DISCLAIMER: All characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate. Many thanks to Peter Jackson, WETA, and New Line Cinema for visual imagery and slight variations on Mr. Tolkien's story.
THROUGH THE STORM by Jessie Syring
"Natha daga thaer!"
The words were barely out of Legolas' mouth when Aragorn backhanded him. The sound of the slap echoed loudly in the suddenly-too-quiet armory. Legolas took an awkward step backward and stared at the dark-haired man in surprise and pain, reaching up to touch the blood now trickling from his split lip.
Aragorn froze, horrified by what he had just done and the hurt in the Elf's blue eyes. "Legolas---" he began and reached toward him.
Legolas retreated another step and looked at the blood on his fingers. Suddenly he turned and fled up the stairs. Aragorn made to follow but Gimli stopped him. The Dwarf's grip on his arm was firm and commanding.
"Let him go, lad. Leave him be."
Aragorn looked at him and became aware of the other people in the armory. All activity had stopped as the scene had unfolded and the men of Rohan now looked at him.
Aragorn spun and left the armory as well, seeking his own peace. In the crowded courtyard of Helm's Deep, he finally stopped, drawing in a deep breath of the early evening air. It stank of unwashed bodies, cooking food, and something else. Fear, he realized.
His anger renewed, he silently damned Legolas for voicing his fears. He doubted many Rohirrim spoke Sindarin but much could be interpreted from a person's expression and tones. The tension and fears the men already had at this impossible situation would have increased at the strange language---was the situation so desperate that those who would lead them discussed it in secret?
He became aware of the people around him. Women herded their families and meager belongings together to move to the caves. Men pushed past him, coming and going from the armory with ill-fitting armor and rusted weapons. Over the din, he could hear the squeal of iron on stone as old weapons were given a keen edge on grinding wheels.
The noise grated harshly on his ears and he started walking, distancing himself as much as possible from the preparations for war. He knew he should seek Theoden, Rohan's noble king, and check last minute preparations and discuss strategies. But for now he preferred the open space and his own company.
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People passing Gimli gave him as wide a berth as possible in the crowded keep. Head set in grim determination and grumbling under his breath, he stalked through the citadel in search of Legolas. The sun had gone below the mountains when he finally stopped, leaning against the wall in frustration and exhaustion.
"Ah, Elf, where did you go?" he asked.
The wind held no answer. The Dwarf made his way through the crowd toward keep proper. The men-at-arms were helping the raw recruits adjust armor and showing them how to use the battered swords they awkwardly wielded. Gimli shook his head slightly. If the Uruk-Hai breached the walls, three hundred Dwarves would not be able to hold them back. A ragtag army of experienced soldiers, ancient farmers, and children had no chance at all.
A slight movement on the cliff face behind the keep caught his eye and he backed up for a better view, tilting his head as far back as he could. Very light blond hair, moving in the wind, stood in sharp contrast to the blackness of the surrounding rock some fifteen or twenty feet above the warming fires blazing in braziers on the highest tower of the fortress.
Gimli shook his head. "Sure. I search every square inch of this hole and you're sitting up there like some crazy bird."
He started up the steep stone stairs that led into the circular tower, intent on making his way as close to Legolas as he could get without leaving the ground. He saw Aragorn seated on the stairs halfway between the keep and the courtyard. The Man seemed unaware of the bustling activity around him as he stared off into the distance. Gimli started up the stairs toward him.
Aragorn turned his head, looking at a cluster of men some fifteen feet away. One, a gangly youth with brownish hair, met his gaze. Gimli missed what was said, but the boy walked to Gondor's future king and handed him his sword. Aragorn rose and swung the blade through a practiced figure-eight pattern, checking its weight and balance. Then he held it before him. Even at a distance, Gimli could see its surface was pitted and rusted.
"This is a good blade," Aragorn said, handing the weapon back. Then he placed a hand on the youth's shoulder. "There is always hope."
The boy smiled cautiously and rejoined the other men.
Aragorn looked around then and saw Gimli coming toward him with a grim expression. "Gimli, have you seen Legolas?" he asked. "I need to find him."
"So you can hit him again?"
Aragorn flinched at those words. "I deserved that," he said, taking a seat once more. "I won't hit him again. I shouldn't have done it the first time," he added, his voice almost a whisper.
Gimli sat heavily on the stairs near him. "I didn't understand a word of what the Elf said, but it sounded to me as though he was only expressing the concerns of every man here."
"The people here are frightened enough," Aragorn said crossly. "He's an experienced warrior, not a child. He should have known better than to cause alarm."
"Aye, I'll grant you that. But he is also faced with losing his best friend for the second time in as many days. I don't think that's something he's had a lot of experience with." Aragorn looked at Gimli in surprise. "He's up there." Gimli jerked a thumb toward the keep and the cliff. "Go talk to him."
"There's so much to do---"
"It won't take but a few minutes. Go." Gimli rose. "I need to put a keen edge on my axe."
The stout Dwarf walked away without a backward glance. Aragorn rose and stretched, still feeling the aches and bruises from his tumble off the cliff. Scanning the heights of the keep, he soon located Legolas as well. He entered Helm's Deep and made his way to the upper levels, emerging atop the parapets.
But Legolas was gone.
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To be continued