She had never heard so terrifying a sound in all her life. Nor would she ever hear its match. A beating, pounding, drumming rhythm boring into her skull, sending shivers down her spine and completely destroying her mind.
An army marching to war. Steady the footfalls came, solid and real. More powerful sounding than anything she could imagine. Much too overpowering for herself, huddled in this cave, crowded with women whose vacant expressions looked to the marching, seeing nothing but what was inside their heads. Their men – husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, children.
The women of Rohan were not idiots, they knew the chances of ever seeing their families whole again. They had ears to hear the whispered worries of men. But they held some hope, a small light battered and bruised by so many doubts and fears - but still alive. Still trusting in and praying for luck, or divine intervention, or whatever it took to bring them back alive and whole.
The answers would come at the end. Whether it be the men who set them free from their prison of stone, or the Uruk-hai come to slaughter them, they would wait it out. What else could they do?
The woman pressed her face harder into the stone walls, pressing against its rough surface, trying to wake up from this nightmare. Her arms were tightly wrapped around a young girl, a gesture for whose security neither could tell. The girl's wide eyes took in the blank faces around her, the weeping mothers clinging to one another in their grief and the children like her staring in confusion at their circumstances. She was of the age to understand just barely where they were and for what reasons. She understood the pounding as a great thing to fear and each beat sounded deep within her, in her blood, in her mind, and slowly, it overpowered her heart. Terror began to rise up in her and she threw herself further into the fold of her mother's dress, trying to block out the rhythm of an army.
And mercifully, it stopped. There was not a sound in the entirety of Helms Deep. There was a collective hiccup as if the air had gotten stuck in hundreds of people's throats. But that was it. No talking, no crying, no breathing. Not a sound.
Then, thousands of inhuman throats rose up together and they knew the war was begun.
The silence in the caves was complete, broken only by the occasional scream or shout or clash of swords. The women's eyes were stuck fast to the entrance, as if staring hard enough could make the end come sooner, whatever it may be.
For hours they remained this way. No one moved, no one spoke. There would have been no point to any attempt at conversation; all minds were far to consumed by the battle. Each person could have been alone in the open caverns for all they were aware of each other.
And then the most dreaded sound of all – a deep crash that sent reverberations echoing deep into the caverns. They were knocking down the doors. They were gaining. With each pulse the horrible thoughts grew, fed on fears and doubts, covering their minds until hope was strangled and dying.
And still the cave was silent. If there were tears, they were silent. Not a child dared cry, perhaps sensing the tension laying thick in the air. One by one the women let their hope crumble and new thoughts leaked into the cracks in their minds.
Perhaps, this stone refuge would house our tombs. Perhaps every last defender of Rohan shall die. Perhaps, Rohan shall fall.
There was a noise at the entrance. Again that little hiccup of air as all waited unsure.
It was a man, shouting, yelling loud in the silence. The Lady Éowyn met him and at once she too was calling out orders, rousing the empty minds to awaken.
"Up," she cried, "Up!" At first they looked at her, only realizing now they were not alone and there were others around them. Slowly they rose, following Éowyn's shouted orders, given to minds that were still wrapped up within themselves. They were awakening to find themselves thrust far into the mountainsides, barely a light to show the way. The echoes of war became distant behind them.
For the first time, someone cried out. As if it was the breaking of a dam, hundreds of voices rushed out, drowning each other. Children who had been so silent for hours screamed together as if in one voice, releasing their fears through their small lungs. The echoing tunnels twisted the sounds, creating from their wails the death cries of the Men. There was not much difference in the two - the men, though, could see their deaths coming; the women were blind and lost in the caves.
The sobbing cries had reached their climax; the women hod no more strength or will to continue. "Let them take us here; take us now. Just let it end." Some stumbled and fell, all hope gone in them. They were dragged on by those behind them who knew not why they still moved forward. Only the screams of Éowyn spurred them onward and gave them any direction.
They paused for a rest and in that brief moment they felt the rumbling of the ancient Horn deep in their very bones and heart. They still live! One among Rohan's defenders stands and blows the Horn! Those who had given up hope felt it reborn among the ashes in their hearts. Perhaps we shall live to see another day, perhaps these stone caverns shall not be our end. Perhaps the Roharrim will be victorious.
Yes, they shall win.
Mothers held their children close once more. This time it was not in fear, but in restless anticipation. Any moment we would hear the victory cheer, the sweet sound of Rohan's voices raised in unison! It was with a joyful step that they marched into the caverns, dancing to the song of the winners played over in their minds. Children laughed and played, skirting merrily the steps of their mothers. Perhaps there was more madness in their faces now than before when they screamed. Perhaps this state they were in was the delusions of raving minds. Perhaps they had all become lunatics, locked in these stone walls.
Éowyn stood at their head, silent and solitary. She alone resembled sanity in her white gown, looking sadly back upon the crowd of women. She was not fooled by the Horn. It was the dying cry of a wounded animal; a dog who is beaten but still barks at the wolves to warn them away. It disheartened Éowyn more than the dark and the cold. They were losing.
She led them on, unsure more than ever now why she did it. The women pushed her on, to what end she could not tell. They could wander the mountains for all eternity in their euphoric state and die with smiles on their lips knowing Rohan has won. "Rohan has won!" they cry, while the dead Roharrim lie strewn on the walls of Helm's Deep and the monsters tear this great land apart.
The women may have covered their hearts in madness, but within those knowing chambers, the fear still lurked. They are dead! My father! My husband! My brother! My child!