This is an extreme first-person angst one-shot from the POV of Helm Hammerhand's daughter, set moments after Fréaláf retakes Edoras. I was considering making it a full length story, but decided against it. If any of you feel up to taking on so much angst, feel free!

I have never tried anything remotely like this, and am interested to hear what you think. Criticism will be highly appreciated.

Disclaimer: All belongs to Tolkien. I have attempted to stay as true to his legendarium as possible while taking liberties with his history and characters. The fate of Helm's daughter is not mentioned by Tolkien, nor is any prior relationship between her and Wulf.

"The Rohirrim were defeated and their land was overrun; and those who were not slain or enslaved fled to the dales of the mountains. Helm was driven back with great loss from the crossings of Isen and took refuge in the Hornburg and the ravine behind (which was after known as Helm's Deep). There he was besieged. Wulf took Edoras and sat in Meduseld and called himself king. There Haleth Helm's son fell, last of all, defending the doors."

"Then Fréaláf, son of Hild, Helm's sister, came down out of Dunharrow, to which many had fled; and with a small company of desperate men he surprised Wulf in Meduseld and slew him, and regained Edoras."

-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings Appendix A; The House of Eorl

I do not cry.

My world is broken around me; torn, bloodied, and crushed into the barren ground of my beloved homeland. Yet I do not cry. My heart is broken, my soul is icy, and my tears are frozen.

I have shed no tears throughout the long months the Dunlendings have ravaged my home and my people.

I did not weep as I watched them march out to kill my father and brothers. On that day I rejoiced in fact, vainly hoping that they might never return, giving my starving people a chance at survival. Not that it was much of a chance – our crops were destroyed, our stores consumed, and our men cut down. But at least we could have died in peace.

I did not weep as I helped to bury the emancipated bodies of my people: the tiny forms of babies, hardly given one breath before their lives were taken and the battered bodies of women and children. The ground was hard and icy that winter and digging was difficult; we had many dead and few strong enough for such work. We piled them in shallow graves, their lives passing unmarked, and their names forgotten.

I am not a hard woman. I have never been hard. My brothers used to tease me for being so soft hearted when I cried over the soft, bloodied bodies of rabbits they brought home. I have always cried easily. And I grieved for my people, mourning for them and remembering every one in my heart until it broke from the weight of it all. But tears no longer came to wash away my grief.

I leave the city sometimes, walking for miles into the wild. I stand alone on a hilltop and scream, screaming my grief, my loss, my anger, and my pitiful defiance of it all until all my breath is gone. Then I fall on my knees and listen to the silence, staring up at the distant stars. They stare back at me, remote, cold, heartless.

Then I stumble home, empty, back to my ruined hall.

I was not always like this.

I had loved him once, the murderer of my people, with his sparkling dark eyes and dazzling smile. Wulf was a Dunlending, and my father had distrusted him and banished him from the Golden Hall. I wept as he left, and he had vowed that he would always remember me, that someday he would return for me.

And he had.

He had returned with a bloody sword in his hand, an army of Dunlendings at his heels, and he had smiled that beautiful smile of his and told me that he had done it all for me.

We were only children when we had promised to love one another forever, until the world's end. He told me that he still loved me, and sometimes I believed him. Yet I was very different from the girl he had known as a child. I had grown and changed, and he didn't realise that.

Sometimes I would ask myself if I still loved him. I decided long ago that it didn't really matter.

And now? Now, his hands are stained with blood, the blood of my people mingled with his own. His body lies broken before me, stiff and unmoving. I drop to my knees beside him in the warm dust of the street, and I ask myself if the grief in my heart means that I did love him, after all?

And once again I tell myself that it doesn't really matter.

I lift his head and remove his helmet, laying it beside me. His hair is tangled and damp with sweat, and my fingers slip through it, combing out the tangles, smoothing the dark strands.

Men move about me, calling to each other, others yelling in loud voices. Horses snort, and women and children pour into the streets cheering for their 'deliverers'. I want to scream at them, to make them show some respect for the dead littering our streets. I want silence. I want some acknowledgement of the blood spilled here, the lives lost. I want it all to just - stop. Just for a moment.

Is that too much to ask?

The Dunlendings are gone, hewn down, their blood staining the dirt beneath me. We have been avenged for the death of our families, for the ill-treatment we suffered. Yet all that has been achieved is more death, more killing. How is that a cause for celebration?

I reach forward and touch the face of the man, my enemy, feeling the death chill seeping through his skin. His cheek is cold and leathery despite the heat of the morning sun, a hint of stubble rough against my fingers.

His face is clenched, hate twisting his features. His eyes are dark and staring, a film of dust already coating them.

I remember when those dark eyes danced with youth and adventure as two children explored the Golden Hall together, running barefoot through the passages, his laughter echoing around me.

I remember when those eyes clouded with tears as he stood beside the bodies of his companions, and the way his eyes had met mine. He had turned his face away, trying to hide his grief, trying to appear strong and untouchable.

I remember the light in his eyes as his warm lips met mine, the way he held me like he'd never let go and told me that he loved me, more than anything.

I remember the steady resignation in his eyes as he had watched the Rohirrim approaching and the weariness in his step as he had descended the steps of Meduseld to meet them, summoning his Dunlendings with a blast of his horn.

I remember the loathing in his dark eyes as he stared at his great blade, gleaming in the sunlight. The blade of his father, the blade that had hewn the bodies of my brothers, my people. The blade that now lies broken beside me.

I lift it in both hands, feeling the warm, dark blood coating the hilt dribble through my fingers. I lay it on his chest, lifting his stained hands to rest on the hilt.

He had not marched with the Dunlendings to the Hornburg. He said that he was sick of the killing, that he did not want to witness more destruction. So he stayed in the Golden Hall while his men marched. Yet his sleep was haunted.

I begged him then to spare my father and the last of those in the Hornburg, yet he refused. My father would never rest until the men who brought his destruction were dead, Wulf told me. He said that he didn't want that. He had to get the fighting over with. So that we can have peace, he said.

He once told me that he was sorry for the destruction, the blood, the violence, the killing. He told me that one day he would take up his sword and cast it into the Snowborne, watching as the river swept it away to the sea, its edges twisting and blunting on the rocks, and the dark blood washed clean from its every crevice.

Then he would jump in after it.

It was an enticing picture, and one I have never forgotten. The river is icy in the spring, and I shiver as I imagine myself falling toward it, breaking the surface and submerging in its blue depths, tumbled along in its irresistible currents and washed clean.

A man silently halts beside me. I ignore him for a while, but can not help studying his boots from the corner of my eye. They are heavy and rough, stained dark with mud and sun and worn with use.

I raise my head to glance at his face and meet eyes as blue as my own. It is Fréaláf, my cousin. I recognise him instantly, although it is years since I have seen him. I thought he had been killed by the Easterlings. Apparently not.

My eyes drop again to my stained hands.

He kneels beside me and takes my hands in his own. His hands are rough from labour and as sticky with blood as my own.

"You are no longer alone, cousin," he tells me softly.

His words take me by surprise, and I lift my head, staring at him. I wish I could believe his words. How does he know what I feel, the isolation I have felt through all the months here with my family's murderer? Were my emotions so evident in my eyes?

He silently pulls me into his arms and holds me against his chest, his strong arms wrapping around me. For a moment I try to resist, but find that I haven't the strength. His shirt is rough against my cheek; it smells of dust and sweat. I lie weakly against him, drained and exhausted. The strength of his arms about me is strangely comforting, and I decide to believe him. For the first time in months I feel completely relaxed. I no longer have to bear it all on my own.

It is all over. All gone.

Only memories remain.

I remember when I held a small boy so, as his mother was buried, held him close to my chest as he wept uncontrollably.

I remember when Wulf held me so and told me that he was sorry, that he loved me, that he had done it all for me.

I remember when my father used to hold me so, my great, strong father whom I had thought capable of no wrong.

Tears sting my dry eyes and I weep.

My tears drip down onto my bloody hands, making clear trails through the crimson, slowly washing them clean.