Hey there! I'm so sorry about missing last week's update. I've been very busy, had a birthday, and re-visited the Tolkien Exhibition in the Bodleian Library – it is absolutely phenomenal and I would highly recommend it to any of you who get a chance to go. Anyways, I am back now, and hope to get back on schedule.

Thank you so much for my lovely reviews, I appreciate them so much.

Chapter Sixty-Two: The Road to Helm's Deep

Silent as the stone, Gimli watched the men before him talk. Though he tried his best not to stare, his eyes were drawn repeatedly back to Théoden. The vigour that had returned to the king with Gandalf's words had now been muted – his eyes were tinged red, and his jaw was tight. Though they were nowhere near as hunched as they had been before, his shoulders were slumped, and often he pinched his nose or closed his eyes. Gimli did not mean to stare, but the man's grief was a magnet, a collapsing mine that you could not tear your eyes from.

Théoden had not cried when Éowyn explained that Theodred was dead. His face had drained of colour and his mouth had hung ajar, but then he had closed his eyes and hung his head. In a soft voice, he had asked for details – for 'when's and 'where's and 'how's, and almost at once Éomer had taken him to the grave outside the mountain. It had been difficult – the people of Edoras were so happy to see their king among them again that they had thronged around, and Théoden had drawn a weary smile to his face. It was only when he left the city, and stood alone with Éomer, Éowyn and Gandalf before the grave of Theodred that the king began to cry. Gimli had seen it from the gates. He wished that he had not.

Now, there were no tears in Théoden's eyes, but his brow was pinched and furrowed as he listened to the tale of Gandalf and the fellowship, though they skilfully steered around the purpose of their task, and made no mention of the ring. When they had finished, Théoden's own marshals spoke, telling of the raids that had broken upon Rohan's people, and the battles that had already been fought on the borders. There were five marshals, tall lords of Rohan, alongside Éomer, and – to Gimli's mild surprise – the Lady Éowyn. From what Gimli had heard from Bard, and from the Princesses Sigrid and Tilda, it was rare for women to be given such presence in the halls of Men, especially in times of war.

"It is not a lack of respect – it is respect of a different kind," Tilda had explained, one sunny afternoon. Gimli thought that it sounded like a load of old goat turds, but that was none of his business.

"…and we are worried for Erkenbrand. Two thousand men he took to the fords of Isen, after Theodred was slain, and we have heard little from him since."

"Well, there you have it," said Gandalf, sitting back in his chair and turning to Théoden. "You are at open war with Saruman, though it has not yet been so named. What is it that you would do, my lord?"

For a long moment, Théoden did not speak. His elbows were on the table and his forehead rested in his fingers, and when he finally raised his eyes, they were clouded and dark. They roamed over the marshals and lingered on Boromir and Aragorn, and fell then to Legolas and Gimli. "I do not know," the king said slowly. "I would see Saruman destroyed for the havoc he has wrought upon our lands, and the grief he has brought to the world, yet we have not the strength to launch an attack on Isengard alone. Gondor will not come – not in time, or in numbers enough, at least."

"I wish that I could deny it, but it is true," said Boromir, rubbing his chin. "I fear that Gondor barely has the strength to hold itself. It has little to lend to others – battle has been falling upon our lands for well over a year. Yet I will stay, and fight with you."

Théoden looked rather surprised at this. "You will? You do not wish to ride to Minas Tirith?"

"I do wish it, but I will not ride away from friends in a time of need," said Boromir firmly, though he glanced at Gimli as he spoke. "I would be proud to fight for Rohan, and honoured to give my life for its people, should it come to that."

The marshals around the table let out murmurs of respect, and Théoden bowed his head. "I thank you, Lord Boromir. Your words are deeply appreciated, as is your sword. But it is only one sword, and our problem still remains. There is no way to gather a force strong enough to strike Saruman without leaving the vast majority of our people unguarded. I will not ride to war so that I might return to death and carnage, or see my people slaughtered in my absence. Yet I cannot hope to hold Edoras – should Saruman march upon us here, there will be no hope, save that of a swift death, and I will not forsake the riders in the north, and in the Westfold."

With a shake of his head, the king stopped speaking, and Gimli tugged absently on his own beard. If the king had made his home in a mountain, he may not be having such problems – or maybe he would. Gimli thought of Thorin, of the defence of Erebor, and he prayed that his own people were alright. He might then have spiralled into fear for his homeland, were his thoughts not interrupted by the voice of Éowyn.

"My lord, it is true that to leave behind a force in the defence of Edoras shall only weaken the Rohirrim. Take the people of the city with you, let them take shelter in Helm's Deep. That way an attack on Meduseld will burn only our halls, and not our people, and the women might support the fighting, in what ways we can."

Éomer flashed a sharp look at his sister and she sat up a little straighter, her jaw tightening. Gimli watched in interest, and when Éomer spoke, his voice seemed a little firmer than usual.

"Indeed," he said, "it would be wise to have healers and nurses to help with the wounded, and people to cook for the soldiers."

It was subtle, but the emphasis that Éomer placed on the words 'healers' and 'nurses' and 'cooks' was just a little too strong, and it gave Gimli the sneaking suspicion that Éowyn's idea of 'supporting the fighting' involved a lot more fighting than it did supporting.

Éomer continued, "We can spare no men for such tasks. My lord Théoden, I would agree with my sister. It would sit better in my heart to see our people to the safety of Helm's Deep. That fortress has never fallen while men defend it."

Théoden nodded slowly. "I might agree, if it weren't for the road that we must take. It is not an easy path to Helm's Deep, and if we are lucky it will still take at least two days to get there. On the road we are vulnerable."

"Yet here we are more so, if we are left without an army, or the means to defend ourselves," argued Éowyn, and Théoden stared at her for a long moment. She met his eye. With a heavy sigh, the king turned to Gandalf.

"What say you, Gandalf? Which path would you choose, if the choice was yours?"

The wizard leant forward. "I think that I would agree with the Lady Éowyn, yet I warn you – if you do not leave within the day, you will be too late. Saruman has already made several moves, and in order to win this war you must catch up."

"A pleasant thought," muttered Théoden bitterly, but he nodded. "Very well. Háma – give out the order that the city must empty, and send riders out all our folk nearby. We will leave at midday, to make for Helm's Deep. When the women and children are secure we shall ride on. To Isengard."

A smile of grim satisfaction spread over Gimli's face, a look that was shared by his companions, and by Éomer and several of the lords of Rohan. But Théoden himself bore no such smile. Instead, he looked grim and thoughtful, and very, very weary. He looked as though the weight of a mountain was crashing down upon his shoulders, as though he was the last barrier against the crushing of his kingdom. Éowyn, also, looked contemplative, and a couple of the marshals let their fear show on their faces.

"Forgive me, my lord," ventured one of them, "but how are we to launch an attack on Isengard? How might we hope to claim victory over such a foe?"

"That we shall discuss when we know more of what we face. It may well be that the fight shall come to us before we even reach Orthanc. If that is the case, we will meet it all the same," said Théoden. The young marshal nodded, but he did not look reassured.

Gimli did not blame him. If Gandalf was not by his side, Gimli would not like his odds on taking on another wizard. He would not know how to fight, what tactics might be best or what strikes to avoid. Yet even without Gandalf, Gimli would march on Orthanc if he got the chance. If Nelly and Bróin were there, he would fight to the death to reach them.

Just the thought of the two young ones in Saruman's clutches was a stab in Gimli's gut, a rope burn running up his spine. He did not know who he held greater fear for – Nelly was a girl, after all, and the horrors that orcs inflicted on women were not unknown to Gimli, yet Bróin was a dwarf and no one had made any attempt to capture Gimli alive. If Bróin was dead, if Gimli had to tell Bombur that his little boy had been butchered because Gimli had not been fast enough to protect him –

A great screech and a crack rang out through the hall, and at once something cool and sticky poured out over Gimli's hand. The entire table fell silent, staring at him, and Gimli's eyes roved slowly down to the tankard in his hand. He had squeezed it so hard that the metal had buckled and broken, crushing the cup in on itself and tearing a hole in its side. It was the ale that followed over his hands, but as he watched it was joined by something warmer, something red.

"I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "Should've watched my grip."

"Indeed," said Théoden, though his voice was light, and his raised eyebrows gave him more of a look of surprise than anything else. "You're bleeding."

Gimli glanced down at his hand and shook his head. "It's only a scratch. Again, my apologies. I'll pay for the tankard, of course."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Éomer, and Gimli saw that he was grinning. "It was an impressive feat, and the look on the face of Master Legolas is payment enough."

Gimli glanced up, and saw that the elf's face was a twisted confusion of surprise, awe, alarm and disappointment. It was quickly wiped away by a far more neutral look, and a raising of the eyebrows towards Éomer, but Gimli had to admit that it was rather funny.

"Come," said Théoden, rising. The rest of the table clamoured to their feet. "We must prepare. There are but two hours until midday, and when the sun is at its peak, we ride."

At first, Gimli thought that the king was being rather optimistic with his deadline. To gather an entire town of men and women and children within two hours, and have them ready to flee – he was not sure that it could be done. But the people of Edoras proved him wrong, and he was impressed of how quickly they prepared for flight. It seemed that they had been anticipating such a move for some time, and he saw many normal families with pre-packed bags and carts already stocked with non-perishable foods and supplies. Nevertheless, it was with worried faces and heavy hearts that the people moved, and when Théoden led his people out from their home town, the silence was heavy, and mournful.

The procession trailed slowly out of Edoras, and as he watched the tattered people carting their belongings away from their homes, Gimli wondered if this is what his own people had looked like, in centuries past. Heads bowed, bent with fear. Women with swollen bellies and ankles carrying dirty children with matted hair, men as old as the hills carrying themselves with pained grimaces. Soldiers at their sides, with jaws tightened by fear and eyes steered by suspicion. Lords riding horses in old, worn travel clothes, ladies whose frightened gazes roamed the hills. Carts loaded with the sick, wagons of food supplies that would soon become meagre. A people that had once flourished, now left to the mercy of the wild.

Gimli sighed heavily. He had been born in the safety of Ered Luin, and though he had moved to Lake Evendim for a time, he had never led the life of a nomad. Yet his parents had not forgotten the decades they had spent, homeless and penniless, wandering the world for work, and they had told him many times how lucky he was. They did not want him to forget it.

It was impossible to forget now.

To try and take his mind of things, he glanced at the woman who rode beside him. Like all the woman of Rohan, Éowyn rode with the same ease as the men, as though she had been riding horses since her birth. Many of the women were riding, as were many of the men – it seemed that in Rohan most families – even the poorest among them – owned a horse or two. Gimli guessed that between a third and half of the refugees of Edoras were riding.

Gimli looked back at Éowyn, and was struck by how deeply she reminded him of Nelly. Of course, on the surface there were similarities, like the long, blonde hair that tumbled down their backs – though Nelly's was darker, and much curlier. They both had blue eyes, but again it was not quite the same – Nelly had eyes like sapphires, deep and dark and sparkling, with more facets than could ever be counted. Éowyn's eyes were lighter, an icy blue that, while beautiful, could send a glare more piercing than Nelly could ever hope to achieve. They were both slender, and from the way that Éowyn held herself, Gimli guessed that, like Nelly, she was stronger than most of the womenfolk of her kind.

But Gimli did not think that it was the physical similarities that made him think of his missing cousin. No, there was something about the way Éowyn moved, how she watched with the eyes of a hawk and spoke in the voice of a warrior, something in the way that she refused the help that the lords offered her, and shouldered a burden herself. Something about the way he had seen her hide a sword beneath her outer skirt.

It was like watching Nelly, but a little older, and graver – far graver. Less quick to laughter, less likely to burst into song for the joy of it. More serious – perhaps that was the best way to play it. Sombre. Nelly was rarely sombre. There was a stoniness that was almost dwarven about Éowyn, a hard edge that never seemed to leave her face. It was hard to imagine such a look lingering on Nelly for long. It would inevitably be replaced by a smile or a smirk, or a frown if the occasion called for it. Unless she put effort into closing it, Nelly's face was an open book, and a book that had laughter written onto many of its pages.

Or at least, a book that had once contained laughter.

It was difficult to think of Nelly. The idea that she might be in Isengard was abhorrent, and he often had to chase his mind away from haunting him with the horrors that Saruman and his scum may be imposing on her. It was quite possible that when – if – they got her back, she would no longer be so quick to smile. Even worse was the idea that Bróin might not have even made it to Isengard – no uruk had tried to capture Gimli. If dwarves were of no use to the orcs, and Nelly had been taken, then logic demanded Bróin's blood.

Gimli shuddered, shifting in his seat to hide it from the elf. Legolas glanced over his shoulder, and for a moment Gimli feared that he was about to be asked if he was alright. Instead, Legolas smiled.

"I am going to walk a while."

"Alright," grumbled Gimli. "Don't know why you're telling me…"

"Because I am about to leave you alone on a horse," said Legolas lightly, and then he sprang to the ground, landing nimbly on his feet and leaving Gimli alone, bareback, astride a beast three times his size.

"Curse you!" Gimli growled, but Legolas simply laughed, and disappeared into the crowd. "No good woodland sprite," muttered Gimli, adjusting his position and holding tentatively to the horse's reins. He felt that he was very precariously placed, and was not quite sure how to fix it – Legolas had again refused a saddle, but had borrowed from the Rohirrim a light leather halter, that Gimli would be able to steer, should he have to. Yet Gimli did not trust the large, feisty horse, and he was unsure if the signals that he knew for pony riding would carry over.

As if to spite him, the horse jolted, and Gimli held on tighter with his legs, but then the horse stopped abruptly, and Gimli was flung against its neck. Swearing, he threw his arms around the beast's neck, and it rose onto its hind legs.

At once, a slender hand grabbed the halter and pulled it with a firm command, and the horse stomped, and then stood still.

"Are you alright, Master Gimli?" asked Éowyn, wrapping the rein around her wrist, and Gimli blushed right up to his eyebrows.

"Quite alright, thank you, my lady. That was entirely deliberate."

Éowyn laughed, and the stony edge to her face cracked open, letting out a light that had been fully hidden by sombre eyes and a tight jaw. Her resemblance to Nelly grew at once, and she looked far younger. Gimli smiled.

"To tell the truth," he said, "I'm far more used to ponies. Trusty little things, ponies. My Odo would've marched into Khazad-dûm itself, had I let him."

"Odo is the name of your pony?"

"Aye. Why do you ask?"

Éowyn frowned thoughtfully, and then glanced up at Gimli. "In the past I was led to believe that dwarves cared little for the animals that they kept. Some believe that your kind do not even name those creatures that are in their service, yet you do not seem so cold to me. Odo seems a rather affectionate name."

Gimli snorted. "Aye, it is – Odo's a plucky beast and I love him for it. It seems many think dwarves care nothing for animals, but we are not unfeeling. Despite what the elves would have you believe, we aren't made out of stone."

Éowyn glanced up, concern alight in her eyes. "I have offended you – forgive me, Master Gimli-"

Gimli laughed, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. "Not at all, my lady. No, I've seen enough 'culture clashes' to know when someone means harm, or insult. I grew up with Kíli Baggins, after all."

Her brow furrowed again, this time in concentration. "I know that name…"

"He is the youngest prince of Erebor, and my cousin," said Gimli proudly. "He has travelled through Rohan many times, though I don't know that he's ever come to Edoras."

Éowyn shook her head. "I don't believe he has, it is too far south to be a stop on the way to the Gap. He is the dwarf that was raised by the holbytla, is he not?"

Gimli blinked, and stared down at her. "By the what?"

Éowyn blushed slightly, and she smiled again. This time, it was a far meeker look, almost sheepish, and she paused a moment before she spoke again. "Forgive me – your word is hobbit, isn't it?"

"Aye," said Gimli, his eyebrows raised. "What did you say?"

"Holbytla," she repeated. "That is the name that our stories give to them – stories of a people half as tall as a man, who can disappear in the blink of an eye and will tie your hair to your bedposts while you sleep unless you leave out a bowl of milk."

Gimli let out a bark of laughter, thinking of Nelly, Merry and Pippin. "Aye, I know a few hobbits that might tie your hair in knots if you crossed them, and they are easily appeased by food."

As he laughed, Éowyn relaxed slightly, and her smile grew. "When I was a girl, my cousin and uncle went out to Erebor, and when they returned, Theodred told Éomer and I that he had seen the holbytlan, and that they were no bigger than he was, at the time. I did not believe him, not until my uncle told me that he was telling the truth. Even then, I thought that they were teasing me for the longest time. Theodred was always trying to make me fall of fairy-tales." She trailed off, but a fond smile lingered on her face, even as grief darkened her eyes.

"Kíli does that same, sometimes," said Gimli softly. "He loves to pull pranks on people, or trick you into believing things that were never true. A very good storyteller, is our Kíli."

"Please," said Éowyn, looking up at him. "Tell me more of your family, and your people. I have not met a dwarf in person before."

"Really?" Gimli grinned, the idea of a distraction filling him with joy. "Well, in that case, listen up lassie – the first lesson is that dwarves love their pets, and their work-animals. You should see the wolves of Erebor-"

"The wolves?" burst out Éowyn. "I thought surely the wolves were an embellishment of Theodred's?"

"Not at all," chuckled Gimli. "Not at all – they were Beorn's, one upon a time, and Kíli befriended one of the pups. Of course. I fear he'd try to befriend even an orc, given half the chance. Anyway, after a couple of visits to the old skin-changer, the wolves accompanied us home, and decided they'd quite like to stay there. They're wicked smart – more clever than any beast you've ever laid eyes upon, and that's no exaggeration…"

With that, Gimli poured into the story of the wolves spelling out their own names, and the various escapades that he and his cousins had faced with their fury friends. He talked of the mountain goats and ponies of Erebor, and of Odo, and the other cats and dogs and ravens that called the mountain home.

The talk steered to the mountain itself, and for a long while Gimli told the Lady of Rohan of Erebor's beauty and its peoples. She listened with unwavering interest, asking questions of him here and there – especially regarding the roles that dwarven women played in society.

Gimli decided that he rather liked her company. They talked and talked, until the sun dove behind the horizon, and the cold of the night swept in. Then the party halted, and the Rohirrim set up three great campfires for their people, and a smaller one for the king and his party. Gimli watched in interest as the men set up tents – swiftly in the case of the soldiers, or with the fumbling hands of farmers, unfamiliar with such a task. Many were little more than sheets sagging off of unsteady sticks, and Gimli wondered aloud to Legolas why they did not simply sleep beneath the stars.

"They are less hardy than you or I," said Legolas, gazing sadly at a women with a child at her breast and another on her hip. She was inching closer and closer to one of the campfires, and shivering as she tugged a shawl tighter around the older child. "Exposure is a far greater threat. A cold night rain could take the life of even a healthy new-born."

"I suppose," Gimli muttered, staring at the baby. A cold night rain could not take the life of a dwarven infant – not unless it was heavy with hail or snow, or the child was already sickly. While nowhere near as tough as their adult kin, dwarven children had little to fear from exposure. Gimli thought of Dis, and sighed heavily. He wondered if there was any real chance for her baby, or if it would just be another little casualty of this great, bloody war.

"Come," said Legolas, putting a hand on Gimli's shoulder. "The food is ready."

The night was subdued and dark, and the threat of attack hung low above their heads, much like the sagging clouds. But the watching guards made no sound, and come morning the camp was untouched. There had been no attack, and no rain, and as the people of Rohan packed up their camp, there was a greater sense of hope in the air. Though weary, the people moved with more purpose, and for the most part their faces were lighter, more optimistic.

Once again, Gimli found himself riding behind Legolas, yet today they were closer to the front of the group – riding with Éomer and Aragorn and Boromir, just ahead of the king. Few rode before them, save the scouts, and the people stretched out behind them for what seemed like miles. In stark contrast to the day before, Gimli did not speak much in the morning. Instead, he listened to the talk of the Men, and particularly to Aragorn and Éomer. Though they had been strangers but days ago, they spoke like old friends, discussing tactics and battle, but also other things, sharing tales of laughter and dances and fairer days.

Boromir was quieter, his face clouded and eyes darkened by thoughts that he did not share, and Gimli suspected that he did not wish to talk at all – that the only reason he rode ahead was to avoid riding beside Gandalf. Despite the wizard's words, Boromir still was more subdued than before, and quicker to hang his head or avert his gaze, especially when Gandalf was around. It seemed he felt guilt all the more, then, and Gimli wondered just how long it would last.

They were coming up to midday, and drawing near to the mountains, when Legolas sat up in the saddle, and called to Éomer.

"There is a rider approaching," he said. "A scout, or a herald, he seems. He is clad in the armour of your people."

Éomer glanced at the elf, and then squinted at the horizon. A few moments later, the small speck of a rider came into view, and the man sat back in his saddle, raising his eyebrows. "I am impressed. Thank you, Master Legolas. I see why you keep him around."

Aragorn grinned, and Gimli patted Legolas' shoulder.

"Aye, he has his uses," he said, and he could practically hear Legolas rolling his eyes.

They rode forward to meet the rider, with Théoden and Gandalf also pulling away from the main group to come behind, with several guards around them. When he reached them, the rider doubled over, gasping for breath, and then raised his head, the whites of his eyes visible through his helmet.

"Lord Éomer!" he cried, desperation and exhaustion straining his voice. "Lord Éomer, you must turn back! You come, at last, but it's too late – nothing good has befallen us since Theodred passed – the riders were scattered, and Isengard has been emptied – thousands, tens of thousands – orcs and goblins and men – we were driven back over the fords yesterday, so many dead – in the night we were attacked again! Erkenbrand led three thousand men toward Helm's Deep, but no word has been heard from him, and our people are scattered. It is hopeless – go back to Edoras! Go back, before the wolves of Isengard devour it!"

Before Éomer could reply, Théoden rode silently through his guard, and between Aragorn and Éomer, and the rider's mouth dropped open.

"The Last of the Eorlingas have rode forth," said Théoden, "and we will not return without a flight. Our people we have brought with us – if the wolves of Isengard fall upon Edoras they will be disappointed. To Helm's Deep we ride, and then onwards, if we can."

"My Lord!" cried the rider, all but falling from his horse and bowing low. "Forgive me, I did not know that you had come."

"I have," said Théoden kindly. "There is nothing to forgive, Ceorl. When you rode out from Edoras I was in no state to ride to war, yet a western wind has shaken the sleep from me. My eyes are open, and I will not tarry any more. We ride to secure the safety of our children, and to fight for our place in this world. Do not fear, your children are among us."

"Thank you," breathed Ceorl, his voice shaking. "Thank you, Théoden King. Thank you!"

Gandalf rode forward, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Then, he turned to Théoden. "It is too late to march much further. Fly to Helm's Deep, as fast as can be. The fight will come to you. I will return when I may. Now, Shadowfax, we must ride!"

Without another word, the horse and the wizard sprang forward, shooting towards the north so fast that the disappeared over the hills in mere moments. Théoden nodded at Éomer.

"Let the Riders know that we are picking up the pace – we shall go as fast as possible, without alarming the people. Remember that we still have children among us, and the elderly and ill."

Éomer nodded, and began to ride down the line, throwing instructions as he went, and the group rode onward at a slightly brisker pace. As the day wore on, Aragorn and Boromir seemed convinced that they were making good time, but they still going slower than a dwarven troop would travel. It began to gnaw on the back of Gimli's mind, and often he looked over his shoulder at the expanse of people trailing behind. Their process seemed so slow, and their enormous party looked so exposed.

They were vulnerable, and a deep sense of dread curled around Gimli's gut. It seemed inevitable that they would be attacked, inescapable that an ambush would fall down upon them, but by the time night fell there had been not a single sound of an enemy. As they built the camp, Gimli's apprehension grew, and that night he did not sleep a wink. Instead, he lay awake, listening for orcs that he never heard, watching the darkness for mercenaries that ever appeared. He was still awake when the sun lit the horizon, and his eyes burnt from the watching as he scoured the landscape.

They rode on, and even when Legolas was on watch, Gimli did not quite feel safe. They could not transport so many from Edoras to Helm's Deep without some form of attack – that would be too easy, and nothing of their quest had been easy so far. It could not be.

But it seemed that it was – to Gimli's amazement, just after noon they crested a large hill, and saw the fortress of Helm's Deep carved into the mountain only a few miles away. A great, natural vale that Aragorn named the 'Deeping Coomb' stretched out before it, sheltered by arms of the mountain, and halfway through the vale was a great ditch. Beyond that, there was an outer wall, and behind that the fortress itself.

"Not bad, for men-folk," he muttered to Legolas who smiled slightly. Boromir twisted in his saddle and shook his head a little, but he smiled as he spoke.

"It is said that the men of Gondor made this fortress long ago, and that they were helped by the hands of giants."

"Giants?" said Gimli, his mind flying northwards up the Misty Mountains, to the stone-giants that wrought havoc on stormy nights. "I'd rather not meet any of those, thank you very much. Talking trees were quite enough."

They rode onwards, into the Deeping Coomb and then forward again to Helm's Dike – the great ditch that split the valley. Rag-tag groups of desperate riders joined them from the north and the west, trickling into the safety of the fortress and watching with wide eyes the procession of soldiers and civilians that would be coming to join them. Somehow, they passed through the dike without incident, and through the gate without so much as a growl from an orc. Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas and Éomer kept their horses aside by the doorway as Háma and an older lord named Gamling led the people through the fortress.

"The women and children will be sheltered in the caves," Éomer explained to the hunters, as they watched the people pour inside. "The elderly, and the ill, also. Any who can fight will be organised, and armed."

"Including the women?" wondered Gimli aloud, and Éomer looked sharply at him.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, and Gimli gave a light shrug.

"You said all who could fight. Some women are handy with a sword, and may want to fight. Will they be armed?" Gimli was careful to keep his tone light and even. Boromir had said weeks ago that men had very different views on respecting and protecting women, and he had no intention of irking Éomer or starting a fight. He was simply curious.

He wondered if he had indeed overstepped when Boromir and Aragorn went very still, and Éomer stared at Gimli with a slightly narrowed gaze.

"You have been speaking to my sister," he said eventually.

"Aye." Gimli saw no point in denying it. "But I was speaking more from my own experience. There are some among the women of Erebor who take up arms in times of war, and the women of Dale are often fiercer than their men. King Bard's daughter Tilda is the Commander of their Cavalry. I only wondered if Rohan had shield-maidens."

Éomer sighed, shaking his head a little. "There are very few, but they do exist, and some will fight, I expect. Yet there are some whose duties lie elsewhere. Éowyn, for example, is needed to lead our people when the king and I are at war. Besides, I would have all shield-maidens in the caves, to form a last defence for those who cannot fight, if all goes ill today."

"Does Tilda truly lead the cavalry of Dale?" asked Legolas curiously, apparently oblivious to the deeper conversation going on. "Is she not still a child?"

Gimli snorted. "I thought you and Bard were friends, laddie?"

"We are," said Legolas, sounding a little affronted. "But it is hard to track the lives of men. They grow faster than shoots in spring, and to men a year seems a long time. I have not visited Dale in some time."

Grinning, Gimli shook his head, enjoying the opportunity to tease the elf. "You need to get out of the woods more. Tilda's thirty-one, she's got four bairns of her own, now."

Éomer's contemplative frown deepened. "But does she not feel selfish, putting herself in such danger now that she is a mother?"

Gimli shrugged. "Do fathers? You may say it is different, but I do not think so. Her husband is a craftsman, a carpenter, I think, and he knows less of sword-play than a two-year-old elf. When war strikes, it is he who cares for the children, and waits for his wife to return. If something were to happen to Princess Tilda, her children would still have their father."

Éomer did not look convinced. "And what of her father, the king? He is happy with that?"

"No," admitted Gimli, "but he respects that it is her choice."

Éomer rubbed his chin. "That I understand, though I don't think I could do it. I would rather see Éowyn loathe me than I would see her dead, or scared by the horror of battle. She is my sister, and under my protection, and I could not allow her to walk into harm's way."

"I can see that," said Gimli. "I expect she might see it too, one day. But I wouldn't hold my breath, laddie."

Éomer snorted, and then sighed, heavily. "I won't. I won't…"

A comfortable silence fell over them, accompanied by an easy knowledge that they would agree to disagree. Gimli watched, barely able to believe it, as the last of the people of Rohan were herded into the fortress, and the doors were shut and barred behind them.

They were in Helm's Deep.

They had made it.

There you are, I hope you enjoyed that chapter! Sorry about the delay, I do hope that the next chapter will be up sooner. So – why do you think the evacuation went so smoothly? What do you think happened to the Beornings? Where are Frodo and Sam? Are Nelly and Bróin resorting to yodelling to keep away the boredom? Please do let me know what you think, I truly love hearing from you!

Thank you for reading.