DEFINING MOMENT

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-four

TA 3019

Pelennor Fields

The new light of the morning brought hope to Éomer. The battle fury of his fathers before him now coursed through his veins like fire, and he smote many enemies. His éored kept with him, roaring and blowing their horns and fighting.

The banner of the silver swan of Dol Amroth marched out, and they forced the Enemy from the White Gates.

A moment's respite. He needed it. He rode towards a white horse. Beneath it lay a man, blood upon his golden army. His uncle!

Éomer leaped off his horse and ran to him. The small hobbit Meriadoc huddled beside the King, weeping. Some of his éored followed Éomer. Near the King was a Nazgûl. The head had been sliced cleanly off. A black cape lay crumpled on the ground, and a terrible crown too. Yet there was no body.

The blood pounded against his eardrums as he looked at his uncle. He was dead. No. This was not how it was supposed to be. War was terrible. But it would forever be their lot in life if they did not purge the lands of the Shadow. And all must be willing to give their lives. But why did he rather it was he who had died, and not his uncle?

Théoden's eyelids fluttered open. He opened his mouth to speak, and blood trickled out. His hands wearily motioned for the banner. One of Éomer's knights took it and gave it to the King.

"Nay," Théoden rasped. "Éomer, my son."

Grief nearly blinded him.

"Hail, King of the Mark!" Théoden's eyes were rolling back, and his face grew pale. "Ride to victory!"

Éomer knew he was dead. And he was King.

Those around him wept. "Théoden King! Théoden King!"

He took the banner in his hand and raised it high. "Mourn not!" he cried, though his own grief was great. "War calls us!"

Tears streamed from his eyes, washing away the blood and sweat and dirt. "Knights of his household, bear his body off this battleground. For he was honorable."

He looked over at the dead Riders surrounding the King. Deorwine, Freamod, Widcred—aye, good and noble and fierce men they were. He leaned heavily against the banner. Guthmer, Heogar—all good men.

A glint of golden hair drew his attention to a small body curled near his uncle. He sighed and trudged over to him. So young, not even a man.

Éowyn!

Her face was pale, her eyes closed. Her left arm lay in a cruel position, and it was wet with blood.

"Éowyn!" his scream was heard on the field. "Éowyn! Why are you here?" He ran to her, his broad shoulders heaving in sobs. "Éowyn!" He lifted her in his arms, trying to feel a breath, or a heartbeat. There was none. His hot tears fell on her face. "Éowyn!"

How had it come to this? Had she gone mad? "Éowyn!"

Roaring, raging anger took over him, and he gently set her down. He shook now—shook in anger. He stood, his brown eyes blazing hatred at the Enemy around them. They had taken the lives of the two people he loved most in the world.

"Death!" he wept. "Death take us all!"

He whipped his sword out of his scabbard and ran blindly into the battle. The enemy was a long, black snaking line. He took his horn and blew. "Death! Ride to ruin and the world's ending!"

He had waited for no backup from the Gondorians. This was vengeance now.

"Death!" his Rohirrim shouted in one terrible voice.

They galloped forward, riding past the dead King and Shieldmaiden. Éomer fought like a man possessed, for wrath and grief had empowered him. His sword never rested. The battle grew furious as he fought.

His Rohirrim blew on trumpets loudly, and discomfited the Southrons. But they would not go near the mighty mumakil.

The Haradrim rallied beside the mighty beasts, and to Éomer's great dismay, more evil soldiers came from Osgiliath. Would they all be wiped out this very day?

And now, some had ridden up behind the Rohirrim. Éomer yelled in frustration. Now Gondor could not join them to fight together.

The battle grew fierce, and a mighty roar of fear came from the City. Éomer raised his eyes and looked at the Anduin. His heart nearly stopped, and he yelled again in dismay. Black ships and black sails were floating in.

"Corsairs! Doom comes!" the men yelled.

Bells tolled from the City, and it was as if utter panic had overtaken both the City and field. "Retreat! Retreat to the City!"

Hope! What good was it now? They had none! Éomer cursed the day bitterly, and his mind cleared from grief and wrath.

"To me!" he screamed at his men. "Rally to me!" He hoisted his banner up high. He would gather his men and make one last stand. When their horses were shot out from beneath them, they would stand on their feet and fight till all had died, and the field ran red.

Their last stand. His last stand.

"To hope's end and heart's breaking we ride!" His voice was clear and mighty. "Now for wrath! Now for ruin! And for a red nightfall!"

He laughed, and battle-lust blinded him once more. He was the last King of the Mark. King of a dead people. Despair was laced in his laugh, and as he looked at the ships in the bay, he raised his sword in defiance.

But what was he seeing? For out of the blackness of the ships, a great banner was raised high. The White Tree of Gondor! The sign of Elendil! And a mighty man leaped from the side, his sword drawn and ready for battle.

His sword caught in the sunlight—Andúril!

Aragorn son of Arathorn, Isildur's heir, had ridden from the Paths of Death—and lo, he was alive! His face was stern, his eyes burning with vengeance.

Éomer's Rohirrim laughed behind him in joy. Their swords raised in the sunlight.

The Men of Dol Amroth rode East, forcing the Enemy out.

"South! Force them out!" Éomer yelled. Hope was in his heart once more. "South!" They rode forward, his own golden army.

Forward they charged. It was his defining moment.

Perhapsthey would yet live to see tomorrow' sunrise.