not falter as they raced across the plains. He rode with such ease and grace. Merry wondered at how far they had travelled that day. The sky was darkening and it grew colder. They camped that night, and morning came again, sooner than hoped for Merry. He was sore from the last days ride.

            Dernhelm spoke with Elfhelm briefly before their departure that morning. He was very quiet throughout the trip, and had said very little since they left Edoras. He was, however, as kind as any, and assured Merry that it would not be long until they arrived at Minas Tirith. Elfhelm appeared to know something of his existence but it didn't seem to bother him. Merry suspected that Dernhelm had told him everything of his stowaway rider.

Days passed slowly, and Merry wondered when they would arrive at their destination. On the third day, the army passed over a ridge. As they looked down, they knew that they had reached Minas Tirith. The sight that Merry saw was one of horror. Huge winged beasts circled the city, their riders, robed in black, uttering high-pitched screeches. He shuddered. This was once the farmland around Minas Tirith; the Pelennor Fields.

The screeches had become almost unbearable by this point. Denethor sat on his throne in a cold sweat, looking pale and tense. Gandalf paced the hall anxiously, an expression of concern on his wise face. Pippin watched them, the steward and the wizard; both were much wiser than he, but neither had any answers that could help. They awaited only the signal of Théoden's arrival.

"We are doomed to die starving!" cried Denethor despairingly. "We will never look upon the light of day again. Trapped, as prisoners, in our own city."

"Denethor," said Gandalf, severely, looking reproachfully at the steward. "We are far from defeat. Théoden rides here at this very moment. He is due to arrive soon."

"Then why has he not come?" asked Denethor, angrily. "He probably hides in his city and Golden Hall, such as he has done these past years."

"And you can boast better, Denethor," scolded Gandalf. "Many times, Théoden has asked for your assistance, and you deny him that. I shouldn't be surprised if he does not ride to you."

Denethor scoffed with disgust. "This is a matter which will affect the whole of Middle Earth. It is of more importance than some meagre battle at Helm's Deep."

"Were Rohan defeated at Helm's Deep then you would not have their army coming to your aid," said Gandalf, "and Isengard, too, would be on the attack. Do you not see that?"

Denethor snorted and turned away. Gandalf shook his grey head. The little hobbits looked at him, and then at Denethor. Suddenly, something caught their attention. Everyone pricked up their ears to listen.

A horn had sounded not too far off. Denethor looked at Gandalf. They both nodded and smiled.

"Théoden has come," said Denethor. "Send the armies out to assist him!"

            Théoden led the charge on to the Pelennor Fields, a large horn sounding their arrival to the armies of Minas Tirith. A mass of Rohirric riders advanced on the enemy, several of which were killed in the first charge. It seemed as if luck was on their side. But the Nazgûl had come to claim their prey and lead the armies of Mordor against them; and the riders fell, one by one, into the mud of the battlefield.

"Forth, Eorlingas," cried Théoden, and rode forward, hewing orcs left and right.

Snowmane galloped ahead of the Rohirrim, Théoden, with his sword drawn. But even as they did, darkness fell over the fields.

The Lord of the Nazgûl rose up in front of him. Horses screamed and reared up, men fled from his sight. Snowmane, too, reared, a black arrow piercing him. Théoden tumbled from his back and was crushed beneath Snowmane, as both fell to the ground.

Dernhelm had been thrown off by Windfola with the Nazgûl's appearance. He and Merry lay a short distance from where the king had fallen. The Lord of the Nazgûl had turned his attention to Théoden, as he lay still in the mud.

He was overcome with emotions, anger towards the Nazgûl Captain, sorrow for the lost king, and a surprising sense of courage to do what had to be done. Dernhelm gathered up his strength and courage, and rose to meet the Black Captain. He stood firm against him.

"Begone, foul dwimmerlaik," he cried out, addressing the black hooded being before him. He stood, proud and stern, against the Nazgûl and his fell beast. The Witch-King laughed, coldly.

"Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or thy flesh will be borne, alive, to be devoured by the Lidless Eye."

"You shall not harm the Lord of the Mark. I will hinder it if I can, I am not afraid of thee, Lord of Darkness!" said Dernhelm, drawing his sword.