The sun was still low on the horizon as the camp of the Rohirrim began to stir. The bustle of soldiers packing up gear and saddling horses filled the air with the sharp sounds of hooves, clinking metal, and low voices. Theoden, King of Rohan, emerged from his tent, the fabric parting to reveal the strong figure of a leader ready for battle. Behind him rode Eomer, his nephew and captain of the Riders of Rohan, and Haldir, the elf from Lothlórien, whose silent presence seemed to add an eerie grace to the scene.

"We must ride light and swift," Theoden said, his voice carrying a heavy resolve. "It is a long road ahead, and man and beast must reach the end with the strength to fight."

Eomer nodded solemnly, his face set in a mask of grim determination. Haldir said nothing, but his gaze swept across the camp, alert, ever watchful. They mounted their horses and the trio began to ride through the camp, their movement fluid and practiced, like a wave parting through the sea of warriors preparing for the day.

Theoden's eyes scanned the camp, briefly settling on the familiar face of Merry, standing off to the side, looking small amidst the sea of riders preparing for battle. Theoden's horse slowed as he neared the hobbit, his sharp voice cutting through the air.

"Little Hobbits do not belong in war, Master Meriadoc," Theoden said, his tone blunt, yet not unkind. He had seen the small folk's bravery in the past, but the idea of a hobbit riding into such a conflict unsettled him.

Merry, who had been watching his friends get ready to depart, looked up at the king with determination in his eyes. "All my friends have gone to battle, sire," Merry said, his voice unwavering despite the weight of Theoden's words. "I would be ashamed to be left behind."

Theoden's expression softened for a moment, but the gravity of the situation was not something to be taken lightly. "It is a three-day gallop to Minas Tirith," he said, his gaze piercing. "None of my riders can bear you as a burden. You are small and untested, Master Merry. This is no place for you."

"I want to fight," Merry replied, his words sharp and filled with frustration. "I want to fight, with all my heart. I am no burden."

Theoden stared at him for a long moment, considering the hobbit's words. His face was firm, resolute, but there was a flicker of something softer beneath the command.

"I will say no more," he said finally, turning his horse away with a swish of his cloak. The sound of hooves pounding on the earth resumed as he rode off, leaving Merry standing there, his heart heavy. The hobbit watched Theoden's retreating form, his body still as stone, a sense of isolation settling over him. His friends—Pippin, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Liv and David—had all gone to war. What was he to do, alone in the shadow of such greatness?

As the Rohirrim began to move out, Eomer called out orders, his voice ringing with authority. "Form up! Form up! Move out!" The soldiers around him sprang into action, taking their places in the formation.

But it was then that a rider, swift and sure, approached Merry from behind. Before he could react, a strong hand gripped his collar and yanked him up into the saddle before the rider's horse. He was momentarily stunned, and as he caught his breath, he looked up to find Eowyn, the shieldmaiden of Rohan, seated confidently in the saddle.

"Ride with me," she said, her voice low and firm, with no hint of hesitation. Her eyes met his, full of something like pity, but also of understanding.

"My lady," Merry said, surprise and gratitude flooding his words. He had not expected this, but he did not resist. He would take any chance he could to prove himself.

"Hold tight," Eowyn commanded, and they were off, galloping swiftly through the camp, a blur of movement amongst the mass of Rohirrim riders. The roar of hooves filled the air as the forces of Rohan moved as one, preparing for their journey to the besieged city of Minas Tirith.

Eomer, leading the column, shouted out again, his voice commanding, "Form up! Move out!" His gaze fell briefly on Merry and Eowyn, but he said nothing more, for they were now part of the battle's preparations.

Ahead of them, Theoden's steed led the charge, his voice cutting through the air with a final command: "Ride! Ride now, to Gondor!"

Merry held tightly to Eowyn, feeling the power of the horse beneath him and the urgency in the air. The world seemed to blur as they rode forward, a thousand soldiers behind them, all bound for a war that would decide the fate of Middle-earth.

The scene shifted, and the sounds of the Rohirrim marching faded into the ominous march of darkness. The ground trembled as the siege towers of the Orcs, enormous and looming, began their advance toward Minas Tirith. Trolls, huge and imposing, pounded on war drums, sending eerie echoes through the land. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and the promise of destruction.

Far away, Theoden and his riders galloped with unyielding resolve, and the forces of Gondor braced themselves for the coming storm. The battle was about to begin.