The sun rose, casting a pale light over the battlefield as the Rohirrim lined up against the horizon, their banners fluttering in the chill morning wind. The sound of hooves striking the earth echoed through the valley as the horsemen prepared to advance. Theoden, King of Rohan, sat tall in his saddle, his gaze sweeping over his assembled riders and the dark tide of orcs waiting below. The heavy stillness was broken only by the distant clamor of the enemy preparing for war.

Eowyn, her disguise as a warrior holding firm, knelt beside Merry, her arm resting protectively on his shoulder. She smiled, though her eyes betrayed her nerves.

"Courage, Merry," she said softly, her voice steady despite the chaos to come. "Courage for our friends."

Merry swallowed hard, nodding, his hands tightening around the hilt of his sword. "For our friends," he echoed, finding strength in her resolve.

On the other side of the field, the Orc ranks surged and jostled as Gothmog, their brutish commander, barked orders. His twisted face twisted further in a snarl.

"Form ranks, you maggots! Form ranks!" he roared, his voice carrying above the din. "Pikes in front! Archers behind! Hold the line!"

The chaos of the Orcs contrasted starkly with the disciplined silence of the Rohirrim. Theoden turned in his saddle, addressing his commanders with a calm authority that seemed to still the air itself.

"Éomer, take your Éored down the left flank," he commanded, his voice firm and unyielding.

Éomer raised his sword in acknowledgment. "Flank ready!" he replied, his face resolute.

"Gamling, Háma—follow the King's banner down the center. Grimbold, take your company to the right once you pass the wall."

Each leader nodded, their expressions grim yet determined. Theoden straightened in his saddle, his voice rising in a rallying cry.

"Forth, and fear no darkness!" he shouted, his words carrying to every rider. "Arise! Arise, Riders of Théoden! Spears shall be shaken, shields shall be splintered! A sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!"

The soldiers lowered their spears in unison, their movements precise, practiced. The Rohirrim were ready. On the other side, the Orcs hefted their pikes into defensive positions, a wave of black iron bristling like thorns.

Eowyn leaned close to Merry once more, her voice gentle amid the rising tension. "Whatever happens, stay with me," she said, her gaze locking with his. "I'll look after you."

Merry, heartened by her words, managed a small smile. He turned his head, glancing at the line of warriors surrounding him—men and women united in their determination to protect all they held dear.

Theoden rode along the front of his ranks, his sword glinting in the sunlight as he ran its edge along the waiting spears. The sound was sharp and clear, a promise of the battle to come.

"Ride now!" he cried, his voice rising to a roar. "Ride for ruin and the world's ending!"

"Death!" shouted the army, their cry echoing across the battlefield.

"Death!" Theoden echoed, his sword raised high.

"Death!" the Rohirrim roared in unison, the word shaking the very air.

"Forth Eorlingas!" Theoden commanded, and the horns of Rohan sounded a clarion call.

The army began to move, their horses stepping forward in perfect synchrony. Slowly, the pace increased, hooves pounding harder against the earth as they broke into a gallop. The thunder of their charge drowned out all other sounds, the ground trembling beneath their fury.

Gothmog squinted at the approaching host, his cruel smile faltering. "Fire!" he bellowed, and the orc archers released their arrows.

Some riders fell, their bodies crashing to the ground in a grim testament to the price of war. Yet the Rohirrim did not falter. They pressed on, their ranks closing swiftly, their charge relentless.

"Fire!" Gothmog screamed again, his voice edged with panic as the riders surged closer.

"Charge!" Theoden roared, his blade gleaming as he led the way.

The Orc archers loosed another volley, arrows slicing through the air. Yet it was not enough. The tide of riders bore down on them, unstoppable.

"Fire at will!" Gothmog shrieked, his face contorting with fear as the Rohirrim closed the final distance.

Some Orcs, their courage failing, began to break ranks and flee. The rest stood frozen, their pikes trembling in unsteady hands.

The clash was cataclysmic. The Rohirrim smashed into the Orc lines with the force of a tidal wave, swords and spears cutting through the enemy ranks. Chaos reigned as the horsemen struck right and left, their blades flashing, their war cries drowning out the screams of the dying.

Gothmog watched in horror as his army crumbled before him, the disciplined might of the Rohirrim scattering his forces like chaff in the wind. Theoden rode at the head of his warriors, his sword cutting a path through the darkness, a beacon of hope in the storm of battle.

The day had begun with despair, but now it burned with the light of defiance.