Hello! This is my first fanfiction, so I'm hoping it won't be a total failure. If any of you would critique and leave tips, that would be most appreciated. Please enjoy!

Disclaimer: I'm not the owner of Lord of the Rings. That work of genius belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and this tale was not made for the gain of profit.

Prologue – Son of Daren

It seemed that fate was cruel indeed. After all the raiding and the death-bringing throughout all of the Riddermark, the final doom of the Eorlingas would be decided at Helm's Deep. He had heard the talk among the men, that an army of Uruk-Hai, at least ten-thousand strong, was marching to destroy them all. It was quiet, and many silently cursed the foul name of the traitor Saruman.

None could see hope for tomorrow, least of all him. All he could see was his burning village in the Westfold, the men, women, children, that were hewn down by the merciless creatures and their allies from Dunland. He no longer felt fear, joy, or hope, only anger that burned brighter than any bonfire he had witnessed. But underneath it all, was raw pain that tore him apart.

They were climbing rocks that day, as they often did, and it saved them. When they turned back, Orcs and wild men had surrounded the community, setting it ablaze. "Why is this happening?" Denor asked him, but he could not answer, could not offer comfort. They only had the clothes on their backs as they fled. There was no time to grab food or his hunting bow.

After traveling two days in the wild with hunger and thirst, they found other refugees that journeyed to Helm's Deep for sanctuary. They welcomed the two lads, feeding them and keeping them warm. However, misery continued to hound them. His brother Denor had taken ill just as they were nearing the fortress, the sickness increasing as the light faded. During that night, his brother asked him to stay with him, that he didn't want to be alone. Before he passed, Denor said that hopefully mother and father would be waiting for him. Then he remained silent forevermore.

No soft words from the other refugees could comfort him, nothing could dull the pain that had become commonplace in his heart. He dug a grave next to the creek and, with tears he had held back until then, he placed the little body in the hole. With the help of four men, they placed a stone to mark the spot and to protect it from carrion feeders.

It took everything he had left to make it to the fortress, dragging one foot after the other. He helped other refugees then and now in whatever way he could, but he spoke little or nothing. How could he offer words of peace and comfort if he did not feel it?

Now soldiers were walking among the peasants, directing them to the caves. He moved with the masses, walking as if he were in a dream. It was only until someone shook his shoulder that his thoughts were interrupted. "Sir, we're needed at the armory and it's the other way."

He looked to his left to see a boy, no older than himself. He was pointing back towards the keep, where men scurried about preparing for the siege. "What do you mean, 'We're needed'?"

"King Theoden has ordered that every able man and strong lad are to participate in the defense. You are able, are you not?"

He had wanted this chance for revenge. He wanted it so badly ever since he arrived, that he had nearly forgotten what it was like to live a simple life. But he couldn't forget the pain, probably never would. "I am able, and I am eager to fight."

The other cocked an eyebrow. "Eager? What for?"

"That's my affair."

Slowly, the other nodded and they turned to walk back to the Keep. "What's your name?" the other asked. After some hesitation, he answered.

"Deor, son of Daren."

"Halas, son of Hamas."

There was no more talk as they neared the armory. They were passing the threshold, glimpsing men moving through sets of armor and weapons, when Deor collided with another trying to exit.

"Forgive me, I—" Words escaped the sixteen-year-old as he beheld the most peculiar sight. Before him stood a small man—if it was a man—covered in thick, dark red hair, holding an axe in its hand. "What? You've never seen a dwarf before?"

Blinking in surprise, Deor regained speech. "Well, no. I have heard many tales of the Mountain Folk, though I thought they did not leave the deep places of the earth and have no love of sunlight."

The dwarf snorted. "That would be orcs, not dwarves. If you know what's good for yeh, you'll believe your own senses than idle gossip." He peered at both of them, and then chuckled. "So, you two expect to fight an army of Uruk-Hai in those rags, eh?"

"If need be," Halas replied dryly, "However, we would like some weapons and armor, master dwarf."

"Then go see Grimbold, towards the back. He'll get you what you need. Tell him that Gimli sent you." With that said, the dwarf made his exit.

"Let's hope his axe is as quick as his tongue."

Halas laughed. "I don't think we need worry about that."

Deor did not laugh. He found little to laugh about now. "Well, let us find this Grimbold." And they moved to the back, to outfit for war.

* * *

Armor saved men's lives, but that didn't mean they had to like wearing it. Indeed, as Deor stood next to Halas near a cooking fire, he would have gladly shed off this steel cage if he had not known he would need it. It was heavy, hot and it smelled of the previous owner. At least he fit into it; he had already seen many small boys in men's armor attempting to lift swords far too big for them.

We're going to be slaughtered. He couldn't deny it, nor would anyone else. This was a battle that none of them were going to survive. The majority of their forces were old men and young lads, and it was rumored that many soldiers joined Eomer when he sought to battle Isengard without the King's leave. It was sad, for if there was any time Eomer was needed, it was now. Halas was holding his sword, examining it in the firelight as they waited for what must be their last meal as the night deepened.

"Give me your sword."

They turned to see a disheveled man in weather-beaten cloak sitting on the steps behind them. He was tall and grim, with dark hair and eyes that shone in the dark with a keen light. Halas stepped forth and offered him the handle. "What are your names?"

"Halas, son of Hamas, my lord. This is Deor, son of Daren." He paused before continuing. "The men are saying we are not going to live out the night. They say it is hopeless."

The man studied them a moment, then stood. With Halas' sword in hand, he swung it through the air experimentally a few times. "This is a good sword," he declared.

Handing it back, he placed his hands on their shoulders. "Halas, Deor, there is always hope." His eyes burned with a pale light. Hope kindled in their hearts and their eyes followed him as he left.

At length Deor spoke. "Who in the name of Helm Hammerhand was that?"

"Lord Aragorn," Halas whispered. "It is said he is the Chief of the Dunedain, the heir of Isildur."

Deor said nothing, but his mind was thundering. He looked to the heavens and saw that clouds were forming. A storm was on the way…

* * *

The venison was simple, but it filled them up and cheered their spirits. It's said if you're going to your death, eat your fill. They were cleaning up the remnants when a horn rang out, long and clear. All talk ceased as men readied their weapons and hurried to their places at the battlements. But Grimbold called out. "Stay your weapons! Send for the King, open the gate!"

Open the gate? Deor followed Halas to the courtyard, to find strange figures marching into it with perfect step. A glow seemed to be round about them, and their leader bowed in greeting to Theoden as he descended the stairs. "How is this possible?" the King asked. In Deor's mind, a forgotten memory of his mother's stories whispered the name of this wonderful folk: elves.

"I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell," the elf said with a soft voice. "An alliance once existed between elves and men. Long ago, we fought and died together." Footsteps were approaching from the left, then Deor saw Aragorn appear, followed by another elf and Gimli. "We come to honor that allegiance," the elf finished with a smile.

Aragorn approached, and he greeted the elf in an unfamiliar tongue…then he embraced the other without shame. The elf looked surprised at this gesture, then smiled and lightly returned the embrace. Aragorn withdrew. "You are most welcome," he said.

The two elves clasped arms, and, as one, the elven host turned and snapped to attention with their longbows. "We are proud to fight alongside men once more."

The men of Rohan gave a loud cheer. Maybe we have a chance after all, thought Deor.