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Disclaimer: I do not own LOTR nor do I own the book dialogue contained in this chapter. But the other day I gathered a bag of acorns.

Chapter 9: Before the Storm

Memories of past trials and tears
Foreboding for the future's fears
Uncertainty for what might come
Hope that a battle might be won

Before the Cold
Before the Morn
Before the Loss
Before the Storm...

It all comes crashing in a raging sea
May we live to see the days of peace.

Sometime over the course of the journey, Éomer stopped thinking about the possibility of upcoming bloodshed. The way the light hit the golden grass during the day and particularly at the sun's setting was heavenly. A sort of glow reached up from the earth, of that same gold hue, and touched the sky, while making the armor of the Rohirrim and the steel of their weapons shine. It was like being lifted up...far from troubles, far from haunted memories and forsaken times.

They were traveling westward. The foothills of the White Mountains rose up nearby, and if one looked to the mountain summits it was a sweeping and majestic view. Every now and then, the large company would ford streams, around which greener grass grew, in contrast to that which covered Rohan's plains.

Éomer knew that most of the others were driven by fear, by need, not even paying heed to the landscape around them, and felt almost ashamed that his mind should so easily wander and forget its purpose. But if one did not pause in the darkest times to look upon beauty, what reprieve was there from evil? However, he did not try to make light of their situation, and during breaks in which they set up camp would discuss battle tactics and other such grim subjects with the likes of Théoden, Aragorn, and some warriors of high ranking. The host had a process of posting mounted guards and sending out scouts during these periods. Others would tend to the horses, who needed rest after so much ceaseless exertion, and then take time to recover strength themselves.

As time wore on, the shadows behind them grew deeper, and as they rode new territory marked the fact that they were approaching Helm's Deep. Even Éomer's heart was burdened as the hour of darkness drew nearer.

They stopped on the second day of riding to gain information from a small group of guards that was stationed out along the farther reaches of the Misty Mountains. Éomer himself did not speak with Ceorl, who was their leader, but later on as he rested beside a campfire, he heard footsteps approaching him and looked up to see the king, his face a picture of weariness.

"What news from the western guard?" Éomer asked, standing as Théoden came nearer.

His uncle sighed deeply. "Ill news. Many of our forces have fallen. To think that all this time, I was a slave in my own mind, and blinded to the fact that my people are perishing." Théoden sat on the ground then, dignity and rank forgotten in the midst of despair, and held his head in his hands. "He wanted to tell you, Éomer, that there is no hope ahead.

"I gave him words of comfort, and bade him to ride with us. The man was overjoyed as were the others with him. They are beside us now, with hope rekindled, looking to destroy the wolves of Isengard who have so brutally slain their kinsmen."

Éomer hesitated a moment, then sat beside his uncle. "And you, my lord? Are you without hope?"

"Without hope..." Théoden looked up then, the light of the fire dancing in his drained eyes. "I suppose not. It would be impossible to constantly give encouragement to these men if I myself do not believe the words I say. No, I have not given in...but these tidings weigh on me like lead."

"They let the thirst for vengeance drive them. Uncle, when you look to the future, think of the children, the people who have needlessly spilled their blood upon our land. These monsters were the cause of that. Remember that you are the king...lead them. Share their justified anger. Only then can we hope to do what's right."

Grimly, but with understanding and desire to do justice now evident in his expression, Théoden nodded. "It will be difficult. Especially with Gandalf having left me today."

Éomer started, his eyes wide in disbelief. "He has left? In such haste, with so little notice? To what purpose has he gone?" Of all the surprises...

"Do not doubt him, Éomer," said the king, a small grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "In all the years I have known Gandalf he has been a continued enigma. But everything he does is with purpose, and I know that whatever errand he has gone to attend is for the well-being of not only Rohan but all the free peoples of Middle-Earth."

"Whatever it takes, then, to change the way things are."

Théoden smiled at his nephew. "You are like your father, Éomer, in your cunning skill, but like my sister in your heart and mind."

Briefly, Éomer remembered the words his mother had said to him at Éomund's funeral, about how fear is not a weakness and that a true man confronts his fear to show true courage.

Was he afraid now?

His hand moved to Gúthwinë's sheath and he put his hand on the hilt for comfort.

"I suppose I am, uncle."

And I am not ashamed to admit it...to prove that cowardice and fear are not as similar as most would like to think.

At that point the road turned southward. It changed their course to the Westfold Vale, where the stronghold of Helm's Deep stood with its stone towers and trumpets in the midst of the mountain Thrihyrne. Long had it stood as a refuge for the people of Rohan—mainly of the Westfold; the people of that region were in fact there at the present moment, as was their master, Erkenbrand.

Éomer could see Thrihyrne's peak in the distance, rising with ominous bearing. They were riding at a steady pace through the depths of a low valley. He had stopped little for conversation that day, as thoughts and memories were continuously flowing through his mind. The pit of his stomach was unsettled; partially from riding with little sustenance, partially from fear.

I might be riding to my death...to the death of us all...

Valar, I'm so afraid.

He didn't know what kept him from turning around right then and there, from going back to the thatched roofs of Edoras and the security of the Golden Hall in which he had grown. Then he remembered the look in Théodred's eyes as he breathed his last breath.

Suddenly, Éomer's thoughts were interrupted by the blaring of horns, accompanied by screams of pain and the sound of arrows flying free. He looked up and pushed windblown golden hair from his eyes, a sinking feeling within him.

A few moments later, a scout who had been sent forth earlier with a ground of others could be seen coming over the hills, a distressed look in the way he ran. Théoden brought his horse forth and stood before the messenger, glancing back and motioning for Éomer to stand beside him. The king's expression was grim.

Replacing his helmet upon his head, for he had removed it a short while ago due to the heat of the day, and urged his own stallion to move forward a bit. He brought the beast to a halt when it was level with Théoden's. Then they waited.

The scout was weary, and breathing hard by the time he came to a stop before them. His eyes were wide as are those of one who had just seen bloodshed. The young man gave a sloppy salute before rushing into his report.

"Warg riders, my lord! They are running unchecked through the valleys. A host of Wild Men and Orcs were hurrying southward from the Fords—they seem to be going towards Helm's Deep. We have found many of our folk lying slain as they fled thither. And we have met scattered companies, going this way and that, leaderless. What has become of Erkenbrand none seem to know. It is likely that he will be overtaken ere he can reach Helm's gate, if he has not already perished."

Théoden and Éomer shared a brief look. Please, uncle, be their leader. Do not let despair or guilt rule you. Be a king. Éomer's grip tightened on his horse's leather reins.

"Has aught been seen of Gandalf?" Théoden asked, the air of authority about him betrayed only by the pain in his eyes.

The scout nodded wearily before diving into an account of the Istar's appearances.

Éomer was only half-listening. Théoden had already assured him that Gandalf went about his dealings with purpose and was not much concerned for the wizard's safety, for one such as he could protect himself by many means. The people of the Westfold, however, the women and children who took refuge behind the walls of the Hornburg, were nearly defenseless without the host from Edoras—the soldiers already assembled there would not stand long against an army of Orcs and Wild Men from Isengard. Éomer's heart burned at the thought of Saruman's treachery and at the memory that the fallen wizard had almost gained control of Rohan through Théoden.

One way or the other, Saruman desires the downfall of Rohan. He wishes us to be the example of the fate that shall befall all of Middle-Earth.

A sense of duty rekindled within him, Éomer turned his attention back towards the conversation.

"...Is it known how great is the host that comes from the North?" Théoden was asking, having finished some sort of discussion over Gandalf and Wormtongue.

"It is very great. He that flies counts every foeman twice, yet I have spoken to stouthearted men, and I do not doubt that the main strength of the enemy is many times as great as all that we have there."

The scout's gaze shifted to Éomer as he finished speaking, and it very much seemed to be for reassurance. Sometimes one needs to look upon a young, able-bodied warrior more than a wearied king, in order to think that there may be some hope when these dark forces came upon them.

"Then let us be swift," Éomer answered, his eyes going to the horizon and the hills that stretched out before him, touched by the sun's rays. "Let us drive through such foes as are already between us and the fastness. There are caves in Helm's Deep where hundreds may lie hid; and secret ways lead thence up on to the hills."

"Trust not to secret ways," murmured Théoden thoughtfully. "Saruman has long spied out this land. Still in that place our defense may last long. Let us go!"

Éomer did not miss his uncle's bitterness or anger when mentioning Saruman, but did not have much time to contemplate it. Upon Théoden's word the host began to move forward again. First it was at a slow trot...then, it grew into a full-fledged gallop, as though spurred by Théoden's rising determination. Éomer's blood was starting to rush through him.

Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?

They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow...

The ancient lore of Rohan came to mind as Éomer rode forth with the Rohirrim to what would become a legend of its own.

The night was dark when they finally arrived before Helm's Gate. No stars shone this night, nor was the moon's brilliance present. Earlier Éomer had discussed some tactics for battle in the Dike with Aragorn and Legolas, but they had come to no true conclusion—they were obviously too few to defend Helm's Deep. Now that they came to the actual place, that fact was all the more evident. The Dike, which lay below the gate, was over a mile long and instable due to a wide breach. It was into that breach that they rode now, over a road and small stream. Éomer looked forth into the darkness of the rampart, his heart heavy. He and the others riding up front slowed their pace. The fortress rose tall and strong before them, a massive structure almost completely hewn from stone. Only once before, in much younger days, had Éomer been here. He could not help but be awed by its magnificence.

A sentinel came forth; in the darkness he could see only a great number riding towards him, the points of their spears shadows against the night. "Who goes there?"

Éomer looked to Théoden, who only gave a grim half-smile. "I think it would comfort him more to hear your voice, nephew, as it will be more familiar than mine."

Indeed; the voice of Théoden had long been silent in Rohan.

"The Lord of the Mark rides to Helm's Gate," Éomer replied. "I, Éomer son of Éomund, speak."

The sentinel rushed forward, the light of a lantern casting an eerie glow upon a face that was overcome with relief. "This is good tidings beyond hope. Hasten! The enemy is on your heels."

That was not comforting news. As they began to pass over the breach and greet the soldiers who were holding the Gate, Éomer hung back looked and looked behind them into the night, past the mass of the Rohirrim.

Far in the distance, a great shadow moved towards them. Éomer could make out no detail among them but felt fear grip his heart. He remembered words that his father had said to him so long ago, about war and bravery, and also those of his mother. Then he prayed that in the midst of battle he would not forget him.

Two lone horses were guided out of the host and came to stand beside him. Éomer looked to them, and saw that their riders were Aragorn and Legolas. Over the course of the trip Gimli had ridden with several warriors; Éomer knew not of the dwarf's current whereabouts, but it was a comfort to have at least these two friends beside him.

Legolas peered out into the gloom with his far-seeing eyes. "They are a great many," he said quietly. "My vision is not so keen on a night like this, where not even the light of Eärendil shines in the heavens, but I can see well enough the fetid creatures that make up this army. Their number far exceeds our own."

"Are there any beings among them beside Orcs and Wild Men?" Aragorn asked.

"There are some larger than Orcs. Uruks, I believe—like those who took Merry and Pippin captive."

"The ones my men slew when we rode out against orders," Éomer said, remembering very well that battle and the stench that had risen from the mound of dying corpses. "They are difficult to kill, with armor and shields that are nearly impenetrable." He hung his head with the sadness of lost hope—this might be one battle they could not win.

One of the horses pulled closer, and Éomer felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. He glanced sideways at Aragorn.

"We will find a way, son of Éomund," said the ranger quietly. "The evil of Mordor will not conquer Rohan—I promise you."

Éomer smiled, finding some small comfort in Aragorn's words, and gave a small nod, which his friend returned. Then Aragorn turned, leading his horse away, and Legolas followed. Elf and Man were soon engaged in private conversation and Éomer was left there, looking out at the bleak future that awaited him.

At least the fear is lessened when one fights beside friends.

He turned his gaze up towards the opaque blanket of the night sky.

Please, oh great Illúvatar, lord of the Valar and of this Middle-Earth...let my people survive this battle. My own life does not matter. But let Rohan survive; let not innocents be slaughtered. And shine your light over the Heir of Isildur and his companions—they have so much yet to offer the world. My last prayer is for my dear sister in Edoras. Keep her safe, I beg of you; may she one day be able to fight beside the Rohirrim.

Éomer did not know if his prayer would be heard, but it felt good to believe that a higher being was watching over him. This storm of evil would strike fiercely and mercilessly. At least faith offered hope—more so than starless darkness.

Now, we wait, in the apprehension before the storm...

May we live to see the peace that follows it.

Coming Soon: Blood and battle, in the dark of the deepest night. It is time for Éomer to face his fears and help turn the fight for Helm's Deep into one that will be a legendary part of the War of the Ring.

Late update. Hope it was satisfactory. Please reviews! Even one-liners are better than no feedback at all. Sorry for any typos or grammar errors; I didn't have time to edit this chapter very well.