Okay—I know I suck at updating. I fail at life. Please read, if you can even remember what's happening! (Because even I had to look at the last chapter to write this one...yeah, kinda sad...)

As usual, my disclaimer for this chapter has mainly to do with the book dialogue—but of course, with the rights to Tolkien's world as well.

Disclaimer: I disclaim rights to the book dialogue and Tolkien's world.

Either I'm very clever or just like to throw you off by putting waaaay too many words into my nifty little intro.

Frodo: SHUT UP ALREADY.

Okay, fine! Here you go, the magnificent (hopefully) Chapter 12!

Chapter 12: When Wars Are Won

I'm searching the blood-stained pavement
And I'm wondering where you are
I'm wondering if you can hear me
Because I've been calling, calling...
I'm sorry if you're out there somewhere
Looking for my broken body
Because I'd hate to know that you're feeling
What I'm feeling now.
Please don't tell me
There's nothing left to tell
Don't let me hear from foreign lips
That you were the first to fall.
You're not another number,
Another hindrance burned;
You're not a loss I could live with,
Because we have yet to share much more;
You're not the wine in the victor's cup
When we toast the casualties of war...

Can you hear me? You can awaken now, we've won
But still you're gone
Still you're gone
And I'm still calling...calling...

Crimson darkness filled every corner of Éomer's vision in his last blind rush, and his sword arm was forced to lead him with life-like instinct while his vision and other senses gave in to confusion. His head was throbbing. Screams reverberated steadily around him, and perspiration that had built up because of the closed quarters in the Deep robbed any thought of comfort from him. He had lost sight of Gimli; he had lost sight of everyone. Every moment was consumed by another enemy towering over him. He heard the commotion on the Wall from afar; the distant sound of people he loved crying out as they died became nothing more than inscrutable ringing that lingered in his ears.

More and more, however, he was finding himself able to breathe. He would spend moments teetering on the brink of a nonexistent attack. The foes that had confronted him were now the bodies that hid the ground, and as the number of corpses beneath his feet grew, the number of assaults that came his way began to ebb. Éomer was distrustful of even a single empty second that passed. He remained ready and driven by war-lust, his sword itching in his grasp as he spun, looking for something to cut down. A phantom taunted him and caused his readiness, but never took the tangible form of an orc or Uruk.

Long moments passed like this before Éomer realized that there was nothing left to fight.

He slowed, at last allowing himself to draw breaths of stale, death-tainted air. Many rushing footsteps covered the land outside of the deep, causing what felt like a small earthquake. It was as though thunder was rippling across the ground and causing tremulous reverberations to reach deep into the fortress. Unearthly wailing accompanied the hasty footfalls, and then the earth itself seemed to stir to life. Éomer was lost in an instant where the light of dawn seemed to touch even the deepest levels of the Hornburg, and a remote murmur spoke of trees coming to life.

A profound relief touched his heart: it was over. He did not need to see it to know it. He heard it, felt it, and sensed it in the very core of his being.

After the initial victory, Éomer found himself wandering about the Deep. Many orcs stared up at him with eyes no less dead than they had been in life. But every now and then, a bloodstained face would greet him and stir an unwanted memory, and those memories flashed before his vision in a torrent of regret. There were people he cared for among the dead. Every other lifeless gaze reminded him of the man's laughter, of some jest passed between them over ale, of the dead soldier affectionately grooming his horse without knowing that neither of them would live to see their old age.

He heard the sounds, the hails and cries of those living. Those in the deep were beginning to drift towards him and collect about him. But Éomer secluded himself in mourning. He simply stood, no longer willing to let his feet carry him forward, and tried in vain to grieve for every last fallen comrade. There were too many; they were a single onslaught, viciously tearing away Éomer's ability to feel individual sadness for the loss of their lives. That hurt him more than anything.

He was no novice in the world of loss and death, but he knew now that one could never entirely adjust to its sting.

"Éomer."

The familiar gruff voice surprised him slightly, and he turned see Gimli, his axe-blade slick with fresh blood. The dwarf carefully made his way around the bodies that littered the ground. Éomer started towards him and they met halfway. Gradually, as he looked around, Éomer saw more living men coming his way. Blinded by death, he was just beginning to look at the life that had prevailed. In his opinion, too few had lived and too many had died—but that would have been his opinion if even one of his companions had fallen, due to the immeasurable value of a single life.

He clasped Gimli's shoulder. "It is good to see you on your feet, master dwarf," he said. "But I had no doubt of your sturdiness."

Despite the circumstances, Gimli grinned mischievously. "Aye, but unfortunately, the same sturdiness was not extended to that last orc whose neck I cleaved, even with that iron-collar around his neck. I highly doubt the elf has surpassed a count of 42."

Éomer returned the smile, thankful for the slight reprieve of Gimli's teasing towards Legolas. He remembered for a moment the dwarf's earlier fear. Although it could not be confirmed yet that Aragorn and Legolas had survived, it did their hearts good to believe it was so.

"You have not sustained any dire wounds, but the gash across your forehead worries me," said Éomer. "I would suggest finding a way to bind it so that it does not bleed so profusely."

Gimli's hand went briefly to his forehead as he searched himself for some sort of clean linen. He reached for the shirt underneath his mail. "Give me a moment to find something."

It was then that Éomer turned away from Gimli, and the sight of a face he had known since childhood brought him inordinate relief. Gamling was walking towards him. The old man's head was still held high, despite the weariness that was sure to affect him more because of his age and the aftermath of the battle. Quite a few others followed behind him.

"My lord," said Gamling, giving a slight bow. Éomer had to control himself against a frustrated sigh; battle should eradicate the need for formalities. "The king and others will want to know how many have survived that were driven back into the Deep. Perhaps we should emerge and give them some comfort?"

"Of course," said Éomer promptly. He did not wish to be among the dead any longer. He would return later, or others would, but at the moment he only wanted to taste fresh air and be assured that some others had survived. Silently, he motioned forward, and the men began to follow him out of the Deep. Gamling came to walk beside him. Immediately behind came Gimli and Éomer saw a linen band covering his forehead, even though the blood soaked through slightly. It seemed reasonably clean and he wondered how the dwarf had managed to produce it.

At long last, they came down from the Dike, and there before them were many friends who had lived. Éomer's heart settled as he saw his uncle, standing out among the ground as a king should, and Aragorn and Legolas beside him. He glanced at Gimli and saw the dwarf's eyes alight with relief. Perhaps it had been folly to worry so, but even the best fighters could fall when overwhelmed by a vast enemy.

There was another figure among them, and his presence both confused and reassured Éomer. The old man's white robe's were stained with blood and dirt, but still managed to take on an unearthly shine, and he immediately captured the attention of any who laid eyes on him. When had Gandalf arrived? Suddenly, Éomer caught himself grinning; when did a wizard ever announce his coming? But he knew, deep down, that this victory against terrible odds was probably due to him in great part.

"Forty-two, Master Legolas!" Gimli called out. "Alas! My axe is notched: the forty-second had an iron collar on his neck. How is it with you?"

The elf grinned indulgently, and again Éomer marveled at the extent of the friendship the two opposites shared. "You have passed my score by one. But I do not grudge you the game, so glad am I to see you on your legs!"

Éomer parted ways from Gimli slightly so that he could be reunited with Legolas and Aragorn. As he passed by, he locked eyes with Aragorn for a moment; their own bond had been strengthened by their moments fighting together. There was a certain amount of grief in the grey-green stare that greeted him, but Éomer also found immeasurable hope there, gained simply by the sight of friends. The gaze was accompanied by a small smile and nod, which Éomer returned without second thought. If this man could comfort so by simply looking at him, Éomer did not doubt that his character would be the kind to restore a nation to its former glory.

But at the moment, he had another king to see. He went before Théoden. His uncle gave a warm smile and reached out, touching Éomer's shoulder lightly. Éomer returned the touch—though, truly, he longed to take the man before him in a fierce embrace as he would have done immediately as a child. This was his beloved uncle, his second father. None could be as successful in making him feel at peace.

"Welcome, Éomer, sister-son!" Théoden said joyfully. "Now that I see you safe, I am glad indeed."

It was a mutual sentiment; for the first time in the day, Éomer felt truly glad, knowing that such a treasured member of his family was safe. The king had been liberated from his darkness and was now, in turn, helping to liberate the world from the darkness that threatened it from Mordor. Never again would a king of Rohan sit back in idle discontent while his people died. Théoden would again be the one to lead the men as they fought for the salvation of the common good.

Éomer belatedly returned the greeting, catching himself in deep thought. "Hail, Lord of the Mark! The dark night has passed, and day has come again. But the day has brought strange tidings." To explain, he turned to look at Gandalf, whose gaze was on the forest. His eyes focused on both for a few moments, and then he finally addressed the wizard. "Once more you come in the hour of need, unlooked-for," he said good-naturedly.

He almost laughed at the expression of perfect innocence that Gandalf made as he replied: "Unlooked-for? I said that I would return and meet you here."

"But you did not name the hour, nor foretell the manner of your coming. Strange help you bring. You are mighty in wizardry, Gandalf the White!"

The conversation took a more serious turn then, and Éomer knew that Gandalf was going to do what others had not: finally address the reality of the battle and the men who had fought all night to be victorious in it. "That may be. But if so, I have not shown it yet. I have but given good counsel in peril, and made use of the speed of Shadowfax. Your own valour has done more, and the stout legs of the Westfold-men marching through the night."

Éomer looked at him gratefully. Then he turned back to Théoden, and motioned to the trees with his eyes. The king drew close and whispered to him: "It was as though they had come alive, consuming the enemy when they were driven out of the fortress."

He looked at Gandalf with wonder; how powerful a man was he, to be able to do such a thing. The same inquiring stares fixed the wizard from other men surrounding them.

It was the wizard himself who broke the tension; his long laugh rang clear and everyone was soon smiling or chuckling with him, even though none knew the exact reason for his merriment. "The trees?" asked the old man, catching his breath. "Nay, I see the wood as plainly as do you. But that is no deed of mine. It is a thing beyond the counsel of the wise. Better than my design, and better even than my hope the event has proved."

Théoden started to question the wizard then; together, all listened to a small sample of lore that Gandalf offered, eager to learn of the ancient power lying dormant in the forest.

It was quite possibly that power, along with the strength of will the free-peoples embodied, that would be the salvation of Middle-Earth.

Over the next few days, Éomer was given the instruction that he would ride with Théoden to Isengard. Gandalf would also be going there, along with Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli.

There also came the terrible task of dealing with the corpses and remaining enemies. The only ones who had managed to survive were hillmen, who cried for mercy before the king of Rohan. Éomer was present when it was granted to them, there in the field, with the tender wind shifting the yellowing grass and touching his skin. It was upon the same field that the mounds were raised to bury the men who had given their lives to the service of the Mark. For a long time, Éomer (as well as the others of his company) were unsure of what to do about the immense pile of orc-corpses that was constructed far from the place of their death. There were too many; how could they be buried, or even burned? It was Gandalf who counseled them to simply let the bodies lie.

Éomer cared not that the bodies would rot there. He only cared for this moment, staring at the mass grave before him where his kinsmen would lay. Each man deserved an individual burial and ceremony, but that would be impossible. This was the only way to bury them.

All of the men stood before the grave and were present at the burial. But later on, Éomer was alone with Théoden in a quiet, personal place. They stood underneath the Hornburg. They were beside the grave of the one person who had been granted a personal burial.

Théoden sprinkled dirt on Háma's mound, and Éomer put his hand gently on his uncle's shoulder. He could not be a king in this moment—simply a man who had lost a dear friend of many years. Éomer emptied himself of emotion. He would let the emotion of this death be Théoden's so that he could offer the comfort of his strength. They would depart in a few hours, so they could not tarry, even to mourn Háma. Both were silent for a few moments. Looking at the mound, Éomer remembered his father's death and the childlike view he had had of its severity.

Though he was no longer a child, he felt much the same way now, even if Háma's death affected him less than Éomund's had.

Théoden sighed and put his hand over his nephew's. His voice was quiet, a strong whisper. "Great injury indeed has Saruman done to me and all this land, and I will remember it, when we meet."

There was nothing more to be said. They looked out over the plains and at the sun that was beginning its descent over the hills. Neither noticed someone approach in perfect silence from somewhere in the expanse behind them, for he said nothing, waiting for them to look in his direction.

"We must depart, my friends," said Gandalf, when their attention was finally directed towards him.

Théoden nodded and followed the wizard without a single glance back.

Éomer lingered for awhile, taking in the warmth of the sun and the coldness of loss. When he found that no amount of time here would clear his confused emotions, he too followed, prepared to embark on another journey—even though he would never be free of the events of the past. He could only walk forward now and hope that the world would someday find peace.

Coming Soon:

Chapter 13: Another Beginning

Can hope be found after battle? What awaits Éomer at the ruins of Isengard? Power has been overthrown, and new friends are waiting to balance out the cost of death. But even with renewed opportunities, the promise of forthcoming darkness cannot be overlooked.