As she had waited on the walls of the Hornburg when Saruman's host approached as a roiling, writhing mass of torches, Hilde recalled thinking there was little in the world that could follow that would seem more terrifying. The army of Uruk-hai melting out of the night with guttural roars and thunderous steps had haunted her nightmares since.

But now as she sat upon Windfola looking out upon the host that besieged the White City of Gondor, the memory of the host of Isengard paled in comparison. It was somehow worse in the growing light of dawn, to see such a fathomless sea of orcs arrayed before Minas Tirith, while thick black smoke seemed to cover the White City like a shroud. No darkness masked their numbers and overhead great winged beasts flew with horrid grating cries. For a moment Hilde struggled to breathe, especially as the monstrous ranks shifted in response to the Rohirrim's appearance over the crest of the hills bordering the Pelennor Fields. Even from up on the hill they could hear the blood-curdling shrieks of the orcs waiting for them below.

Hilde was in the second line toward the left flank of the King's army. The shieldmaidens had spread out through the Host, many going to bolster the numbers of Grimbold's company. But a couple of the women who had joined her from Dunharrow waited near her among Éomer's éored, their faces just as pale and drawn as she imagined hers to be. But there was a light of resolve in their eyes, and a growing flush of courage returning to their cheeks as their initial shock faded. Hilde's own heart was beginning to thrum in anticipation. Beside her Willa sat firm, her eyes sparking intensely with daring as her black mare shifted eagerly. Hilde couldn't help but think that this was a woman born for battle. Between her own legs, she could feel Windfola quivering with his own mix of anticipation and fear. He had nearly shied away when the legions of orcs had come into sight, but Hilde's firm hand had steadied him. He trusted her, and now he stood steady, even though she could see his eyes rolling with alarm at the yowls and cries that drifted up from the dark masses before them.

Just ahead the King was riding along the front lines, his orders echoing to his Marshals before he turned his voice to his army. The sun was broaching the horizon and burning through the grim grey clouds as he called out, bathing the King and the fields beyond in golden light. Beneath Théoden, Snowmane seemed almost to dance, his elegant head high as his white coat gleamed in living embodiment of the banners held high above him. As the King drew Herugrim, spears throughout the ranks began lowering. Hilde's breath nearly caught in her throat, her heart hammering as she knew the moment of the charge drew near. Not far ahead of where Hilde waited Éomer sat proudly on Firefoot, his dark eyes scanning the ranks of his éored. His eyes caught hers for a moment, something passing between them. She wasn't sure if it was mutual worry, a silent affirmation of their feelings or some mix of that and more, but it steadied Hilde's nerves, somehow calming her in the face of what was sure to come.

Théoden King was riding along the lines, his sword clattering against the lowered spears. Hilde's grip tightened on her own spear, dropping the gleaming tip in readiness. Beneath her helmet a bead of sweat trickled down her temple, and her shield hung heavy over her knee. Her right knee was beginning to ache from so long in the saddle, and her mail weighed on her still sore shoulder. But as the King rode by, his voice still rising over the ranks, she found her discomfort melting away.

"Ride now," he cried, stirring the heart of every rider, "ride now, ride, ride for ruin, and the world's ending!" Of its own volition, Hilde found her voice joining the cries around her, all fear drowning and forgotten amid the rapturous chorus of voices rising behind the King. The same burning rhapsody that had coursed through her veins during the final Charge of the Hornburg was fanned to life again in her belly. In the back of her mind, as the horns of the Rohirrim echoed over the plains, she could almost swear she heard the Horn of the Hammerhand reverberating through the very marrow of her bones.

"Forth Eorlingas!" With that final cry the lines crept forward, their momentum building until Hilde felt they might as well be flying over the fields before them, surging toward the orc lines. Even as arrows began raining down on them, and riders and horses alike began to fall, still they charged. In this moment, nothing, not fear, nor pain nor the prospect of death could stop the Lines of Rohan, possessed as they were with fury and valor. Beneath Hilde, Windfola's powerful legs ate up the distance, his muscles coiling and pulling as a furious whinny escaped his chest, all fear forgotten. Beside her, Hilde could swear Willa was laughing as she raised her spear, her dark mare racing ahead without faltering.

With a roar like thunder, they crashed through the lines of Mordor.

***

Even as she sat on Windfola's back Hilde could feel her muscles beginning to quiver with exhaustion, while Windfola's heaving sides were drenched with sweat, foam and blood. More than that, the fear that she had nearly forgotten lingered beneath her battle-fever was reemerging, haunting her as she looked over the churned mess that was now the fields of Pelennor.

Off to her left, the carcass of a mûmak lay where it fell, a blanket of arrow shafts covering its belly where they had barely been able to pierce its thick hide. Like many of her people, she had barely believed in the existence of such creatures, so when a line of the beasts had appeared at the edge of the battlefield her panic had nearly broken through her courage, threatening to choke her with terror.

The lines of Mordor had shattered with the charge of the Rohirrim, falling like sheaves of wheat before the oncoming wall of hooves and spears and for a brief, golden moment it had seemed that the day was won. But then the Haradrim had joined the fight with their giant tusked beasts of war. Somehow, amid the panic growing within her countrymen, the lines were reformed.

And they had nearly been slaughtered as the orcs had been.

Yet even as the Rohirrim fell in droves, they managed to hold their own, somehow taking down several of the mûmakil with what seemed to Hilde a little like pure luck. It had been chaos.

She still wasn't entirely sure how she had managed to stay alive. Somehow she had made it through nearly unscathed. The shoulder she had injured at the Hornburg ached fiercely, and she could feel from the way her gloves caught on her knuckles that her newly healed hands were split and scraped again, and one of her fingers possibly broken. But other than that she had sustained only bruises and minimal cuts and abrasions as compared to Helm's Deep. She had been very lucky. Twice she had nearly been crushed by the enormous feet of a mûmak, and had only just missed being swiped from Windfola's back by a spiked and bladed tusk. She had watched with horror as horses had their legs cut out from under them as the mûmakil used the lengths of spike-woven ropes strung between their tusks to terrible effect. Her heart had swelled with pride when she saw her husband's spear kill one of the mûmak's riders, the falling body pulling the beast to crash into one of its companions with bone-shattering force. But it was a pride that was short-lived, for the battle called for every scrap of her focus. Barely moments later, she had used up the last of the arrows she had in her quiver helping to bring down another of the red and black painted monsters among the small host that had rallied around Éomer.

It was not long after that that she had lost sight of her Marshal in the dust and clamor of the battle. Again her panic had nearly blinded her, but an oncoming wave of Haradrim had jolted the fear from her, rousing her back to the fight at hand. The battle itself had begun to blur into a single stream of flashing swords and flowing blood after that. She couldn't even guess at the number of orcs and Haradrim she killed, and she honestly couldn't even care to know. Even in the relative silence that had descended over the plains as the fighting ceased, she could still hear battle cries and the screams of horses and men and the shrieks of orcs echoing in her ears.

But for every small victory the Rohirrim had gained they lost far more. What had remained of the lines had soon broken and the Rohirrim no longer quite fought together, instead fighting just to stay alive, as they were soon overwhelmed. And then the Nazgul had descended to join the fight.

Had Lord Aragorn and the Armies of the Dead not arrived when they had...

If Hilde had thought the sight of the legions of orcs or the line of mûmakil had been a sight beyond any she had seen, she had no words for the feeling that had risen through her at the sight of an army of ghosts. Quick and ethereal-looking as smoke over the water they had swept across the field of battle, decimating the hoards of orcs and Haradrim like an iron fist. She hadn't been sure whether to cheer or scream.

With their arrival the battle had been won in what felt like a heartbeat.

Now she merely wandered, a feeling of emptiness growing in her chest as exhaustion threatened to consume her. She had long since pulled her helmet from her head, the cool breeze threading comfortingly through her tangled and sweat-plastered hair. There were so few riders left. Even amid the emptiness, she could feel a crushing fear emerging through it, the sour taste of bile rising in her throat. She hadn't seen Éomer since the arrow-laden mûmak had fallen. She hadn't seen Éowyn at all. For all she knew, everyone she loved who had ridden into this battle was gone, save her. Desperate tears surged forth, threatening to fall as she urged Windfola to keep going. Despite his own exhaustion he did, though his head was low and his pace slow.

Then he stopped, simply halting in his tracks, his noble head lowering. Looking down, Hilde could not hold back her tears any longer.

It was Willa, her eyes closed and her helmet askew as she lay where she fell on the churned up ground. Her sword was still clutched tight in her hand, and a triumphant smile curved her lips, her pale face still laughing even as the orcs' black-fletched arrows had pierced her body. Hilde couldn't breath anymore, sobs trying to escape her chest. She was so lost in grief for her friend that she almost didn't notice the soft calling of her name.

Windfola shifted half-heartedly as Firefoot leaned into him and Hilde was barely able to turn her head before Éomer's arm circled around her shoulders. She only half comprehended the incessant wordless murmurs of thanks that half escaped from his lips, likely only because the fear in her chest had eased as she realized that it was, in fact, him. Relief rushed through her in tired waves as she leaned into him, not caring at the way his helmet was digging into her cheek or the way her pauldron pinched her arm as she awkwardly embraced him back. He was safe and whole and beside her. In that moment, she didn't care about anything else. They had made it through.

Eventually, though, her vision cleared as her tears ceased, and her eyes once again roamed the field before her. Not long after that they pulled apart, silently urging their horses forward to continue their wandering of the field side by side. They didn't stop again until they both spied a familiar horse lying with his pale legs splayed before him, his rider pinned and lifeless beneath him.

At her side Éomer's body seized as understanding crashed in upon him. Hilde reached out, clutching her husband's hand as he looked down in grieved silence at the still face of his uncle. Soundless tears had begun streaming down his face as he held onto her hand like a lifeline, his grip painfully tight as his jaw clenched. She did not mind the pain in the slightest, for it was still a kinder ache than the one growing in her heart. She didn't have the words to console him as she knew she should. Everything she thought of seemed woefully inadequate.

"Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended,"* she finally whispered, the words to the ancient song flowing from her lips even as she wished for the right thing to say, "giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende on Meduselde þæt he ma no wære."** At her side, Éomer's head bowed as he struggled to regain control, his shoulders trembling.

Just off of in the distance she saw Aragorn and the wizard Gandalf approaching, their faces solemn and knowing as they looked on at the scene of grief from afar. Not far away the headless carcass of one of the winged beasts lay where it fell. As she looked back to the King, she noticed that Snowmane's body was torn and his flesh shredded; they were the marks of an immense set of jaws that marred his white coat. Hilde understood now what had drawn the Nazgul's beast to the ground. She had been a fair distance away when the huge black-winged creature had swooped down upon the field. Only it hadn't risen again. Then she hadn't given it much thought beyond relief that she no longer had to worry about watching for its monstrous shadow. Now she knew why. Someone had slain the beast for killing her King. A faint glimmer of approval flickered through her at the thought.

A faint movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention then. A lone horse was limping slowly along across the battlefield in the shadow of one of the mûmak carcasses, his head low and tired as he laboriously picked his way among the strewn corpses of men and orcs and other horses. A surge of energy went through her; she'd recognize her horse anywhere.

Before she had even realized she had done it, she had pulled her fingers from Éomer's, and was urging Windfola toward Folca, his name on her breathless lips as she stumbled from the chestnut's back. It looked like he had fallen hard on his back hip, as great scuffs of dirt and mud caked his flank over the leg he was favouring. Other than that he looked unhurt, his ears perking up and a happy nicker coming from his throat as her arms closed around his broad neck. But even as she breathed soothing words to him, the feeling of dread that had flamed to life again in her chest when she saw him intensified. Her hands closed around his dangling reins, looking him straight in the eye.

"Folca, where's Éowyn..." No sooner had she spoken than a heart-breaking cry of anguish echoed behind her. Her blood went cold, feeling like it was freezing in her very veins. Instinctively she knew. Everything after that seemed to happen in slow motion, each heartbeat lasting a lifetime. Slowly Hilde turned, afraid what she was going to see.

Éomer had been following her toward Folca, only a flash of flaxen hair stirred by the wind had caught his eye even as Folca had caught Hilde's. As Hilde turned toward his tormented bellow he was falling to his knees, pulling Éowyn's deathly still form into his arms and cradling her as his cries of grief tore from his throat.

His helmet rolled forgotten at his side.

Hilde hadn't even realized she was moving before she found herself falling to her own knees in front of him, reaching out only to find she couldn't quite manage to touch them. It was as though the grief and guilt that surged through her at the sight of her friend had built an impenetrable wall between her and the siblings.

She might as well have not even been there for all that Éomer seemed to notice her. His cries had stilled, his face lowered as he curled around his sister's body, rocking her as his shoulders heaved and shook. Her own sobs tearing through her chest, Hilde finally managed to break through the guilt that held her back, tentatively taking Éowyn's gloved hand in her own, pressing it to her cheek.

But there was a flutter, a spasm beneath her fingers. Starting, Hilde pulled back, her sobs hiccupping in her throat. Éowyn had moved. She looked up, meeting Éomer's grief-maddened gaze. Not wanting to let go of her friend's hand, she needed to use her teeth to remove one of her gloves, but as soon as she had her hand was on Éowyn's cheek. Her friend's skin was cool, and held the pallor of death, but there was the faintest of movements beneath her shadowed lids and every now and then her chest would move with the weakest of breaths.

"Éomer, she's alive," she barely choked the words out, but it wasn't enough. A faint moan of sorrow was coming from her husband's chest as his eyes focused blindly on his sister. He was so lost to his grief that he didn't understand. Dropping Éowyn's hand she grabbed his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. "She lives!"

It was still barely more than a whisper but this time he heard her, his whole body tensing before all strength seemed to leave him, nearly letting Éowyn slide from his arms. He recovered quickly though, gathering his sister close again. Hilde turned, her eyes searching the field around them before her eyes landed on precisely whom she sought.

"Aragorn," she rasped, not sure at first if she could even manage a shout, but she tried again. This time her voice was louder, hoarse and trembling, but louder. "Lord Aragorn, Gandalf, please—she's alive." The more she called out the stronger her voice got. They must have seen something change before Hilde even began calling out, because Aragorn was already picking his way across the field toward them. As soon as he heard her cry, though, his pace quickened with urgency. In an instant he was huddled around Éowyn with them, his practiced hands roaming Éowyn's face and throat, examining her. He sighed heavily.

"She is very badly wounded. There is a dark magic here beyond mere injury," he murmured.

"Thus is the reign of the Lord of Angmar ended," came a low voice behind them. The three surrounding Éowyn turned, looking to Gandalf where he stood nearby. He was looking down to a twisted black mass of metal and cloth at his feet. In his hand he held a Rohirric sword, its blade charred black and twisted.

"That's Éowyn's sword," Hilde blurted out when she saw the wizard holding it; no matter the damage she still recognized it. The White Wizard looked to her, his gaze deep and fathomless. After a moment he nodded slowly.

"She killed the Witch King, the Lord of the Nazgul, and is even now likely poisoned by his dying breaths." Hilde turned back to Éomer as the wizard spoke, her eyes wide with a profound astonishment that matched the expression surfacing on his grief-clouded features. She almost couldn't breath for the awe that had risen in her chest. Beside them Aragorn sighed heavily as he too processed what Gandalf said, understanding lighting in his eyes as he grew thoughtful.

"The Black Shadow," he said quietly. Hilde searched his face for answers. Éomer's gaze had dropped back to his sister's pale features, his gloved fingers tenderly brushing back her tangled and dirtied hair. His strong features were still twisted with grief, but Hilde could see there was hope beginning to surface in his eyes.

"Can you help her? Please, can you save her?" The Heir of Elendil looked to Hilde and then Éomer, who still hadn't looked up. Slowly he nodded, though his expression was still grave.

"I will try."

***

* An evil death has set forth the noble warrior.

** A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels in Meduseld that he is no more

Both from "The Funeral of Théodred," in The Two Towers, sung by Miranda Otto in the films.    

A/N: Thanks for reading!

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