I find over the course of our human existence
One thing consists of consistence
And it's that we're all battling fear
Oh dear, I don't know if we know why we're here
Twenty One Pilots- Car Radio
Once again, Lyra released a sigh of relief that it hadn't yet rained. The sound was lost in the wide nothingness spread out before her, floated away on a sudden gust of wind.
Her gaze, when not fixed on the trail below her, sent pointed glares at the clouds above, as if they could sense her anger and act accordingly.
The air, though heavy with the scent of water, had yet to release the deluge it promised. The sky grew darker and darker, even though the sun had risen only a few hours ago.
If it rained, the tracks of men, wagons, and horses- both those leading her to Aragorn and those that would lead them back again to the safety of Helm's Deep- would be turned into mud, identical to everything around it.
The smell reached her before she caught sight of the corpses. If anything, the thick lingering stench of copper had grown more putrid, an edge of slow steady decay. Men, orcs, wargs, and horses were thrown around the field, the bodies having grown cold and hard during the night.
Ignoring the carnage, she turned the horse to follow the river, holding her breath, trying not to let the remains of the dead creep inside her mouth. The deep water flowed strong and impatient, jagged little white waves that brushed against the shore almost tenderly. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was back at Rivendell, back to a time where she had clambered up a waterfall, only to get knocked back down, back when everything started.
Almost angrily, she tore her thoughts away. This was no time to be reminiscing. The sound of the water helped comfort her mind. The quiet of the wide plains had been roaring its silence at her, a muteness so complete it was dizzying.
The river must have carried him further and further still; that was the only explanation, she told herself over and over.
That was the only reason for not finding him yet. Anything else was too painful to consider, especially the flashes of a dead body, no longer the man she knew, submerged in dark water. The conclusion of nightmares.
In the end, Lyra almost missed him. A small innocent cove hid his body from sight, everything but a single boot that floated on top of the water, bobbing back and forth. Not moving, just allowing the tide to do what it willed, complacent and lapsing.
Jumping from the saddle, she stumbled down the ravine, slipping on the loose soil, sending her to her hands and knees. Her palm lands on something hard and sharp- a rock perhaps. She felt the skin there burst, as a little warmth snakes across her wrist. But she pressed on, ignored the pain. Any remaining strength in her legs vanished when she reached his side and her knees buckled. He was far too still for her liking.
Lyra turned him over in a frenzied rush, both eager and afraid of what she might find. The moment stretched on torturously long until his eyelids fluttered open. She gave a quick exhale of relief, her hands shaking, cupping his jaw, running her fingers gently over his forehead where old blood cemented long hair to clammy skin. She felt his chest dip as he shuddered in a shaking breath, tried to speak, failed. Tried again.
"Arwen?" His voice was uncertain as his blue eyes flickered over her face.
"No, it's Lyra." She answered, trembling as much as he was. Anxiety, nervousness, excitement all fusing together to create something new, something that made her skin itch.
Aragorn blinked hard, unfocused and distorted. "What are you doing here?" He slurred.
She felt her eyebrows rise in surprise and even amusement. "What are you doing here?" she turned back on him, eyeing the river his bottom half was submerged in.
"I think I fell." He replied tiredly, giving a half hearted shrug that left him wincing in pain.
She couldn't help the giggle that bubbled from her lips. The swirl of emotions warring within her had silenced, leaving only an overpowering feeling of relief. He was alive. Now that he was here, breathing, safe, she felt the strangest desire to throttle the man. Instead, she stood, hooked her hands under his arms and began to pull.
Grunting, she hauled him away from the water's edge. With slightly shaking fingers, she studied the slice on his upper arm, wincing at the torn flesh and the slow lazy trickle of blood that refused to stop.
"It's not that bad. When we get back, I can clean it up." she said.
"Where are the others? Are they alright?" He asked, his tired eyes pinning her with seeming difficulty. Wild black irises were blown open, overtaking the blue, giving his disheveled image a more wild look.
"They're fine. We made it to Helm's Deep." Her voice was crisp and optimistic, urging him not to push any further.
But knowing Aragorn, he didn't listen.
"Lyra." Her name was a soft sigh and slight admonishment.
"I might have snuck out to come and find you." She admitted, not feeling at all guilty at the moment. Aragorn was safe. She would take any punishment to ensure that.
"So troublesome." This time, there was an undercurrent of teasing and affection as he looked at her, smiling despite being waterlogged and covered in grime.
She pulled him to his feet, slowly, careful not to jostle his already sore body, covered in small scrapes and blooming spots of blue and purple. He leaned heavily on her shoulder, nearly sending them toppling down again.
She felt the blood in his shoulder seep into hers, pushing a dark stain into her own shirt.
Still, she didn't care. It was ruffled from sleep, covered in dirt. Spots of black, suspiciously blood like stains, speckled the sleeves. A fanciful notion struck her that she just might want to burn it. That sounded satisfying- watching the flames eat away at the material, slowly turn it to ashes. Later, of course.
Gritting her teeth, she dug her feet into the ground, was able to gasp out in what she hoped was a cheerful tone, "What do you say we go to Helm's Deep?"
"Sounds good to me." He grunted, eyelids half closed and heavy laden.
As gently as she was able, Lyra steered Aragorn up the hill, half dragging and half pushing him. The tall man stumbled occasionally as his feet caught on things that weren't there. She tried unsuccessfully not to waver under his weight. But eventually, after murmured encouragement that he probably didn't need or even hear, they both made it up the hill.
The brown stallion waited where she had carelessly abandoned it; the long leather reins hanging at his side, untethered. Softly, Lyra gave a swift curse at her own impatience.
She took a slow step forward, stretching her hand out. He took a hesitant step away, pawed at the ground. Figured.
"Come on horsey." Lyra called, instilling as much honey in her voice as possible. If the horse bolted now, they would be lost.
"Brego." Aragorn said, his warm breath ticking her ear.
When she gave him a questioning look, he clarified, "Eowyn told me his name back in Edoras."
Lyra bit her lip and nodded once.
"Lyra, I'm-"
"I'm sorry Aragorn." She blurted out, before he could offer the apology she knew she didn't deserve. "I should have trusted you. I'm sorry for what I said." Lyra wasn't even aware tears had fallen until Aragorn's calloused fingers gently swept them away, albeit shaking slightly.
"Lyra, as much as I appreciate your apology, I feel like I might pass out soon." His words overlapped, "and you'll never be able to get me on that horse."
She laughed, the tightness in her chest dissipating, letting her breathe again.
"Come here Brego." She corrected, holding one hand out for him to sniff.
After a brief moment of hesitance, the horse stepped forward, allowing her to grasp his reins.
"What a good boy." She praised, stroking his strong neck. The tight muscles underneath trembled but he calmed, lowered his head to allow her ministrations.
It was with no small amount of struggle that Lyra was finally able to secure Aragorn on Brego's back. The ranger was heavier than he looked and the chainmail he still wore did nothing to help that.
She quickly mounted behind him before nudging Brego forward. Her arms encompassed Aragorn's much larger form to keep him from tumbling sideways.
Miles of ground had passed beneath and still they pressed on, the scenery before her a mirror image of what lay behind her. The sun found its way from behind clouds and hovered in the sky. Aragorn had either passed out or fallen asleep in front of her. She simply focused on keeping him upright, which was hard enough when his head kept slipping to the side. Once, it jerked back and hit her straight in the nose. Grumbling, she rubbed the soreness away on his shoulder. What came from him might have been a weak chuckle or a grunt of pain.
That's how they continued for what could have been hours. For Lyra, the time was spent torn between relief that Aragorn was alive in her arms and trepidation for the reception that awaited her back at Helm's Deep.
Hours slipped through her fingers like water, like all the others before it. Silent. Still. Calm.
And then…
At first, Lyra thought it was nothing.
Just a little more than nothing.
A slight shudder in the ground- merely the product of getting too little sleep.
A growing distant roar in her ears- the result of her overactive imagination.
Or the affect of the sun overhead, bathing them in liquid golden heat.
It wasn't until Aragorn's muscles tensed under her hands and began scanning the plains with a deep worrying crease that she pulled Brego to a sudden halt.
"Do you hear that?" She asked, neglect for the past several hours causing her voice to waver and crack.
He nodded, "You're the only one who came after me?"
"I didn't tell anyone else." She began, cautiously turning Brego towards the noise. "But they wouldn't have sent the entire army out after us."
The sound, so slight and excusable before, grew until Lyra felt the ground beneath her tremble.
With each step, her unease grew, transforming into something darker.
And then Lyra heard something that sent a shudder through her. Black Speech.
The ominious words, rough and cutting in their edges, echoed back, dirtying the air. Lyra felt a tight sting tighten her chest, lacing up through her heart and snaking back down again.
It didn't take long after that for the trio to come upon the source.
Her mind, crawling with possibilities, went deliciously blank and numb at the sight that greeted her. And then the overeager hungry fingers of panic began to claw their way inside.
Even so, she struggled not to react. Instead, she pulled back on Brego's reins, praying none would notice the solitary figures that slowly receded behind a small rise. Prayed they might remain hidden from sight.
There were so many, too many.
Never before in her life had Lyra heard of these numbers of orcs gathered. She didn't suppose many had- that were left living at least.
They marched across the plain, leaving the grass behind them indented with their heavy footsteps.
This was no rabble sneaking about in the tunnels of Moria, content to fester in the darkness. This was an army, devastatingly vast, stretching over the dips and hollows with more coming every second.
"There are thousands." She said, somehow afraid the horde would be able to hear her faint whisper over the thunder of a thousand voices.
Aragorn mirrored the same shock and horror that she felt.
"They're heading towards Helm's Deep. But we only have what, 300 men?" She estimated in her mind, trying to recall the men that guarded the fortress. There were far too few that she could call to memory. The walls of Helm's Deep that seemed so secure in their towering height, began to waver in her thoughts. Her head, suddenly a heavy weight on her shoulders, spun until she bit back the retch that fought inside her throat.
No, that couldn't be right. It wasn't possible. She willed the reality to recede, but her mind simply unfolds, inviting the sharp terror that buzzes like angry hornets inside her head.
Because that would be no battle.
It would be a slaughter.