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Háma son of Helm is many things, and there are many things he is also not.
His singing can bring every man, woman and child in his Father’s hall to tears, and yet sometimes he loves nothing more than making up silly verses to tease his siblings and cousin with.
He is a dutiful son, a steadfast brother.
(A dutiful heir now, perhaps the future King of Rohan, a voice whispers in his head... but fresh grief wells up so suddenly he cannot stand to finish the thought.)
He is not the kind of warrior Haleth is—that he was. Any match of them in the ring only ever ended one way, though Háma has never failed to learn something in the losing. Or perhaps Haleth has never failed to teach something while winning.
But the House of Eorl does still not idle warriors make. There is not a man or woman in Edoras who can outmatch Háma with a bow, and perhaps only a dozen across all the Mark who could hope to. And that is on horseback, as all Eorlingas who wish to call themselves archers must do so from their mount’s back, of course—even if that mount is as gentle and placid as his dear old girl.
Here, now, with both feet planted firmly on the ground, the brutal glow of burning Edoras giving him light, and a clear long line of sight towards his pursuers, Háma son of Helm can outshoot anyone.
(In his chest is a beast howling for vengeance. His hands have never been so steady.)
He is many things—but neither a coward nor a fool, and so his first arrow slides into Wulf’s throat with the same ease as the Dunlending arrow did in Haleth’s.
He is not close enough to see the look on his foe’s face but he prays it’s full of shock and pain and thwarted triumph. His second arrow hits one of the guards even as he steps aside to evade the arrow the other guard has hastily sent his way. Four men pursuing, and only one thought to use a bow.
(Perhaps it is the very same man that felled Haleth, or it is someone else entirely. Háma rewards him with an arrow through the slit in his skull mask all the same.)
The fourth and last rider reins in his mount, pausing some feet away. It is General Targg, an unreadable expression on his face. He is still far enough away that Háma will be able to loosen two or three well-aimed arrows if the man decides to abandon all sense and charge.
“Only death awaits for you this way, traitor,” Háma calls, a fourth arrow in hand. Wulf’s plan this night, which has cost them Edoras, which has cost them Haleth, must in part have been made by this man too, and something fell and angry curdles in his words. “Long have you served with us. You must know that as surely as spring will come, no true man of Rohan will suffer Wildmen roaming the heart of our lands for long.”
Targg tilts his head. “And yet, for now Edoras still burns, and for now even your father’s Golden Hall is falling to ruins,” he finally responds, voice raised to cut across the distance.
Háma laughs. “Our wealth has always been our people and our horses. You have merely burned some wood, and at such a high price besides. Tell me, who shall sit your stolen throne of ashes now, in ruined Meduseld?” There is no doubt in his mind that Wulf is dead—he has never missed a target when it matters.
(Except the once, when he failed to see the danger to Haleth in time, when there was a sword in his hand and not a bow to ward off disaster before it could strike—)
“Truly a warrior poet as has been said of you, Prince Háma,” Targg says. “And yet we are not the only ones who paid a high price tonight.”
The bow creaks in Háma’s grip. It is all the emotion he can allow himself to show at this. “Would you like to pay even more?” he somehow forces out through grit teeth and aims an arrow at the man’s face.
“…No, I think not,” Targg answers, shaking his head. “It would perhaps be best if we both go our ways for now, but don’t mistake that to mean—”
Háma shoots Targg’s horse. Even as it collapses, he whistles for one of the horses whose riders he felled earlier, and fortunately one of them—he had seen him lingering close by out of the corner of his eye—answers. He thinks he might be Wulf’s.
As he swings himself up into the saddle, he keeps a wary eye on Targg. The man is still trying to untangle himself from his fallen horse; one of his legs has gotten caught in an unlucky manner.
“Begone soon,” Háma calls, “or next I see you it shall be to the sun gleaming on helmets and the thundering of a thousand hooves.”
He turns the stolen horse away from his burning city and spurs him into a gallop. His girl will follow when she can. His heart bids him to catch up to his sister with all haste, to relieve at least one of the worries that must be clouding her mind right now, to see how Father is faring… but he cannot.
Héra is strong and will see to their people’s safe arrival to the Hornburg—and yet the stronghold is not properly manned or supplied so close to winter. If some of the Dunlendings attempt a siege in the hope of striking at Father, it might go poorly.
What Háma needs is more soldiers to make good on his words just now. And whatever Father might have said, Fréaláf has never been anything but dependable, and Háma knows exactly where to find his cousin.
(He leaves behind him the dimming glow of a burning city and the body of a would-be king with an arrow in his throat, and beyond that a brother who will never smile and clap his back again.
Let it be sung for an age that steadfast Haleth son of Helm died in defense of Meduseld, the last valiant defender at its doorstep. Let it be sung that his death was avenged quickly. Let it be sung that Háma son of Helm was many things, but he loved his brother, his family, and the Mark most of all.)