#ravame

Helm’s Deep was a monster of a fortress, though you wouldn’t know it at a glance.

Sarra had told me during our walk that over half of it was actually below ground, dug straight into the side of the mountain it was built against. But as Aragorn, Benvolio and I crested the final hill that brought the valley into view, the parts that were visible were breath stealing all on their own.

The Hornburg—the main fortress of Helm’s Deep—stood out from the sheer wall of the cliffs like the bow of a ship, its two levels and internal walls formed entirely from the same dark grey stone of the mountains. It had been built so that it was slightly raised above the valley it overlooked, the only access via a long, narrow causeway leading up to a set of heavy wooden gates.

Unless of course, you felt like scaling the enormous Deeping Wall that stretched literally from one side of the valley to the other, with only a thick steel grate at the base to let the stream flow through.

It wasn’t quite dusk yet, but the sun was hanging low enough in the sky to cast a forbidding red hue over the cliffs as we cantered past the empty trenches and ramparts.

One tiny, stupid part of me was almost reluctant to guide our Benvolio up the stone walkway towards the entrance, the intimidatingly huge walls of the citadel looming up over us like some kind of sleeping giant that would swallow you if you got too close.

But deep down, I knew exactly why I was truly reluctant to enter, and who I would face inside…

That feeling of dread quickly disappeared the moment the lookout guards began pointing and shouting all along the battlements. Eventually one had the presence of mind to bellow for the gates to be opened, and the colossal wooden doors began to swing outwards. Benvolio—who had carried us the entire way without so much as a snort of complaint—staggered inside before coming to a shaky stop only a few steps past the threshold. Tired soldiers and nervous refugees lining the walls of the first courtyard, all of them turning to watch open-mouthed as Aragorn slid off the horse (indecently spritely for someone who’d been on horseback all day, in my bruised opinion). I carefully swung my creaking legs off Benvolio’s back too, trying to ignore the clamouring, pointing people beginning to surround us, and immediately fell face as my knees gave out.

My annoyance at Aragorn’s supposed lack of exhaustion disappeared as he caught and steadied me.

“Can you stand?” He asked, no trace of judgment in his tone. He obviously knew how much the journey had taken out of me by how naturally quiet I’d been. It took a moment to properly get my feet under me, and even then they were barely steady enough.

“Yeah, just give me a second.”

He nodded, slipping an arm gently around my back. The action was partly to disguise the fact that he was still mostly holding me up from the growing crowds around us, but also to make sure I was the only one who could hear him whispering.

“Don’t say anything about what we saw. We must tell the king before anyone else.”

I nodded, trying to keep the look of dread off my face. The last thing we needed was to panic the civilians with the news of what was really coming our way.

A gale of furious shouting erupted suddenly from the back of the crowd, cutting off any reply I might have had. I couldn’t immediately see who it was coming from, but I’d have to guess. I’d have recognised that angry Dwarven baritone in a crowd of a million people all shouting at once.

“Where are they?! Get out of the way! Out of my way, I said! I’m going to bloody kill them!” Gimli was howling as he literally shoved his way through the crowd, almost kicking over a gawking young soldier when he didn’t move fast enough. Aragorn and I both just gawked as our resident dwarf appeared in the gap he’d created, his fuming, helm-less face almost as red as his beard…

And bloody hell, there were tears in his eyes.

“Gimli—?”

“You two are the stupidest,” he shouted, cutting me off and jabbing a thick finger at us with every ground-shaking step towards us, “the luckiest, canniest, and the most reckless pair of sodding lunatics I’ve ever known in all my days!”

I’d barely had time to draw air to spout some kind of fumbling apology before he drove into us, arms as strong as tree roots coming around to pull us into a hug so hard my breath left me all over again. “Bless the both of you bleeding basket cases!”

The embrace was clumsy, warm, and made every one of my bruises scream with protest, but it was by far the best thing he could have given me right then. I let my body fold over with the force of the hug, my arms automatically returning it as hard as I could.

Well, crap. Now there were tears in my eyes too.

“I’m so glad you’re ok,” I managed to mumble through the knot in my throat. Aragorn let out a soft laugh that I could hear the tired smile in, giving us both a comforting pat on the back.

“I too am glad to see you well, master dwarf,” he said softly, the weariness beginning to creep into his voice at long last. “Are the rest of you well?”

“Aye, for the most part,” Gimli answered, releasing us with some reluctance. “A few bumps, a few bruises. We all made here in one piece at least. But what by Mahal happened to you two fools?” He jabbed a finger straight at my face, his glare like stone. “And you, lass. What in the ‘byss were you doing in the middle of the bloodbath? And losing your knife, again!”

I suddenly had the unsettlingly familiar feeling of being scolded by an affection but exasperated kindergarten teacher.

“I—”

I didn’t get the chance to finish my train of thought, let alone my sentence because I suddenly felt a pair of familiar eyes on me, and turned to find an equally familiar face staring straight at me.

Though granted, not the one I was both hoping for, and dreading all at the same time.

Boromir was standing open-mouthed at the foot of the stone steps learning up to the upper battlements. He looked as if he had been awake far too long, and on his feet for even longer, and if the expression on his face was anything to go by, I either looked truly amazing or like I’d just crawled out of my own grave—probably the latter.

I felt myself give sheepish smile and an awkward little wave, and his face split into a wide, joyous smile. He pushed his way through the gap in the crowd far more gently than Gimli had, but the hug he wrapped around me was no less strong.

“We thought you both dead,” he mumbled quietly against the top of my head.

“It was a near miss,” I admitted, hugging him back as hard as my shaking arms were able before pulling back. He had a few new cuts and bruises from the warg fight but otherwise looked as healthy as I’d left him. If anything, there was a renewed spark in his eyes that I was sure I hadn’t seen before. “Are you alright?”

“Am I—?” He threw his head back and burst into a loud rumbling laugh, pulling me into another one-armed hug. “I’m quite well, you tiny madwoman. Next time, for once, worry about keeping yourself in one piece before fretting over protecting the rest of us.”

I couldn’t quite hide my surprise at the warmth of his reaction, but I also couldn’t hide the wide grin that came with it. I gave an exhausted but genuine laugh as I rested my forehead against his shoulder.

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

The Gondorian warrior released me and turned to face Aragorn with equal relief as he had shown me if a little more restrained. He clapped the ranger hard on the shoulder, the nearest battle-worn men like them ever seemed to get to an embrace, but they both looked genuinely pleased to see each other alive.

“We found the Orc who saw you go over. You have much explaining to do,” Boromir started to tell us, but Aragorn raised a hand to him.

“Later, right now we must see to Theoden, urgently.”

Both Boromir and Gimli’s faces fell at the severe tone of his voice.

“You saw something?” Gimli guessed, and Aragorn nodded, eyeing the surrounding crowds who were still shellshocked at the reappearance of two of the supposedly dead.

“On our way here. It’s imperative we’re all prepared.”

Boromir had taken one look at the expression on Aragorn’s face a nodded, immediately flagged down a couple of passing soldier. Less than a minute later Theoden’s lieutenant—who I recognised as Gamling—had appeared at the bottom of the steps leading to the second level. After a brief moment of shock at the sight of me and the ranger still alive and walking around, he started conversing in urgent, hushed tones with Aragorn and Boromir while the soldiers started dispersing the crowd and led a knackered Benvolio off toward the stables.

I couldn’t help but scan the crowd with a searching gaze as the curious soldiers and Edoras refugees started to lose interest and move away. I hadn’t intended to voice my thoughts as my eyes failed to find who I was searching for, but my mouth moved before I could stop it.

“Where’s—” I cut myself off, but Gimli saw the look on my face and knew instantly who I meant.

“He’s not here, lass,” he told me gently. My stomach dropped at the words, icy dread forcing its way past my flimsy composure.

“Oh God, he’s not—?!”

Gimli threw up his hands in a calming gesture.

“No, no, he’s alive,” he reassured, seemingly not at all surprised to see the fear on my face, “though I wouldn’t say he’s well, exactly. He’s assisting the women and children down into the caves.”

I felt my whole body sag in both tiredness and sudden relief.

He was alive, and helping. At least that meant he wasn’t injured. The weight that knowledge lifted from me was a surprise. I’d been so focused on keeping myself and Aragorn alive after our fall I hadn’t stopped to realise Boromir had been right—I had been worrying about them all. Not knowing whether they had been hurt in the fight, whether they were even alive…

I felt sudden, humiliatingly exhausted tears stinging the corners of my eyes, and I had to clench them shut to stop them falling.

Gimli cleared his throat and gave me a gruff pat on the shoulder.

“Here,” he said, reaching into his spare scabbard and withdrawing a familiar looking blade with a clumsily carved handle (now slightly stained with Orc blood). He took my hand and pressed the handle into my palm, pointing a warning finger straight into my face. “And I swear by Mahal, you lose this again and I’ll have the smithy weld it to your side.”

I hiccuped and laugh, and it was just what I needed to get myself under control again.

“I do have the worst luck with that knife,” I agreed, clutching it to my chest once before stowing it safely back in the sheath at my waist. “Thanks, Gimli.”

“Bah,” he waved me off, but I saw the smile lurking behind that beard.

Just then, a woman appeared out of the crowd still moving around us. I wouldn’t have otherwise noticed her, she blended into the other refugees so seamlessly in her dusty travelling clothes, wavy blond mane and tired look. But the moment she spotted us she made a bee-line straight for me, dark brown eyes intent.

“Pardon, m’lord and lady,” she said as soon as she was close enough, her voice holding a similar Rohirric accent to the one Sarra had. She still had her gaze fixed on me, eyes flicking occasionally up to my ears. “I don’t mean to intrude, but, you are the one called Eleanor?”

“Aye,” Gimli answered before I could even open my mouth, clapping a solid hand on my back and almost collapsing my spine. “This is she.”

The woman never looked away from me, and there was something uncannily familiar about her…

“M’lady Eleanor, my name is Etain,” she told me solemnly with a slight bow.

And suddenly I realised why I felt like I’d seen her before. Her hair might have been threaded with grey, but it was exactly the same as Eothain’s sandy blond. And her eyes mirrors of Freda’s warm brown.

“You’re Eothain and Freda’s mother,” I blurted stupidly, but she smiled, the expression weary but warm as a midsummer afternoon.

“That I am,” she confirmed. “My children tell me you are responsible for their lives.”

I fumbled for some kind of response, suddenly feeling—against all reason—truly embarrassed by the blunt statement that made me sound far more heroic that I was.

“I, well…”

She hugged me.

Crossing the small distance between us in one smooth stride, she wrapped me in an embrace so similar to my own mothers it almost floored me. I suddenly found myself fighting back the sting of tears a second time.

“Thank you,” Etain whispered, her own voice thick with her own unshed tears. “I am in your debt, m’lady. Thank you.”

I hesitated a bit before giving her a gentle pat on the back in acceptance of the hug, honestly unsure of how else I should react.

“You don’t owe me anything, Etain,” I told her gently. She released me and gave me a disbelieving look.

“Of course I do! You are the reason my son and daughter have not joined my husband in death.”

“I was… only doing my job,” I said feebly, and the overly humble reply seemed to amuse and please her because she beamed, taking both my filthy hands tightly in hers.

“Whatever your reason, should you need anything, any request I can grant, it is yours.”

“I—” I was about to try and deny that she should offer me anything, but something about the look in her eyes told me that refusing her graciousness would be deeply insulting. Or worse, ungrateful. So I swallowed the impulse, hoping I wasn’t too red-faced and ducked my head in a small bow. “Thank you, Etain. Where are Freda and Eothain anyway? Are they alright?”

“They are both well. Already safely down in the caves,” she said, a questioning glance from me to where Gimli had joined the grim conversation with Boromir, Aragorn and Gamling. “Will you be joining us, m’lady?”

I quickly promised her I would come and check on them once I’d seen to my companions. She’d just moved off towards the archways leading down to the catacombs below the keep when Aragorn appeared at my side again.

“Theoden is preparing the keep for defence. We must inform him of what we witnessed,” he said with a pointed glance at the retreating Etain and the other refugees. I blinked at him, more than a little surprised.

“You want me there too?”

Aragorn eyed me as if the answer was obvious.

“Of course. You saw them as clearly as I.”

“Likely clearer, depending on how hard you hit that river,” Gimli added dryly, to which Aragorn threw him a dirty glare. The dwarf simply smirked, clapping the ranger on the arm.

“Go. We will continue with the preparations. Come find us after,” Boromir urged.

So we left them to the refugees, making our way up towards the main hall of the keep in Gamling’s footsteps. I couldn’t help but peer back over my shoulder as we left, glancing at Boromir’s back as he assisted an elderly couple carrying their provisions towards the caves.

‘Something’s different about that one,’ Tink piped up from the back of my head, eyeing the smile the man offered his charges as they left. I made a silent noise of agreement, turning to catch up with Aragorn and Gamling.

‘How’s definitely a little closer to the old Boromir I remember.’

‘Not just that. He feels… lighter somehow. More so than even before Lothlórien,’ she told me seriously, though she didn’t sound displeased by the observation. I smiled to myself, suddenly glad to have that second voice echoing around the inside of my mind again.

‘Well, that wasn’t cryptic at all. Glad to have you back in the land of the living, Tink.’

‘Likewise, boss. Here’s a thought, let’s never do anything that again,’ she suggested in the driest tone I’d ever heard from her. I resisted the urge to chuckle aloud and give the watching refugees even more reason to stare as we passed.

‘Don’t hold your breath. We’ve still got an oncoming siege to survive, remember.’

‘Right, an army of badass monsters. It’s all coming back to me now…’

The rest of our silent conversation devolved to tension easing jokes as we moved up the keep towards the Hornburg’s main entrance.

If I’d been in any doubt before about the magnitude of the fortress from the outside, the climb up through its levels cleared it right up. The keep was laid out kind of like the tiers of a wedding cake the bottom one housing the front gate, lower courtyard, and the stables. The second was accessed via a curved set of wide stone steps that levelled out to hold the armoury, barracks, upper courtyard and entrance to the caverns. As we passed through the throngs of loitering refugees I spied what I assumed was the smaller rear gate of the keep, its door open to show the steep, winding stairway leading down to the gully behind the Deeping Wall. The final level rose up only a little higher than the second and was almost entirely devoted to the entrance to the king’s hall, the stone watch tower holding the horn of Helm Hammerhand looming up above it like a spear piercing the gap between the mountains. When we finally reached the doors to the main hall, Aragorn shoved them open onto a room the size and hight of a cathedral. Carved wooden arches and stone pillars made for a cavernous room, and at its centre, a war table had been set up—surrounded by grizzled, tired looking Rohan soldiers, and one stunned king.

The moment Theoden saw us standing in the entranceway he was out of his chair and striding around the table, passed his shocked advisors. He’d barely managed to utter a word before Aragorn started speaking over him, no time or patience left to stand on formalities.

We had one hell of a bomb to drop.

I was mostly content to stay quiet through the briefing as Aragorn filled everyone in on what was coming, only speaking up to confirm his descriptions and add in details of my own. Surviving the fall into the river, the journey to catch up with them, the army we’d seen: the king took it all in with a grim expression, the hand resting on the pommel of his sword flexing with agitation. When Aragorn finally finished telling them about the horde of sunlight resistant Uruk-hai marching with siege equipment an unsettling hush fell over the entire hall. I wasn’t even sure anyone was breathing.

“How many?” Theoden finally asked, piercing the silence.

“Ten thousand strong,” Aragorn answered.

“At least,” I added.

Theoden just stared at us, looking as if someone had just danced the foxtrot over his grave.

“Ten thousand…”

“They had the white hand of Saruman on their helms,” I told him, glancing around to see the king’s expression of shocked dread mirrored on almost all of his men. Aragorn made a sound of agreement.

“All of Isengard has emptied. They will be here by nightfall if they’ve kept their pace.”

Theoden looked as if he needed to sit down, but instead, he only hunched forward over the war table, resting heavily on his arms.

“Why?”

“It is an army raised for a single purpose;” Aragorn said without any preamble, or sugarcoating whatsoever. “Ending the race of Men.”

For what felt like minutes Theoden just stared at us across the war table, gauging the weight of Aragorn’s expressions and the consequences of the info-grenade we’d just thrown at him. Then he very obviously buried his own fear and dread, stood straight, and met the expectant looks of his men with renewed confidence.

“Then let them come. We shall be ready for them.”

The soldiers surrounding him didn’t quite appear to share in his confidence. Some of them even looked alarmed by it.

“My king, we do not have the numbers to fight that many,” one older captain with greying hair said.

“Even within the mouth of the valley we would be swarmed in minutes if we manned the ramparts,” another added.

Theoden ignored them all, leaning back over the war table to observe the map of the valley spread over it.

“We will do as we have done before. We endure the barrage from within the Hornburg as a cliff withstands the sea,” he told them, his tone brokering no argument. “We have enough supplies stored in the caverns to last us at least two weeks. This army will doubtless pillage and burn as they go. But homes can be rebuilt, crops resown. As long as we are within these walls we will withstand them.”

“Withstand them?” Aragorn repeated under his breath, and I think it was the first time I’d ever seen him truly lost for words. I was kind of stunned too. Had Theoden completely missed the part about them toting battering rams and thirty-foot scaling ladders?

“You really think an army raised and armed by a wizard will come unprepared to storm a keep?” I asked aloud before I could think better of it.

The king of Rohan looked up barely long enough to throw me the kind of look normally reserved for finding dog shite on the sole of your boot.

“I think, as King I know how to defend my own fortress from those who would see it burned to the ground, my lady,” he said, emphasising the title as if it was something beneath his concern.

I felt my temper flaring, the sudden urge to smack that expression off his face so great I was kind of glad for the sprawling table between us. Beside me, Aragorn was no better; looking as if he was about to burst a blood vessel.

“This horde does not march on us to destroy crops or building, they come with the will and means to wipe out its people,” he argued, stepping up so he was leaned over the opposite head of the war table from the king. “Your men are right. You cannot repel this threat alone. You must call for aid, my lord. Send out riders to your allies.”

Theoden fixed Aragorn with a toxic scowl.

“And who will answer us? The old Alliances are long dead, and if what you say is true, then there is no time left even if we did have the men to spare.” He shook his head, blond hair with its white streaks falling to hide the wavering confidence in his eyes. “No, we must devote all our resources to the keeps defence.”

“Gondor would answer if—” Aragorn started to argue, but was cut off as Theoden slammed a fist onto the table with a thunderous bang, making the candles flicker and several of the younger soldiers (plus me) jump in alarm.

“Gondor?!” He spat, eyes furious on the ranger. “Where was Gondor when my people cried out for aid as the Westfold burned? When our enemies closed in around us and families were murdered in their beds! Cloistered in an ivory city behind thick walls and thicker politics!”

Aragorn didn’t respond. He simply absorbed the king’s vitriol with the same stony look I’d seen him wear in combat, not contradicting of defending native people, but not backing down either. The silence hung thick in the air for a few moments before Theoden managed to reign his temper in again, breathing deeply and shaking his head. “No. I will not place a fools hope on aid that will never come. We are alone in this, Lord Aragorn. As we have ever been.”

‘Bleeding hell. This man’s pride is going to get everyone in this keep killed,’ Tink muttered from the back of my exasperated thoughts.

‘We’d better hope Gandalf makes it back in time with some kind of help then,’ I agreed.

“We will need to repel any who come close to the walls. Station archers along the battlements. I need every man and strong lad armed and ready for battle by nightfall,” Theoden was saying, directing his captains to begin putting the plans into actions. Aragorn—despite still being incensed by Theoden’s refusal to even send a raven for help—looked as if he intended to stay and at least put his strategic skills to good use. I, however, had had quite enough of everything going on in that hall. And anyway, when it came to war plans, I’d probably be as helpful as a shot of brandy to someone dying of heat exhaustion. So, with my witnessing job done, I turned for the exit, hoping to slip out and off to find Sarra unnoticed.

At least until the king’s voice stopped me.

“M’lady Eleanor.”

I halted in my tracks, feeling a dozen sets of eyes suddenly focusing on my back, preventing me from pretending like I hadn’t heard him.

‘Busted,’ Tink groaned.

I turned slowly to see Theoden frowning at me again, though with mildly less distain and more caution than before at least.

“Yes?”

The king shifted to stand a little straighter as he regarded me.

“I hear from Gamling you near smashed in the face of one of my junior soldiers before we left Edoras,” he stated in a deliberately neutral tone that didn’t match the faintly disapproving tilt to his expression. I saw the mirror of that same silent judgement reflected in several of the other captains as I looked around, and the shadow of a grimace cross Aragorn’s face out of the corner of my eye. He obviously knew the reaction that comment delivered in that tone would garner from me…

And he was right.

That anger that had sparked earlier kindled into a searing flame. In the past few hours, I’ve been attacked, shunned, dropped off a cliff, almost drowned, ridden bareback for miles with an unconscious man strapped to my back—and all in the knowledge that the person I’d grown closest to in the past few months never wanted to speak to me again.

And I had exactly no patience left to spare on subtlety.

‘Right, fuck this!’ I thought, anger pulsing through me. I turned away from the door so I faced them all head-on, raising my chin partly in a challenge, but also to clearly show the ring of bruises still fresh around my throat.

“I hear that same soldier of yours tried to sexually assault an unwilling young woman in an alleyway whilst drunk off his rocker, my lord,” I replied, loud enough so the entire room heard every word.

The hall went suddenly, deadly silent—enough that I could hear the roaring of my own furious heartbeat in my ears. Half the younger men visibly cringed back in shock, clearly unused to hearing some of those particular words said aloud, let alone as an accusation of one of their own. The older ones that didn’t either averted their eyes gave me genuinely looks of shame. But to my surprise, not one of them attempted to contradict me or call me a liar. Theoden himself looked faintly stunned behind his poker face.

I probably should have left it there, but my flaring temper was long gone, and my mouth just kept on going without me.

“I also heard,” I continued, holding the king’s gaze hostage, “that soldier only backed off when one of the woman’s companions heard the commotion and came to intervene. And that if he hadn’t, she would have been justified in beating your junior to a pulp to defend herself from such a violation.”

‘Drag him, girl!’ Tink was hollering at the back of my mind, but I ignored her in favour of watching the king's reaction like a hawk. I might have been counted as a guest and friend of his court, but I was acutely aware that if his pride was truly too great, he might treat this outburst as a great insult. Or worse, a threat to his authority.

Turns out the king of Rohan was many things, but someone who tried to belittle ugly truths was not one of them.

Theoden watched me for an agonisingly long moment of complete silence. Then he straightened, placed his hand to his heart and bowed low to me—a gesture I recognised as a deliberately Elven mannerism.

“I beg you to accept my humblest apologies, my lady. There is no excusing such an act. Under normal circumstances a shame of this magnitude would be met with banishment at the least, the headsman’s axe at worst,” he said, and despite the anger still beating through me, I couldn’t sense any deceit or insincerity in his voice. A look of regret with a tinge of guilt coloured his expression. “Please know he will be dealt with severely when this crisis has passed. But given our number and what we are now up against, we will need every hand we have to defend the keep, and the innocent people within.”

I stared long and hard at the king of Rohan across the table, mine and Tink’s mingled fury a silent storm beneath my skin.

What he said made perfect sense. But that didn’t mean the part of me that still raged at the injustice had to like it.

I gave a single sharp nod of acceptance, not trusting myself to keep from spitting venom a third time if I opened my mouth. I needed to get out of there before my anger got the better of me.

“Please excuse me,” I managed to get out from between clenched teeth. The king nodded.

“Of course. You are excused—”

But I was already out of the doors before he’d finished speaking.

‘Mother fu—!’ Tink was still yelling, but a second voice drowned her out before she could finish the obscenity.

“Eleanor, wait!” Aragorn called, following me out of the hall before I’d made it halfway down the steps. He caught up with me just as I reached the courtyard. The soldiers had already started hearing the last of the women and children into the caves, and the young men towards the armoury and several curious heads turned to watch us as I stopped and spun to face him.

“What you said in there—” he started, but I cut him off. I could barely deal with the idea of a lecture right then, let alone enduring one.

“Aragorn, I swear if you tell me I should have held my tongue and said nothing I’ll—”

“I was going to tell you that it was deeply brave,” he interrupted me. My outraged counter argument fizzled out along with the anger. I blinked stupidly at him.

“What?”

Aragorn gave me a lopsided smile. The fond, borderline affectionate kind I’d seen very rarely from him. It threw me off balance almost as much as his next words did.

“Not many could have said what you did to whom you did. Let alone in a room full of that boy’s brethren and friends. It was brave of you to do that.”

For a moment I couldn’t think of a damned thing to say, torn between genuine shock and crippling relief that he was on my side. Truly on my side this time.

“It… needed to be said,” I replied, at last, giving a feeble little shrug that really didn’t feel adequate. “It was me that guy went after this time, but it could have been another girl later. One who didn’t have a Maia and posse of warrior friends backing her up. I just said what they all needed to hear.”

His lip twitched in a micro-grin at the word friend, and I couldn’t help but mirror it.

“Never the less, I wished you to know,” he said, and his face fell slightly as he glanced back up at the entrance to the main hall. “It is… surprising sometimes, the lengths good men will go to avoid painful truths.”

I thought back to the king’s mask of confidence, and faces of the older soldiers inside. The ones who had said nothing to stop me, but also had turned their gazes away when I’d voiced what had been done. And also of the younger ones who had appeared shamed, but had not once condemned the actions of their fellow.

“I guess so,” I muttered, heaving a heavy sigh and turning from the hall, the last of my outrage vanishing to be replaced by weariness. I was suddenly so bloody tired. “Anyway, I thought I’d see if I can help out down in the caves. See if anyone was injured in the warg attack who still needs help.”

I imagined Sarra would be down there somewhere along with Freda and Eothain as well, all of them likely sick with worry by now.

I felt Aragorn rest a warm hand on my shoulder, substantially gentler than Gimli had.

“A good idea. Your skills will be greatly valued among the refugees,” he said, then paused, eyeing me with a suspicious raised brow. “And you plan to stay down there during the fighting?”

I chuckled, lightly batting his hand away.

“Oh, I will. I’m barely any help in a fight, let alone a siege.” I pointed a warning finger at him. “But make no mistake, I’m doing this because I know I’ll be more useful there. Not because some beardy horse king orders me to.”

“Noted,” he smiled again, but then something over my left shoulder caught his attention and the expression fell into shock. Confused, I turned to see what he was looking at…

And found Legolas standing on the other side of the courtyard, staring at us as if he’d seen a pair of ghosts.

I honestly wasn’t sure what I was expecting to find when I saw him again, but it wasn’t what I got. I remembered all too clearly the outward signs of worry I’d noticed on him after waking from healing Boromir at Amon Hen—the disarray where there had normally been composure, dark circles under grey-blue eyes…

But the person I saw staring back at me for that tiny fraction of time looked as if he had just worked from a horrendous nightmare, and wasn’t certain if he was still trapped inside his own torment. His dark gold hair was mussed and dark with dirt and blood from the warg attack as if he hadn’t even touched it since the fight. There was sill Orc blood staining his hunting leathers and hands, unwashed, and untreated cuts dotting his knuckles. The circles under his eyes were back, but they were dark restless bruises this time, exacerbated by the bloodless pallor his face had taken on.

But the worst part was the look in his eyes.

He looked haunted, disbelieving—a raw emotional wound open to the elements.

My mouth just kind of fell open. I think I meant to call out to him on instinct, but the sound caught in my throat. For that split second, I couldn’t look away from the ruin that Aragorn and my supposed deaths had left in its wake.

Was this was the effect I’d had on someone I'd grown to care for so much?

It was true I had never considered the repercussions of becoming emotionally attached to someone who quite literally would live forever unless killed in battle, what it would feel like to care so deeply for someone who would be around long after you were gone. But I also had not considered—at least until our fight at Edoras—what such a loss would mean for him. I at least had led enough of my human life to know death firsthand; what it looked like, how to deal with it, and how to shield my heart against it.

He didn’t.

And this is what that loss had done to him.

That terrified me—more than I was entirely able to understand.

The horror inside me turned to terrible sadness, guilt and panic, and it was more than I could handle…

“Mellon nín…” I heard Aragorn murmur, and the sound of his own shock only brought my own emotions down harder, crushing the air from my lungs.

I couldn’t handle this…

But my inner turmoil hurricane was abruptly cut short by the sudden sound of a familiar warhorn, along with the chaotic shouts of the watch guard cut through the air, and the moment shattered. I realised with a strangely disjointed rush that I recognised that sound of that horn—I’d heard almost every day back when we had still been in Lothlórien when the Galadrim had been running drills in the training grounds.

The crowds filing into the caves surged with sudden alarm at the noise and the clusters of shifting bodies momentarily blocked Legolas from my view, and us from his. I didn’t know if the feeling that washed over me was relief or frustration, one part of me desperate to charge through the crowd after him, the other unable to bear the thought of seeing him…

Knowing that I would break apart right now if I heard the same pain in his voice that I saw in his face…

The storm of things going on inside my head and heart was suddenly too much.

Everything was suddenly too much.

‘Boss?’ Tink’s voice brushed hesitantly against my awareness.

‘I… I can’t…’ I felt my own chaotic thoughts echo through my head in response. ‘I can’t… I can’t handle this. Not now. I can’t do it…’

‘Boss, are you ok? Your emotions are going all over the place.’

I didn’t even try to explain what was happening inside me. Instead, I took one last look back at the place where I’d last seen Legolas’ haunted form—the person I both wanted to see again more than anyone else, and yet the one I couldn’t bear to look at right then for the ruin I’d made of him…

And I turned and ran for the battlements, leaving a stunned Aragorn behind in my place.

“Eleanor?!” He called after me, but I didn’t answer, my feet barely touching the stone as I flew down the steps towards the lower courtyard.

‘You coward!’ Tink shouted, her outrage returned and firing through my head like a banshee’s howl. ‘You utter fucking coward, Eleanor Dace!’

I didn’t deny it.

I was a coward. But right then, much as I loathed myself for it, the only thing I could bear to let myself focus on was the last person I’d heard create that horn blast.

And the hope that he had brought an army that might save us with him.