The Silver Flame (LOTR)

The Dawn before the Storm

Dunharrow was shrouded in a thick mist, the chill of night clinging to the air like an omen. A tense stillness lay over the encampment, broken only by the sound of shifting hooves and the low murmur of anxious voices. As the darkness clung to the peaks of the mountains, the riders of Rohan prepared for the inevitable clash that loomed ahead. Among them stood Théoden, the King of Rohan, resolute yet troubled, knowing that this night could be their last.

"Lord Aragorn!" called out one of the soldiers, his voice cracking through the tension. The man turned to his comrades, confusion etched on his face. "What's happening?"

"Where's he going?" another soldier echoed, glancing around as if expecting Aragorn to appear from the shadows.

"I don't understand," muttered a third, his gaze fixed on the dark path Aragorn had taken into the night.

"Why does he leave on the eve of battle?" a fourth soldier wondered aloud, unease creeping into his voice.

Gamling, Théoden's loyal advisor, stepped forward, his brow furrowed in concern. "He leaves because there is no hope," he said grimly.

Théoden's eyes hardened as he regarded Gamling. "No, we cannot give in to despair," he corrected firmly. "He leaves because he must."

Gamling shook his head, his voice low and grave. "Too few have come. We cannot defeat the armies of Mordor."

Théoden met his gaze with a fierce determination. "No, we cannot. But we will meet them in battle nonetheless."

The men around them nodded in agreement, drawing strength from their king's resolve, even as fear coiled in their hearts.

As dawn approached, the mist began to lift, revealing a sky painted in hues of red and gold. Éowyn emerged from the tents, her face a mask of determination, even as a hint of worry flickered in her eyes. She had watched her uncle leave, feeling the weight of leadership settle on her shoulders.

Théoden approached her, his presence a source of comfort amidst the chaos. "I have left instructions," he began, his voice steady. "The people are to follow your rule in my stead."

Éowyn's brow furrowed. "What other duty would you have me do, my lord?"

"Duty? No," he replied, his tone softening. "I would have you smile again. Not grieve for those whose time has come. You shall live to see these days renewed. No more despair."

Théoden's words hung in the air, a fragile hope amidst the encroaching darkness.

Morning fell over Dunharrow, casting long shadows as the Rohirrim prepared to depart. The air buzzed with urgency. Théoden rallied his men, a fire igniting within him. "We must ride light and swift. It's a long road ahead. The men and beast must reach the end with a strength to fight." He looked down upon Merry, who stood with his pony, determination etched on his youthful face.

"Little hobbits do not belong in war, Master Meriadoc," Théoden said, though his heart ached at the thought of leaving the brave hobbit behind.

"All my friends have gone to battle! I will be ashamed to be left behind!" Merry insisted, his voice rising with emotion.

"It is a three-day gallop to Minas Tirith, and none of my riders can bear you as a burden," Théoden replied, resolute.

"I want to fight!" Merry's plea echoed in the air, a cry of defiance against fate.

"I will say no more," Théoden said, turning to mount his horse, leaving Merry's disappointment to settle like a stone in his heart.

But fate had other plans. Just then, Éowyn, disguised in the armor of a male Rohirrim, rode up beside Merry and offered her hand. "Ride with me," she commanded, and with a flash of surprise, Merry found himself swept onto her horse.

"My lady!" he exclaimed, wide-eyed.

"Form up! Move out!" Éomer's voice rang through the camp, rallying the troops.

"Ride! Ride now for Gondor!" Théoden shouted, his voice a clarion call.

A great column of riders surged forth from the encampment, a tide of determination racing towards destiny. They halted by a serene lake, the still waters reflecting the turmoil brewing in their hearts. Éomer rode in, his face grim as he delivered news that chilled their spirits.

"The scouts report Minas Tirith is surrounded," he said, his tone heavy. "The lower levels are in flames. Everywhere, legions of the enemy advance."

"Time is against us," Théoden murmured, the weight of the impending battle settling heavily on his shoulders.

Éowyn turned to Merry, her voice low but fierce. "Take heart, Merry. It will soon be over."

But the hobbit's heart was heavy with worry. "My lady, you are fair and brave and have much to live for, and many who love you. I know it is too late to turn aside." He looked out towards the horizon, where darkness lingered like a predator waiting to strike.

"I know there is not much point now in hoping. If I were a knight of Rohan capable of great deeds... but I'm not. I'm a Hobbit. And I know I can't save Middle-earth."

Merry's voice trembled with longing. "I just want to help my friends. Frodo. Sam. Pippin. More than anything... I wish I could see them again."

The melancholic weight of his words hung in the air, thickening the atmosphere with despair.

"Horns blow," Éomer announced suddenly, the call to arms resonating through the encampment.

"Prepare to move out!" Théoden ordered, urgency infusing his words.

"Make haste! We ride through the night!" Éowyn echoed, donning her helmet with determination.

"To battle," she declared, her heart set on defying fate.

"To battle," Merry replied, his resolve hardening as he prepared for the fight ahead.

As the Riders of Rohan moved towards the horizon, Visenya stood amongst them, her heart racing with a mix of fear and excitement. She had trained hard in the ways of battle, yet this would be her first real test. The weight of her silver dagger felt reassuring against her side, a reminder of Galadriel's words. 

Then the army halted, gathering before the looming walls of Minas Tirith, their hearts a mix of dread and determination as they faced the vast horde of orcs gathering on the plains below. Gothmog led them, a dark figure at the forefront, his malice palpable even from afar.

"Look!" Visenya urged, pointing toward the distant shadows that swelled and shifted like a dark tide. "They come."

The army of Rohan, clad in their golden armor, stood ready, their resolve fierce against the overwhelming odds. "We will not yield!" Éowyn cried, raising her sword high, igniting the spirits of those around her.

"Tonight, we fight for our homes, our kin, and for all of Middle-earth!" Théoden's voice boomed, echoing against the mountains, filling every soldier with a fierce determination.

As the sun dipped lower, casting an ominous glow over the battlefield, the Riders of Rohan prepared themselves. Visenya took a deep breath, feeling the air thrum with the tension of impending battle. She could see the orc army forming, a terrifying mass of malice and steel, but she refused to give in to fear.

"Merry," Eowyn disguised as a male soldier said, her voice firm, "we will fight together."

"I'm ready," he replied, his courage shining through.

Then, the clash of steel rang through the air, a prelude to the chaos that was to come. The Riders of Rohan faced the dark wave of the enemy, and as the call to charge echoed across the fields, Visenya felt her heart race.

"Ride forth!" Théoden shouted, and with that, the cavalry surged, a flood of golden armor against the encroaching darkness.

The battle had begun.

As the thunder of hooves shook the ground, Visenya found herself at the forefront alongside Éomer. They charged into the fray, the thrill of battle igniting their spirits, and the fate of Middle-earth hung in the balance as they faced the shadow of Mordor.

In that moment, beneath the rising sun, they were not just warriors; they were the hope of their people, charging into the darkness, determined to reclaim their future.