A/N: Result of musings over Appendix A of LOTR. Much of what is written is verbatim, or nearly so, from the book. I just added more of a story nature to it as opposed to a history nature. I must say, it did not turn out exactly as I planned, but it will do for now. I have loved this tale from the first time I read it. It is a truly tragic story, but also one of hope.
Here now is the full tale of Helm Hammerhand. He was a strong king of the Mark and few dared to confront him. His shoulders were so wide that he had to turn sideways to pass through single doorways. His arms were likened to the boughs of great trees and he could wield a spear, axe, or sword tirelessly. He would hew great trees with only one stroke and lift boulders that three men struggled with, easily.
Helm had two sons and a daughter, all of which he loved more than his own life. Haleth was proving to be very noble indeed, showing his potential as a great king. He stood slightly taller than his father, and nearly as broad. He wielded a sword with great skill. Hama was smaller and frailer. He showed great wit and presence of mind rather than warrior skill, he tended the horses and treated them better than many men treated their children. Helm's daughter was the oldest of his children, she possessed great beauty and many men in all the land secretly wished for her hand. She would often stand at the doors of Meduseld and let the wind whip her fair hair.
Helm's sister, Hild had a son who grew up in the constant company of Haleth, who was the same age. Frealaf had a wonderful sense of humor and caused many to laugh whether they wanted to or not. He also was skilled with a blade and spear.
There was a man among the Rohirrim who was rich and powerful and had made himself a stronghold on bank of the Adorn. He paid little heed to the king. This man was named Freca and it was said that he had much blood in him from Dunlend, for his hair was dark and his eyes cruel.
Helm knew of Freca's stronghold and knew of his less-than-loyal behaviors. However, he called Freca to his councils because of his status. Freca came only when it pleased him.
To one council Freca rode with many of his men. He demanded the marriage of Helm's daughter to his son Wulf, who was the very image of his father.
Helm suppressed a grin. "You have grown big since you were last here; but it is mostly fat, I guess." He answered the demand, while glancing meaningfully at the other man's large girth. The men present chuckled.
Freca's face took on an unnatural hue. He sputtered a bit, trying to form coherent words, and finally spoke many things which were not so nice. The king's men shifted, waiting for a word from Helm. Freca finished his tirade with: "Old kings that refuse a proffered staff my fall on their knees."
Helm shook his head, "Come! The marriage of your son is a trifle. Let Helm and Freca deal with it later. Meanwhile the king and his council have matters of moment to consider." He turned to the rest of the men present and began to discuss things of import as Freca sat on his bench and seethed.
After all matters had been cleared and the men began to leave, Helm laid his huge hand upon Freca's shoulder. "The king does not permit brawls in this house." He said quietly, "But men are freer outside." He grasped Freca's tunic and forced him to walk before him out of the hall, through Edoras and into the field. Freca howled at his men. To them that followed, Helm said: "Be off! We need no hearers. We are going to speak of a private matter alone. Go and talk to my men!" Freca's followers grinned cruelly and did not budge until they looked about them and found a large number of the king's men surrounding them. They were outnumbered and so drew back, away from the king and Freca.
Helm turned back to Freca. "Now Dunlending," He said using the belittling title, "you have only Helm to deal with, alone and unarmed. But you have said much already, and it is my turn to speak." An angry light glinted in his eyes. "Freca, your folly has grown with your belly. You talk of a staff! If Helm dislikes a crooked staff that is thrust on him, he breaks it. So!" His anger got the best of him and he smote Freca mightily with his huge fist. The other man slumped to the ground, unconscious. Helm turned and strode back through the city and into his hall, leaving the man to be tended by his own people. Soon after he was told that Freca was dead. He had not recovered from the blow. Helm proclaimed Freca's son Wulf and all of his followers to be enemies of the king, and they fled the men that he sent riding to the west marches.
Three years later, three fleets of Corsairs attacked Gondor, and they could not be asked for aid when the Dunlendings came over the Isen and assaulted Edoras. It was soon apparent that Wulf, the son of Freca lead them. Many battles ensued, but Wulf's force was powerful and overran the lands of the Rohirrim and drove the defenders back. Helm himself was driven back from the Crossings of Isen and took refuge in the Hornburg. There he was besieged. But the walls were impenetrable and he found respite.
Helm sat in the Hornburg hall and wept, for his son Haleth had been left at Edoras. Wulf's forces had ridden there and surely taken it. More grievous still was the winter that followed.
Helm was roused one November morning as usual by the sound of the morning horns. He wrapped a cloak about himself and peered from the high window to look out upon several inches of freshly fallen snow.
That was the beginning of what was afterward known as the Long Winter, for the deep snow lasted five months. At first the snow seemed a good thing, the fighting ceased and those besieging the Hornburg suffered greatly in the cold while Helm's men stayed comparatively warm inside. However, after several weeks it became apparent that the food was running out, and the wood for the fires. The king ordered strict rationing, but by mid December, the food was gone and the defenders were gaunt and starving.
Just after a cheerless Yule, Helm called his second son, Hama, to him. "My son," He sighed, "I am despairing in our present situation. I want you to lead a party to try to sortie with the Dunlendings and to forage for food." He laid his massive hands on the young man's slender shoulders.
Hama gulped and nodded, "Yes, father, my King. It shall be done." He clasped the hands, then turned to gather his men. The young man chose several of his best friends and Helm's greatest warriors and led them out of the gates into the snow. He rode his favorite horse, a bay with four white socks. He never returned. It was assumed that he and his men were lost in the snow, but it is possible that the Dunlendings would not accept the sortie.
When Helm heard no news of his son, he despaired further and became a fierce wraith that his men avoided. He was crazed by hunger and grief and could no longer properly lead his people. The king took to dressing all in white and leaving the Burg in the night all by himself. Before he left the gate, he would blow fiercely upon his horn.
Rumors of his doings could never be proven. The rumors were that Helm would stalk, not unlike a snow-troll, to the enemy camps and kill many Dunlendings with his bare hands. The men, both of Rohan and Dunlend, began to believe that because he carried no weapon, no weapon could harm him.
The enemy could easily have stormed the Burg and taken all who survived there because of their weakened king; instead developed a fear of Helm. Every time they heard the horn blow and echo in the Deep, they cowered in expectance. Soon, they fled away down the Coombe.
One night, after the enemy had moved further from the Hornburg, Helm stalked out of his quarters. They men quickly vacated the halls and opened the gates for him. Helm blew many fierce blasts on his horn as he exited the Burg and strode through the Deep. The men at the gate awaited his return, but when dawn broke, there had been no sign of him.
With the dawn came a ray of sunlight, the first for many days. The ray illuminated a white figure standing still on the Dike. The men were astonished to find the king dead on his feet, standing in a mighty pose with his knees unbent.
It was not long after the death of Helm that the Long Winter ended. Frealaf, the king's nephew, descended from Dunharrow, where they had suffered the winter. He was desperate and knew that the king and his cousins had perished. With a small host of brave men he rode to Edoras. Quickly Frealaf and his men hewed through the guards at the gates and galloped up the streets.
Frealaf impatiently shoved a lock of his reddish hair behind his ear as he leapt from his horse and pushed the doors of Meduseld open to reveal his enemy.
Wulf had been napping beside the fire with a richly embroidered rug about his shoulders when he was awakened by a chill draught. "Close the door! I have ordered that I am not to be disturbed!" He shouted over his shoulder.
Frealaf strode up to the self-proclaimed king and slew him where he lay. "Sorry to disturb you." He muttered and slumped into the throne, exhausted. Thus, Edoras was regained for Rohan, and Frealaf became the tenth king.
The spring was warm and the snow melted quickly causing many floods, making the invaders withdraw. Gondor was able to give aid, and all the Dunlendings were driven out. Rohan was once again ruled by the Rohirrim.
Frealaf had the body of his uncle brought to Edoras from the Hornburg, and laid him in the ninth mound. Ever after, the white simbelmyne grew on his mound thickly, so that it seemed covered in snow.
It is believed that the wraith of Helm still prowls the Deep and strikes fear into the hearts of the foes of Rohan.