Well hi there! My first Lord of the Rings fanfiction...finally. I got inspiration for this when I was watching The Two Towers. It gets me every time when you see the little children being given these massive weapons and told to fight.
In the scene with Haldir, the first bit is when they're getting set up on the Deeping Wall. The second bit is where he dies. The editor just decided it hates me and refuses to let me put any sort of break there.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or anything to do with it. It belongs to JRR Tolkien, who is a genius. :D

Haldir of Lórien had long known the spoils of war. He knew of the long plumes of curling smoke, the screams, the pain, the despair. But he was an elf, and in his time the only battles fought were those in stories, deaths few and far between. Oh how he yearned for the days when he was an Elfling, with much to learn and live for.

Now the Shadow rose in the East, the Orcs marched again...Sorrow had returned. The Elves fled for Valinor in their multitudes, a brave few remaining to watch over the other races as they struggled. Haldir had met his fair share of Orcs, fought at the boundaries of his land, but nothing could have prepared him for what he saw now.

Helm's Deep was a cobweb of fear, the nets so intricately woven they should have been thin but instead they were as ropes of steel, binding the men to their terror. The Elf wished he could say it was ungrounded, that some sort of adrenaline might be sought. But the painful reality of the situation was that it was hopeless- not many would live to see the dawn. How could they with such poor defences?

Everywhere he looked, children cowered in corners, armour hanging off them in folds. To his left Haldir could see a boy of no more than eight being presented with a scythe, a look of such bewilderment upon his face that it broke the Elf's heart. Had it really come down to this? That mere babes had to take to arms with their fathers, grandfathers, in the narrow hope that the women and the children would survive?

The roar of the approaching army sounded through the Deep, and in his soul, he knew that for him it was the end.

The stars faded overhead, the stone wall dimmed. His entire being thrummed with pain and Haldir gasped for air as the life was driven from his body. The shouts of the raging battle were drowned out by the roaring of blood in his ears and for the last time the Elf looked upon Middle Earth.
The ground was stained red, echoing the last cries of his kin. Rain fell in torrents, the thick clouds like a worn blanket over the sky. The moon was obscured, only one or two pinpricks of pale light forcing their way through. For the last time Haldir looked upon his troops along the Deeping Wall and took in the mounded bodies of his kind, mingled in death with their enemies. Was it all worth it in the end, if we were all just the same when we lay dead?

Haldir of Lórien's head dropped back, and as he blinked for the last time he decided that while Aragorn was there to lead them- it was worth it.

Legolas supposed grief shouldn't surprise him any more. When Gandalf had fallen it was the first time he'd ever had to see a friend die, and it had shocked and overwhelmed him a lot more than he let on. Elves weren't made for death; they lived forever, so when someone simply wasn't there anymore it was hard to accept. Apparently it never got any easier.

Even to someone inexperienced reading the emotions of the men was easy. They were petrified, struck-dumb like rabbits in the face of a war they thought they'd run from. From the Eorlingas to the Farm-boys the weapons looked in disrepair. The blades were blunt, the armour rusty, the warriors barely old enough to walk alone let alone lift a sword.

Elves had never been big on despair, but right now Legolas could feel nothing else to turn to. Isengard was unleashed. Doom was coming. As he turned he felt an unexplainable surge of anger towards Aragorn who stood looking at the warriors in disgust.

"These are not soldiers. They're farm-boys."

"Most have seen too many winters." Legolas closed his eyes and his heart against the Dwarf's comment. Better the elderly than the young who had had so little to live.

"Or too few." The Elf watched his friend again as he surveyed the troops, as if he expected them to leap up with a vigour beyond their years. The anger was back, even though in reality the Elf knew Aragorn was only trying to keep his own spirit alive.

"...Then I shall die as one of them!" Legolas could only watch as one of his oldest friends spun on his heel and strode away. That was what he admired most about the Heir of Gondor; the way he refused to turn his back on light. The Elf and the Dwarf exchanged weary looks. If only it was that easy.

Haleth son of Háma was just turned Thirteen. According to his age he was meant to have received a small hunting knife and a small body of leather armour. He was not meant to be stood in full metal breast plates and holding a foot-long sword in his fist.

Many of the boys his age dreamed of the day they could get their own real horse and helm, but if it meant upholding a duty like this...Well lets just say Haleth would much rather working down in the kitchen with deaf old Gretchen. She might swing a pan hard, but at least your head wouldn't come apart from your shoulders. The boy couldn't move, couldn't think. He'd not been trained with a blade, not been told how to hold his shield properly. Haleth felt exposed, vulnerable...it was horrible.

Weren't they meant to be safe? Hadn't they run here to escape war? Nothing made sense any more. From the corner of his eye he watched his father stride amongst the ranks, tightening a strap here, lowering a buckle there. He looked so in control. Then the King's guard caught his son's eye and his whole face went white.

With long steps he reached Haleth's side in a moment, clutching his shoulders.
"I had hoped...just a boy...he can't...my son..." Háma muttered to himself, blinking rapidly. Watching him, Haleth realised for the first time that his father was just as afraid as he was. It didn't make him feel any better. "Promise me you'll be careful Haleth. Please..."

Háma closed his eyes and tugged his son into his arms. "Please let us make it."

The chain mail was heavy on his head, the blade heavy at his waist. The boy drew up his shield with a calm sense of acceptance, twisting it onto his wrist. All around him the other children tried to follow his example, hitching up their helmets from where they lay over their eyes. They tried to be brave, thinking of their mothers and sisters in the caves below.

The boy had no-one but his sister, his parents struck down by Orcs in the Westfold as it burned. If not for the little girl he loved so much he was fighting for his kind, gentle mother and his strong, laughing father. Anger swept through him like bush fire, just waiting to be unleashed on the unrelenting forces that marched toward them. All fear was deeply buried beneath the mask.

He would fight.

Thuds rolled through the air, mingled with the coarse cries of the Uruk-hai. Spears hit the ground above the caves with such intensity the very ground shook in a war cry that sent desperation racing through the veins of every woman, man and child taking refuge in the caves.

Éowyn sat deeper into the small corner she'd found herself and tried to calm the racing of her heart. All around her mothers clutched their small children to them, others with looks of sheer terror adorning their faces with the knowledge that their little 6 year old sons were up on the Deeping Wall facing the oncoming storm.

Even the very youngest of bairns knew that something was coming, for shrill cries echoed through the caverns louder with every passing minute. One hand covered her eyes, the other snaking itself round the hilt of her blade. What was to become of them? Éowyn couldn't see a way out. She was going to die here, cornered into a cave with no way of escape. Where was the glory in that? The valour?

Swiftly twisting her hair into a knot at the back of her head, Éowyn Shield-maiden of Rohan stood and hurried to the thick gates. She would stand here and she would defend; she would fight for honour.

Let them come.

Aragorn fought with such a desperation it felt as if he was burning up from the inside. Everywhere he turned people fell, screaming as the last moments of their life closed down upon them. The roars of the Uruks were unrelenting, cutting through both ear and soul. His fists were moulded onto his sword with the cold, his hair slick with rain and blood.

The only thing that kept the Heir of Gondor fighting was the men. Every time he met someone's eye he was confronted by a burning fire that refused to die, a determination to protect the families in the caves. It was humbling, inspiring and reassuring. They could do this, they could survive the night. Aragorn refused to think any differently. It would be so easy to let himself give up, to leave these people to their fate. But every time he was met with that fire and a strong surge of kinship washed through his entire body. These were his brothers, his comrades in arms. He would not fail them.

With a yell Aragorn, son of Arathorn, threw himself at the ladder and sent it crashing into the multitudes below.

They would win.

"Now for wrath, for ruin, and a Red Dawn!" With a cry swords were drawn, hooves flailed and the Fourth Eorlingas swept forward in a wave of green and red. Even the remaining elves took to a horse and rode out of the keep with a vengeance. Gamling sat tall at the side of the King, screaming himself hoarse and driving his swords into the throats of the Urukhai. The night had been long, so many had died...but not all was lost. Gamling tried to remember that.

Éomer reached the top of the slope and could barely contain his horror. Carnage was littered all along the valley, bodies piled haphazardly all over the ground. The walls were empty of the living, centered at the end of the bridge to the Deep in a final attempt at survival. In the middle of it all sat his Uncle proud as ever, an aura of power surrounding him even at this distance.

"Théoden King stands alone." The Wizard beside him stated quite calmly. Fury boiled deep within his stomach, his vision tinting red.
"Not alone. Rohirrim!" Riders fanned out on the crest of the hill, the horse's breath rising in clouds. The Uruks bellowed, but Éomer stood firm. "To the King!"

His voice rose high above the din, clear and sure as he spurred Firefoot forward. The cry was taken up among the warriors and they thundered down into battle, maces swinging, swords spinning in deadly arcs. Shields waved in the air and spears were raised to the sky as the Riders of the Mark bore down on the army of Isengard. Light of the new dawn swept through the Valley as the armies clashed, Horses cleaving out a path underfoot. Weapons smote down the beasts and Éomer reached his Uncle.

Nothing could stop them.

Even as Théoden King yelled for Victory he understood that in reality it was not. Children lay dead by the gates of the Hornburg, hewn even as they lay wounded. Thengel's son didn't see the victory in that. After they were able to get back inside the Keep he would have to inform the families of their losses, and over the coming days he would have to watch as mothers buried their offspring before their time. A lump rose in the King's throat. No parent should have to bury their child.

How could forces be so evil, so cruel? No matter where he turned, no matter how hard he fought the grip about his land grew tighter, determined to squeeze the life from it. But he wouldn't give up. Every life that had ended, every family that had been torn apart would be avenged- no matter the cost. Even if it killed Théoden himself he would not allow this to pass unnoticed.

The wizard hiding up in his black tower would pay for all he had done. Peace would once again reach the Westfold, the ash buried far beneath prosper and joy as the land thrived with life. Peace would once again reach the Hornburg, the blood of their enemies removed and the Deeping Wall once again in its former glory.

As the exhaustion of the night caught up with him, Théoden leant back in his saddle and watched the men cry out with hoarse voices, falling against each other with sheer giddiness. They had lived and they had conquered. If there was any sight worth the Battle then this was it, seeing his subjects bounce back time after time was a magic the King revelled in.

The enemy fled towards the trees, tripping blindly as they ran. Éomer's banner caught up in the wind, snapping and furling in bold colours.

Yes. They would have peace.

Well...I hope you enjoyed that rather depressing One-Shot. Please PLEASE tell me what you think, because I've never really written Lord of the Rings stuff before and I'd love to know how I did with it. Even if you tell me you hate it.


But either way, whether you review or not I love you just for looking :)