DISCLAIMER: (I don't own LOTR or any of the characters, except I do own Eaia and the name Rigoroth.)

AN: This isn't a very good start, but I had no idea how to do the beginning and I had very limited time in which to write this, so… yeah.

Helm's Deep was falling. That much, at least, was obvious inside Eaia's fear-soaked mind. She clung to the wall, nails digging into the stone, face buried in her arm. Something crashed against her wall, sending violent vibrations up and down the rock. She let loose part of a shriek, then clamped her teeth down into her lips to keep them shut.

I will not scream! I can not scream! Ohhh, I was only here for my birthday!

And what a birthday it was, too. Very… ah, festive.

NOT!

Damn Orcs… they sure picked the perfect time to invade us!

Well, I guess it's a good thing the King let us come here for my birthday. At least now the Elves can help the mortals out with this. Don't see why though; humans should learn to clean up their own messes. Wait, what am I doing? Where the hell's Legolas!?

"Legolas!" she shouted out, peering through the miasma of dust and blood. Her fear rose as she waited, trembling, for his reply. No… oh, no, Legolas… I swear if they killed him--

"Eaia!" she heard him shout dimly, and sagged with relief. "Eaia, where are you? Get the hell out of here!"

"NO!" she shrieked back. "Give me a fucking sword!"

"Into the caves, Elf girl!" Gimli shouted, his stout legs carrying him past her. "Protect the villagers!"

"But—" Eaia began. "Legolas—"

"Just go!" Gimli bellowed, slicing at a charging Orc. The monster's head whipped away, blood spurting all over the Elven girl's chest. She shrieked at the sudden surge of liquid, lurching backward against the wall. "I can do this!" she yelled. "Just give me a—"

"CAVES!" Gimli roared.

The fear in his own voice was enough to jolt her into action, for Gimli the dwarf was afraid. Gimli was the bravest soul she knew; if he was scared she had the sense to follow whatever instructions he gave her.

So she whirled and ran off, bouncing lithely over the mounds of broken stone and bodies. The smell flew up her nostrils, making her choke: blood, loosened bowels, Orcs. (I mean, the Orcs themselves were bad enough. But now there was bodily fluid and feces mixed in? I don't think so.) She wanted desperately to close her eyes, make everything go away in the blessed darkness of sleep, but then she would fall down the stairs, and what use would she be to Legolas and all them with a broken neck?

The hem of her skirt caught on a protruding bit of rock, sticking out from the wall at a just-barely hazardous level. She was barely halfway down the steps before the skirt pulled her to an abrupt stop. With a shout of alarm Eaia went flying, tumbling ass over teakettle (I don't get that one, my mom told me I should put it in there) down the stairs. She tucked herself into a ball, bones shaking every time she hit the ground, squeezing her eyes tight shut and waiting breathlessly for the final impact. Her breath was knocked out of her before she was half of the rest of the way down; after that it was just a miniature war within to get the next breath down her lungs.

Smacking her head on the ground with a sickening crack, she suddenly found it to be over. Dazed, breathless, relieved and dizzy, she pushed herself to her hands and knees, swaying. She coughed, and tasted blood drizzling down her lips. Blood mixed with sweat and trickled in her eyes, stinging; when she shook her head to get it out the world went topsy-turvy and she fell over on her side.

A hand took rough hold of her arm, lifting her to a parody of a sitting position. She slumped against the person's leg, confused, spurts of pain from her fall wracking her body. Blinking blearily, Eaia turned her head, squinting against her blurry vision. "Leg—olas?" she murmured, trying to get a good look at the helmeted face in front of her. No, it couldn't be; Legolas wouldn't ever hold her so roughly. And was he wearing a helmet when he started fighting? She couldn't remember.

Gods… so tired…

A guttural laugh, one that sent alarm bells off in her head and her limbs weak and watery. "Legolas?" growled a voice like gravel and fire. "That Elven bastard died by my hand not long ago, hahahahaha!" Eaia moaned, raising a weakened hand to her captor's wrist. "Let me go…" she sighed, pulling feebly at his wrist, his words not seeming to penetrate her fog of confusion. "Please…?" "Foolish Elf," the Orc sniggered, pulling a small dagger from his belt. "What gorgeous blue eyes you have. Let me carve them out for you for your relatives to keep on the shelf forever, mourning your memory, haha!"

Those words did something to cut through to her. Eaia struggled to a better position, pulling at her arm, screaming, screaming. Weak as she was, the effect was the same as a kitten struggling with an eagle. Laughing wildly, face twisted in an expression of sick amusement, the Orc slowly and slowly brought the tiny knife closer to her face, inch by terrifying inch. "NO!" Eaia shrieked. "Legolas! Legolas! Gimli! Someone please help me!" "No one can hear you, no one can hear you!!" the Orc sang gruesomely, bringing the knife in little circles towards her right eye. "Hahahahah—"

He jerked, a great tremor convulsing his entire body, his chuckling cut off as though with a pair of scissors. The gristly laughter on his face turned to shock, then to pain, and he fell forward onto Eaia, crushing her against the pile of rocks.

The feeling was the strangest thing. She felt the tiny knife slide into her eye, felt every inch of it go through the iris, yet not a single shred of pain was felt. She heard herself gasp, then shriek, as though from very far away, a single long loud cry that cut through the battle around her, like the blade that was now embedded in her eye. Dimly, she heard Legolas' voice, crying out her name, Gimli's name, Aragorn's name. Someone shoved the Orc off her; someone's hands were grabbing her, and then nothing. Nothing but a deep, all-encompassing blackness. She snatched it gratefully, pulling herself down into blissful oblivion, where nothing was felt, nothing was seen and, best of all, nothing was heard.