Hello. Well, I haven't updated this in quite a while. I hope the battle scene is satisfactory!

Disclaimer: I do not own LOTR, the characters, places, or plot contained therein, or the book dialogue contained in this chapter.

As a final note: Merry Christmas to everyone! Happy Hannukah! Happy Holidays! I love you all!

The Battle of Helm's Deep—Part I

The offspring of misunderstanding
Which comes when power falls to the dark
The demon that destroys worlds from within
And never forgets a single wrong.

The bane of humanity, the bane that exists
Which will never be overcome
War, it is relentless, it does not forgive
And never will it really be won.

Éomer looked over Helm's Deep, scrutinizing every aspect of the Hornburg—the causeway and stream, the ramp and gates and barrier wall. He stood atop the Deeping Wall, and many men milled around him; he was positioned at the edge, looking out at the expanse of the stronghold. Théoden stood on Éomer's right, and Gamling was nearby as well, for he led those who watched the Dike.

"I will array my strength on this wall," said Éomer, after some consideration. "Defense is doubtful on the Deeping Wall and tower. If you will take care of the positioning of the others from Edoras and the Westfoldmen, we should be able to spread our forces wisely."

Théoden nodded in agreement as he stroked his chin thoughtfully, keeping his eyes out on the area before them. It was still night, and they had to mobilize quickly—the shadow of the enemy was drawing ever closer. "The wall is formidable," said the king. "Your best archers will do well here, and your best swordsman. It is thick enough for you to have two rows—at the most four, but that would most likely crowd it." Théoden's hand ventured into a stone cleft in the parapet. Éomer could barely see over the top of it, because of its height.

"Very well," said Éomer, looking into his uncle's weary eyes. "I will ready my men."

He departed from the king and Gamling, and left them standing at the edge of wall, peering out into the darkness and gloom. He went to the stairway that ran down from the outer court, and took the stairs there. As he walked, he was always aware of the inhospitable stone walls; they made the halls and pathways of Helm's Deep cold and closed in. But what else was to be expected as war drew nearer, in the form of thousands of shadowed footsteps?

As he left the wall, Éomer heard a familiar, husky voice, carrying on about archery, sleep, and orc-necks. He let the tension slip for a moment and smiled at what was recognizable as one of Gimli's friendly arguments with Legolas. Friends, at least, had a way of breaking through the hardest of times with lighthearted innocence and love. However, Éomer suddenly felt a rush of cold wind again; he was suddenly reminded that some friends may not survive this battle, and the bright laughter would be lost, extinguished in the night.

Time passed slowly that night, like a long, drawn-out breath. Éomer watched as the men prepared themselves. He himself was standing against a wall in the outer court, already vested in his armor. The mail was heavy and drew a warm sweat from his body. He had not yet put on his traditional helmet, with the long tail of pale golden horse-hair; it rested in the crook of his arm, and its shining metal lightly touched the protruding hilt of Gúthwinë. However, the shine was dulled in the darkness. Scarce torches, candles, and lanterns provided luminescence for the soldiers as they collected weapons and shields mechanically.

Many wore unfathomable expressions. Their glances passed over Éomer and over one another, as though nothing held significance anymore. Éomer did not find any fault in their lack of spirit—he, too, had plenty of doubt and grief within him. How could their numbers triumph against such a vast enemy? The stronghold had always held fast in past days, but what if it was overwhelmed? The Uruks would break upon the stone and climb it, rushing the forces of Men and destroying them, like wildfire spreading through a forest.

Éomer shifted, giving an almost imperceptible sigh.

He had resigned himself to not go to the caves behind the walls of the Hornburg. He knew that the women and children of the Westfold had taken shelter there, and was loathe to see their tears and hopelessness as their sons, fathers, and brothers, were torn away to fight. He could see the Westfold soldiers entering to get their weapons. Some are still so young...some, too old, he thought, his shoulders sagging—seemingly from the weight his heart carried. He saw some boys enter, the stain of youth still upon their clean-shaven faces and fearful eyes; eyes that could not comprehend death. Men also entered who were old enough to be their great-grandsires. At least these elderly men, with their frail bodies long devoid of muscle and youthful fitness, had already experienced life.

The area was basically silent. Some nervous whispers and questions were heard here and there, but mostly, it was a place full of contemplative thought; all thoughts and emotions were contained in the minds of the thinkers. War was here. There was no longer any time for fear, sadness, or anger to show.

It was time to fight.

Éomer slipped into the crowd ascending the steps to the wall, becoming one with them and blending in inconspicuously. Once they stood upon the Deeping Wall, however, he would assemble them and speak to them—no longer comrade, but leader.

Westfoldmen guarded the Dike. Éomer thought of them as he stood in formation on the wall, alongside his men. His heart was beginning to beat quickly, for the torches of the enemy could now be seen as the Orcs and Uruks advanced silently—their glow, however, was not like the pinpoint light of stars; they were small, deadly, fanatical flames. The front ranks were approaching those on the Dike. Éomer looked back and upwards, at an upper court on the tower, but he could not see the king. He knew that Théoden stood in that court. He had not had time to say certain things to his uncle...and now, regret was in his heart.

Their foes looked up with avaricious, wolfish stares.

Then, it began, with barely a millisecond of complete silence before everything plunged into the chasm of battle.

The stone foundations seemed to vibrate as the Dike erupted in death screams and battle cries. There were many ranks there, and the sound of galloping horses across the ramp and field could be heard in the chaos. Almost without thinking, Éomer yelled the command for certain sectors of the wall to draw arrows. When he commanded them to fire, hundreds of bowstrings sang in unison as they released a rapid and fatal rainfall of projectiles. The archer a few men down from Éomer handled his bow so fluidly that it seemed a part of him; Legolas Greenleaf was the sole elf among the men, but his arrows never strayed. Gimli stood beside him. He was unable to see over the parapet, but gnashed his teeth and wrung his hands around his axe restlessly. Aragorn stood at Éomer's side.

Amidst the cries and sounds of war, a cry from the back of the wall could barely be heard. Éomer himself did not perceive it, until his attention was drawn to it.

"Éomer!" called Legolas, his keen ears having sensed the drowned-out words. "Somebody yells for you from the back ranks! They say that the rearguard of the Westfolders has been driven in from the Dike!"

Éomer immediately turned, rushing past a blur of faces until he saw a breathless Westfolder at the head of the stairs. "What is the situation?" he yelled over the roar of the battle.

"The enemy is at hand!" the man replied. "We loosed every arrow that we had, and filled the Dike with Orcs. But it will not halt them long. Already they are scaling the bank at many points, thick as marching ants. But we have taught them not to carry torches."

Éomer wondered slightly at the last statement, then decided that he would rather not know the details of bloodshed at the moments. He hastily gave the man instructions and where to get reinforcement. The Westfolder made to leave, but turned back.

"My lord...it is not just Orcs, there are Uruks, and Wild Men too..."

Éomer nodded, and the man sped away.

The fighting continued in a blur of screams and blood for more hours, until midnight had passed and the world plunged into a complete, utter darkness. As Éomer continued to stand along the wall, drawing, notching, and releasing arrows, he noticed with apprehension the heaviness of the air around him, and looked up at the sky. He could see nothing. Were the stars hidden behind weighted clouds?

His wondering ended as drops of moisture came down. Then, a flash of lightning sent abrupt illumination into the world, and the tiny, pin-drops of rain became a fierce downpour. In that moment of light, Éomer had seen tiny black forms pouring over the Dike and into the breach...now, the real assault had begun.

They reached the wall.

The enemy was greeted with the huge rock structure, and they sent a barrage of arrows upwards. Most either overshot or fell short of the parapet and area directly above, where men stood revealed...but some found their victims, and soldiers fell onto the hard, hostile stone with heavy thuds.

A harsh trumpet sounded. Some Orcs continued their attack on the walls. Others, however, sheltered themselves behind shields emblazoned with white hands and went along the causeway with the wild men. Éomer saw this as he looked down and sideways. They head for the gates, he thought, with a moment of clarity in his thoughts. He looked around, until he saw Aragorn in the midst of the battle.

"Shoot at the causeway!" Éomer yelled. Aragorn took up the call, and many bows turned in unison, and storms of arrows were unleashed at the Orcs there.

Many of their foes fell, and were forced to break formation. Some of the wild men let madness and the rush of battle overcome them, and they surged forth, some blaring out more of the forsaken trumpet-notes. Éomer could hardly see them as he blinked away the unyielding rain that dripped into his eyes from his helmet. The storm had added to the night's opaqueness, and made everything even less visible. Most of the arrows were shot when the lightning flashed, and gave the soldiers along the wall a glimpse of the servants of Mordor.

In was by the lightning's elucidation that Éomer saw why most of his soldiers were shooting at the front ranks of Orcs and wild men on the causeway. Their foes had two long tree trunks, so heavy that many of them had to carry each. Éomer did not need any explanation of what they were doing—those trunks would ram down the gate, and give their adversaries complete access to the interior of the stronghold.

Shielded by those around them, the Orcs with the trunks were easily able to swing the trunks against the timbers that supported the gates. They did so, and a mighty crash was heard and felt. Parts of the stone structure broke off and plummeted downwards.

There was another flash...and Éomer saw the gates barely holding on, and hundreds of black shapes pouring into Helm's Deep by other means.

A hand grasped his shoulder, and Éomer whirled around to see Aragorn's eyes staring into his—eyes that were not crazed by the frenzy of warfare, but that held a fierce determination and willingness to protect.

Aragorn yelled over the sound of rain and thunder. "Come! This is the hour when we draw swords together!"

Éomer nodded, and let that determination seep into him as well. Aragorn took off running, his long legs carrying him easily along the length of the wall, and Éomer ran after him. As he ran, he stopped some of the better swordsmen that he passed and made them come as well—it was time for their steel to sing.

Aragorn's destination was a small door on a western wall, which led down towards the gate. He waited for Éomer to catch up to him. Then, they looked at one another in a brief moment of understanding before swinging the door open and rushing through it, springing into the enemy and heat of the fight with fires of war kindled in their eyes. Their swordsmen followed.

Éomer's hand found Gúthwinë's hilt.

May my blade be true this day...for love, for friendship, for honor...for Rohan...

"Gúthwinë!" he cried, unsheathing it. The steel flashed before his eyes...in unison with Aragorn's mighty sword, which was drawn beside him. "Gúthwinë for the Mark!"

"Andúril!" cried Aragorn, raising the Sword of Kings. "Andúril for the Dúnedain!"

Then, they sprang forth, and their swords began to drink heavily of the blood of wild men. Éomer heard a shout rise from the upper levels, as many saw Andúril at work in defense of the world of Men. "Andúril! Andúril goes to war. The Blade that was Broken shines again!"

As the fighting continued, and Éomer lost all sense of thought in the midst of the bloodshed, his final contemplation was that he fought beside a legend.

But there was more than one hero fighting there today...and indeed, two men who would someday be kings and legends fought beside each other, one bearing Andúril and one bearing Gúthwinë.

And before their ferocity, enemies fled.

Aragorn and Éomer made their way to the gate. There, Éomer halted—he heard the roar of distant thunder, and noticed that the lightning no longer flashed directly overhead. How much time had passed as they fought? The blood of many stained Gúthwinë's blade, and Éomer knew that it covered his hands, clothing, and face as well. The corpses that they had left behind them testified to the fact that both men had fought long and hard.

The gate itself was nearly in ruin as the tree-trunks continued to crash against it. Hinges were bent and broken; bars and timbers had been torn and cracked. It would not stand long.

"We did not come too soon," observed Aragorn.

Éomer, however, looked at the causeway, and at the numbers of foes gathered there, with the battle fully raging. They had to reinforce the gate. "Yet we cannot stay here beyond the walls to defend them," he said, somewhat quietly. Aragorn followed his gaze quizzically. "Look!" Éomer continued, pointing and looking back at his comrade. "Come! We must get back and see what we can do to pile stone and beam across the gates within." He turned, and began running back in the direction from whence they had come. "Come now!" he yelled over his shoulder. He heard Aragorn's footsteps and knew that he followed.

Éomer had to run over many horrid corpses that lay slain. However, at one point, one of those "corpses" stirred, and then many did. He came to an abrupt halt as the dead rose. The gleaming, fanatical eyes of those who had faked dead glared at him greedily, and Éomer looked down to see one of them wrapping a strong hand about his ankle. Unable to stop his momentum, Éomer fell.

Dark metal flashed, and a shadow came over him. Éomer looked up at three huge Orcs, their mutilated faces twisted in grins of pure evil.

This is the end...

At least I have done my service to Rohan.

Knowing that resistance was no longer an option, Éomer shut his eyes and loosened his grip on Gúthwinë's hilt...

Coming Soon:

The Battle of Helm's Deep, Part II

Please R & R!