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Chapter 11: The Battle of Helm's Deep, Part II

Open your eyes to realize
There is no shining light
Open your heart to realize
There is still a beat inside.

You are not gone
But death may yet come
You are not lost
But your end has begun.

In the blur that reality had become, Éomer thought he saw a fleeting shadow. It caught his attention—something had halted the prospect of imminent death. His eyes had been shut, but now he opened them, only to find the form of the Orcs moving away and feeble light coming down again.

There was suddenly a guttural cry.

"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"

It all happened quickly, but soon an axe had been swung forward and the two looming figures above Éomer fell, decapitated. Startled and in a daze, he started to struggle to his feet. The urgency and intensity of battle made their way into his mind again.

I've survived...somehow, I survived...

Aragorn's familiar face was soon in sight, and Éomer gratefully let the other man help him to his feet. The two fled. Somewhere in that time span, Éomer managed to sweep Gúthwinë up off the floor by the bloody hilt. As they barred themselves behind the iron doors of the postern, Éomer felt himself trembling slightly as he caught his breath.

He heard the plodding footsteps of someone behind him, standing beside Aragorn. Éomer turned—and looked downwards. He smiled with the most sincere gratitude he had ever felt to see his savior.

"I thank you, Gimli son of Glóin! I did not know that you were with us in the sortie. But oft the unbidden guest proves the best company. How came you there?"

The dwarf smiled back. The room was dark, but Éomer could see that Gimli's reddish beard hung in dirty tangles and was matted with bloody filth. Streaks of grime hid his natural skin color. However, it seemed that he was more at peace now than ever—in the midst of battle, Gimli had found his calling, and it made his smile all the more genuine. "I followed you to shake off sleep," said the dwarf with casual conceit. "But I looked on the hillmen and they seemed over large for me, so I sat beside a stone to see your sword-play."

Éomer gripped his friend's shoulder affectionately. "I shall not find it easy to repay you."

"There may be many a chance ere the night is over, but I am content. Till now I have hewn naught but wood since I left Moria."

Both found themselves laughing slightly. It was like a moment of joy in the midst of death and sadness, and Éomer treasured it dearly. It was almost as though here, with his friends, he could forget the sounds of warfare that resonated throughout the keep and leaked into the postern through the door. Aragorn grinned from where he was leaning against the far wall.

That moment was soon over, though, as the three glanced back at the door and raised their weapons in determination.

How could so many still stand when thousands had fallen?

Stepping out onto the Deeping Wall again had dashed much of Éomer's hope. It seemed that the host of Orcs had increased in number, even though they had been fighting for...what was it? Hours? It seemed like so much longer, now more than ever. The enemy was raising ladders faster than they could be cut down, and hundreds infested the wall with Orcs climbing up them like a deathly swarm of insects. They were black and without detail in the night.

Éomer cut down some of the Orcs nearest to him, and turned to face Aragorn, who was in battle. "The men are fading!" he shouted.

Aragorn sprang forward to stand beside him. "Then you must rouse them," he said between heavy breaths. "You are their leader. You must be their hope...their inspiration." Both men looked up to the heavens, and at the moonlight that brought no more hope than the torchlight inside.

"Will you stand beside me?" asked Éomer.

Aragorn only needed to nod.

The two swords shone again, even though their blades were covered in the blood of many fallen foes. They rallied the men with cries and rowdy words, which supplied a momentary fix of vigor.

However, the rush wore off, and Éomer and Aragorn tried to raise their spirits three times before focusing on their individual battles again.

"They are in the Deep! They have gone through the culvert!"

Éomer turned to see the shadowy forms fighting with mounted guards in the Deep, charging through the streams in the culvert, and forming large groups beneath the cliffs.

They are behind the wall...even hundreds of years worth of sturdy stone can hold back this foe...

He heard a cry, so fierce that it stood out in the thundering chaos of the battle. It was the same cry that had rescued him. He barely caught the sight of Gimli leaping down from the wall and resuming his fighting behind the wall. For some reason, it made Éomer feel relieved to see Gimli and Gamling there side by side, because it finally seemed that they were making slow, visible headway. One of the Westfold sectors had followed Gamling into the Deep. Now, there was a steady force fighting there, and Éomer felt that he could breathe for a moment.

"Éomer!"

He barely heard his name being called. But suddenly, there was Legolas, running towards him, bow in one hand and dagger in the other.

"The men have found a quick way of bringing down the ladders," said the elf breathlessly. "The western part of the wall is cleared! If we bring them down, the only battles to fight are here, atop the wall...then we have a chance at victory."

Éomer could only look at his friend speechlessly. A chance at victory? It seemed like only a few minutes ago that they had been losing desperately. The main battle was now on the wall and in the caves.

Legolas continued when Éomer did not answer. "If our fighters are successful in the culvert, there will be some time of rest up here whilst they gather their forces again. It will be a long enough lull to get some more arrows to the archers."

"You may be right," Éomer finally responded. He gave a small smile. "Let us make it easier for the men to bring down the ladders. Swords and knives are needed up here...so let us find our enemy, that our blades may do the necessary work."

Legolas nodded, and the two emerged again into the midst of the battle.

It happened as Legolas had predicted, and Éomer soon found himself standing amongst the fallen in a moment of quiet. It was only then that he noticed his weariness. He and Aragorn were both against the wall, leaning against their swords, trying to catch their breath. Aragorn cast an envious glance at Legolas, who, with the stamina of his kin, was not yet as tired as they. The elf was whetting his knife.

"It will be drier above," came a clear voice. "Come, Gamling, let us see how things go on the wall!"

Éomer smiled at the way Legolas' eyes brightened at hearing Gimli's voice, and at the way Aragorn suddenly stood erect to greet his friend. Their small companion was ascending, and soon made his way onto the wall, with Gamling the Old beside him. They were both a sight. The Deeping-stream had overflowed with rainwater, so both were drenched as well as covered in the gore of their enemies.

But Gimli came forward, patting his axe, with the elation of the fight still in his eyes.

"Twenty-one!" he said triumphantly. Éomer vaguely wondered what significance the sudden outburst had, but then remembered the game between Gimli and Legolas when Aragorn rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Legolas smiled cockily. "Good! But my count is now two dozen. It has been knife-work up here."

All fell silent then. Éomer turned around so that he faced the landscape leading away from the Hornburg; he saw silent plains and gentle hills, over which muted stars gave forth their strongest effort to produce light and peeked out from behind the gray storm clouds. When Aragorn spoke, Éomer noticed that the ranger was right beside him, also staring out into the distance.

"This is a night as long as years," he said. "How long will the day tarry?"

Gamling climbed up wearily. "Dawn is not far off. But dawn will not help us, I fear."

At that moment, the spark of hope was awoken in Aragorn's eyes, and Éomer saw the face of a king. "Yet dawn is ever the hope of men."

"But these creatures of Isengard, these half-orcs and goblin-men that the foul craft of Saruman has bred, they will not quail at the sun. And neither will the wild men of the hills. Do you not hear their voices?" There was a distinct quaver in Gamling's voice.

Éomer joined in the conversation then. "I hear them, but they are only the scream of birds and the bellowing of beasts to my ears."

Gamling went off in a monologue then that outlined his hopelessness. Éomer half-listened, preferring to have some time to not think about the war. This was the only time he had to concentrate on the personal problems that plagued him. To him, Théoden was an uncle, not the king, and his uncle was fighting somewhere. His dear sister was back in the halls of Edoras, hopefully safe. And here he was—without any endurance, it seemed, left in his body, and with a parched throat and blood-slick sword. At least having Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli there offered a small amount of comfort.

"Nonetheless day will bring hope to me," said Aragorn in response to what Gamling's troubled words. "Is it not said that no foe has ever taken the Hornburg, if men defended it?"

Éomer sighed, remembering lore, and contemplating how reality and lore often did not comply with each other. "So the minstrels say," he remarked sullenly.

He felt Aragorn searching for his eyes, and finally gave in, looking over at his friend. It looked very much like Aragorn would be willing to believe in ancient songs and tales if they offered a light to shine through dark times.

"Then let us defend it," he said with conviction. "And hope!"

Éomer felt some of that conviction seep into him, and nodded with what determination he could muster. Trumpets sounding met his ears, and he turned back to the Hornburg, taking hold of Gúthwinë's hilt again.

Then, the wall gave a mighty tremble as flame and smoke flashed in the culvert, and the five of them fell to the wet, blood-covered ground.

"Devilry of Saruman!" Even as he cried, Aragorn sprang to his feet, Andúril in hand. He was running towards the breach. "They have crept in the culvert again, while we talked, and they have lit the fire of Orthanc beneath our feet. Elendil, Elendil!"

With those final, furious shouts, Aragorn was gone. Gimli and Legolas glanced at one another, and then at Éomer, until Legolas followed Aragorn into the Deep.

Éomer began to follow as well—until he heard the protesting moan of large, wooden structures being raised behind him. He looked around as the Rohirrim poured in, ready to stand in this last defense. It was now possible to hear the Orcs climbing the ladders at an impossibly rapid pace.

"Take your stand, men of Rohan!" he called out. "For the Mark!"

They echoed his cry, and their shouts died down just as the enemy began to infest the wall, and Éomer found himself staring into a grotesque face that seemed the incarnation of evil itself.

Gúthwinë gleamed, and all it took was one sweep of the blade to send that monstrous head rolling across the ground into oblivion.

Though Éomer was fighting harder than he had ever fought, the defense was driven back—simply by the sheer number of Orcs coming onto the wall. Gamling ran up beside him, turning away so as to continue fighting while he yelled.

"What now, my lord?" he shouted above the screams and wails of death.

Éomer took a breath, trying to gain some clarity. "Lead them into the Deep, where there is bloodshed and confusion," he said to himself.

"What?"

But even as Gamling wondered what he had said, Éomer called out orders.

"Retreat into the Deep!" he screamed, his voice hoarse and throat pained. "Back into the culvert! RETREAT!"

They ran in a desperate flee, moving back from the wall. Some leapt down, while others branched off into the stairwells. Éomer continued to yell his commands. He himself would not retreat until his men had cleared the wall. "TO THE CAVES!"

"You heard the man! Get to the caves!"

The others had taken up the order. One voice, husky and indignant, rang out clearer than the rest. Éomer, with Gamling still beside him, immediately began searching. He did not have to look long—there stood Gimli, his axe still sweeping about him, yelling as the enemy fell around him.

"Come, Gimli!" called Éomer, motioning for the dwarf to join the retreat.

"Let me take a few more of them down with me!"

In the end, Éomer practically had to drag his friend down into the Deep. The atmosphere was much different, but at least there would be more room to fight. The enemy pursued them tirelessly, though. Éomer could almost feel their foul breath against him, and the repulsive odor of their blood haunted him constantly. He was running with all of his speed, and Gimli tried to keep up with him, his stout legs pumping tirelessly. Almost all of the men were ahead of them, and some had already made it into the caves.

After what seemed like an eternity, the retreat was complete. Éomer looked around at all of those present and was dismayed to see that some he knew were missing. He prayed that they had not fallen...but knew that the death of some loved ones was inevitable.

"Eight fell on the Wall, my lord," said one of the soldiers, wiping a dirty cloth across his forehead to mop up the blood. "At least, eight that we know of. Many must have fallen who were part of other sectors. That count is only from one division."

Éomer only nodded numbly. He walked over to where Gimli stood by the entrance, gripping his axe readily and staring out.

"The enemy is coming," growled the dwarf.

The pursuit would arrive within minutes. Éomer took hold of the back of the dwarf's mail, drawing him a few paces backwards. "Do not let them see you. You may have a crossbow bolt in your eye before you have the chance to slay even one of them."

Surprisingly, Gimli did not argue. "Twenty-seven," he said. "Twenty-seven thus far. I wonder if Master Legolas has managed to surpass that count. I wonder..."

Éomer was suddenly touched at the genuine concern he saw in Gimli's eyes. There was no masking the sounds that came from the culvert, and he knew that the dwarf had come to care for Legolas and Aragorn as brothers. "They are strong fighters," he said, putting a hand on Gimli's shoulder. "They will hold their ground."

Gimli looked up at his friend and nodded, but his doubt was obvious. "Boromir was also a strong fighter. But when three arrows pierced him, he fell. He was the first of our company of nine to fall. How many more of us will be gone before this war is over? How can four young hobbits survive such darkness? We have been separated. Gandalf is gone, somewhere in the plains. Merry and Pippin have been taken captive. Frodo and Sam are journeying towards the Land of Shadow, perhaps facing things far worse than what we are facing, and Boromir is gone. Now I have only Legolas and Aragorn...and I do not even know if they are well. Perhaps I am alone."

Éomer was unsure of how to respond. Never had the sarcastic, gruff dwarf ever betrayed such emotion and fear, such a love for his friends. He truly hoped those weren't tears glistening in Gimli's eyes, because they might cause tears to come to his own eyes.

"You are never alone," he said.

The sounds drew nearer.

"Our friends are out there fighting for freedom...and now, our time has come."

Gimli nodded in agreement. He and Éomer ceased their conversation then, allowing for the silent understanding between them to develop. Their host was behind them, and this was their final stand.

Éomer did not need to hear or see their foes to know that they had arrived at the caves. He felt their presence, and Gúthwinë stirred to life in his grasp.

Coming Soon:

Chapter 12: When Wars are Won

When a battle is won by worldly standards, what is lost on a personal level? Friends? Loved ones? Or maybe...you simply lose a part of yourself.