The Rohirrim had halted briefly beside a serene lake, its calm surface reflecting the soft, fading light of the evening. Soldiers busied themselves, tending to their horses and sharing quiet words in preparation for what lay ahead. The mood was somber, yet resolute.

From the distance, the sound of galloping hooves broke through the stillness. Éomer approached swiftly, his expression grim as he reined in his horse before King Théoden.

"The scouts report Minas Tirith is surrounded," Éomer announced, his voice tight with urgency. "The lower levels are in flames. Everywhere, legions of the enemy advance."

Théoden's face darkened, his eyes narrowing as he processed the news. After a beat, he nodded, his resolve hardening. "Time is against us. Make ready," he ordered.

Nearby, Éowyn sat with Merry, the two huddled together in an attempt to stave off the creeping chill of doubt. She glanced at the hobbit, her gaze softening as she saw his furrowed brow and the uncharacteristic slump of his shoulders.

"Take heart, Merry," Éowyn said gently, her voice like a soothing melody amidst the chaos. "It will soon be over."

Merry turned to her, his eyes glistening with a mixture of determination and sadness. He drew in a shaky breath before speaking, his words filled with earnest sincerity.

"My lady," he began, his voice barely above a whisper, "you are fair and brave, and you have so much to live for. There are many who love you, Éowyn." He paused, his gaze dropping to his hands as he wrung them nervously. "I know it's too late to turn aside. And I know... I know there's not much point in hoping now. But if I were a knight of Rohan, capable of great deeds..."

His voice faltered, and Éowyn leaned closer, her brow furrowing with concern.

"But I'm not," he continued, his tone filled with self-reproach. "I'm just a hobbit. I can't save Middle-earth. I know that. But I just... I just want to help my friends. Frodo, Sam, Pippin." He swallowed hard, his voice cracking. "More than anything, I wish I could see them again."

Éowyn reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, her grip firm yet comforting. "You are braver than you know, Merry," she said softly. "Sometimes, courage is not about great deeds. It's about standing firm, even when the world tells you to flee."

Before Merry could respond, the commanding voices of Théoden and Éomer carried over the camp.

"Prepare to move out!" Éomer called.

"Make haste," Théoden echoed, his tone brooking no delay. "We ride through the night!"

A soldier blew a horn, its mournful sound reverberating across the valley. The air seemed to hum with the collective resolve of the Rohirrim as they began to ready themselves for battle.

Merry glanced down at the half-eaten sandwich in his hands. With a sigh, he set it aside, his movements deliberate. He reached for his helmet, its weight feeling far heavier than it should. Placing it on his head, he rose to his feet and turned to Éowyn.

Éowyn, too, donned her helmet, her expression fierce and unyielding. She met his gaze, and for a brief moment, the two shared a silent understanding.

"To battle," she said, her voice steady.

Merry straightened his small frame, summoning every ounce of courage within him. "To battle," he echoed, his voice trembling but resolute.

Together, they stepped forward, ready to face the storm.