Chapter Text
Rider of the Mark
Prologue
The fortress at Helm’s Deep had almost been lost.
Despite the Elves, led by that arrogant March Warden in his Shoot Me Please Red Cloak, despite the Ranger, despite it all...
It had almost fallen.
Blown apart by magics unknown; the look on Theodan King’s face, aghast; shocked. Gamling knew what was going through his Lord’s mind.
No!
My people...
Slowly, they had been beaten back, almost into submission. No way for the women and children to escape.
Trapped.
In a last ditch attempt, the Ranger had persuaded Theodan King to ride out one last time. To ride to Glory.
To Death.
Even Gamling had to admit, the timing was exquisite. As they had ridden down the embankment, riding over Uruk hai after Uruk hai, the sun had risen in the east, bringing the Grey Pilgrim, the Riders of the Riddermark.
Éomer.
The glare of the sun was blinding, glinting off the burnished steel of armor and swords. And almost too quickly, it was over.
The flag of the White Hand flew no more.
The Rohirrim had gathered and buried their dead, their heroes. They had buried the Elves, had gone to great pains to mark their graves carefully. Theodan, Éomer, and Gamling had watched as Legolas, Gimli and the Ranger personally laid the Elf, Haldir, beneath one of the few trees in the valley.
They burned the Uruk hai. They burned their bodies, their clothing; spread the ashes to nourish the soil. They did not burn or dispose of their armor or weapons - no, those were to precious a commodity to destroy, and so they kept them. They would be scrubbed , refurbished, melted down if necessary and reworked. For the glory of Rohan.
Then they made their weary way home, back to Edoras. Home to rebuild, to grieve.
Home to await the summons of Gondor.