"They shall break upon this fortress like water upon rock!" Théoden's meeting had moved to the wall of the citadel where the sentries bowed as their king passed, "Saruman's horde will pillage and burn, we've seen it before. Crops can be resown, homes rebuilt. Within these walls, we can outlast him."

"They don't come for Rohan's crops or villages," Aragorn's frustration was as biting as it was remarkable for Nemireth, the first time she had heard such from him. At first, she had thought it just exhaustion from his journey and the preceding battle but now she could see something more. The joy of his return had faded to be replaced by concern. It certainly did not help that he had not yet rested and was still bloodied and dirtied from his battle.

"Then he is more foolish than I believed," Théoden laughed aloud, drawing the eyes of a few nearby guards, "No enemy has ever breached the Deeping Wall," He gestured to the curtain wall that stretched out from the keep to the high mountain on the opposite side, separating the marshy ground beyond the fortress from the bog within and now thronged with refugees from across the country, "Or set foot inside the Hornburg!"

"If the numbers are as great as Aragorn says, your majesty," Xiphos spoke from over Théoden's shoulder, "Then they may plan to assault the keep without delay."

"They are welcome to try, Captain. They will find the steel and resolve of Rohan is more than their equal!"

"This is no rabble of mindless orcs!" Gimli thumped the shaft of his axe upon the stone ground for emphasis, glaring at the Rohan king, "These are Uruk-hai! Their armour is thick and their shield's broad."

Théoden took a step closer to the dwarf, straightening out to stand nearly twice his height. The tension between the two was palpable but Gimli did not so much as twitch, not even when the King spoke low and sharp, "I have fought many wars, Master Dwarf. I know how to defend my own keep."

He moved on and the Princess was sure her sigh of relief was shared by all those watching. Gimli merely shook his head as Aragorn patted his shoulder.

Théoden had moved on, "There is no true food source for a dozen leagues or more, the roads impossible for carts to travel in this weather. Saruman's rabble cannot hope to maintain a siege!"

"With ten thousand, they won't need to," Gimli grumbled under his breath, the statement so quiet that Nemireth was sure she was the only one who had heard it.

The King had clearly not heard for he continued to give orders to the lieutenants who trailed behind the party, "I want every man and strong lad able to bear arms to be ready for battle by nightfall. Stack stones and spears atop the keep and reinforce the main doors! All women and children are to wait in the caves until the deed is done."

Hama and the others scuttled off, Xiphos catching the eye of the Princess as he followed at a more leisurely pace. That just left the four of them with Théoden who now leant against his battlements and stared out onto the rolling hills and mountains that dotted the horizon, as if he could see the army approaching, "Yes, towns are towns and cities are cities but the spirit of Rohan. That is here. That is something Saruman cannot burn."

"It is precisely the spirit he means to burn," Aragorn hissed, "He does not wish to raze Edoras or the Hornburg he wants to destroy their people, down to the last child."

Théoden spun so quickly Nemireth was sure he had drawn a blade and took a step back. Instead he took the man by the scruff of his collar and pulled him close. Beside her, Legolas took a half-step closer, eyes narrowed.
"What would you have me do?" the King hissed so low, she could barely hear him, "Look at my men, their courage hangs by a thread! If this is to be our end, then I will have them make such an end, as to be worthy of remembrance!"

He released Aragorn and went to leave but the Ranger called after him, stopping him dead in his tracks, "Send out riders, my lord! You must call for aid!"

The King returned, steps slow and eyes narrowed, anger radiating in every breath, contempt in every syllable, "And who will come? Elves? Dwarves? We are not so lucky in our friends as you. The old alliances are dead."

"Not all, my lord," Nemireth found her voice, though almost immediately wished she'd stayed silent as both King of Rohan and Ranger of the North turned to stare at her, "Not all the alliances are dead."

"Perhaps," He growled, "Some have answered, too many have stayed silent."

"Gondor will answer." Aragorn declared.

"Gondor?" The anger was immediate, bursting forth like a flood from a weakened dam, "Where was Gondor when the Westfold fell? Where was Gondor when our enemies closed in around us? Where was Gon-" He stopped himself with a choke before regaining some measure of composure, "No, my Lord Aragorn. We are who we have here. Beyond that, we are alone." He strode away summoning yet more messengers and dispatching commands beyond her ability to hear.

And now it was just the four of them; the four who had set forth from Rivendell all those months ago standing together in silence. Nemireth looked around and saw that the nearest sentries were watching them, some slyly out of the corners of their helmets and others not even attempting to hide it. Were they looking to them for encouragement? She hoped not, for she felt none herself. Only a growing dread in her stomach, a heaviness that went beyond nerves or fear.

"Aragorn," Legolas broke the silence, speaking little above a whisper, "Ten thousand…are you sure?"

He nodded.

"It'll be a hard fight then," Gimli shook his head, leaning against his hammer, "And time is no longer our ally."

"Was it ever?" Legolas was watching above where swarms of black birds had began to gather above the fortress, like those who had watched them travel in the very early days of their journey. The feeling in the pit of her stomach only grew deeper.

Saruman was already watching.

With each step, Nemireth's boots sank a good half inch into the mud, sodden by the incessant rain and then churned up by the mass of refugees who had briefly called it home, watching as they were herded towards the keep and the caves by the men of the Rohirrim. In front of her, standing to attention, was Xiphos' company, spears in one hand and oval, eagle faced shields in the other. Their armour was dented and mud-splattered, cloaks torn and tattered, hair long and uncut. Had an officer of Minas Luin looked upon the elite formation of the Aeanorean army, he would have wept at their state but instead Nemireth was searching their faces. They were tired, worn, many were haggard as only men with too much work and too little sleep could look, an alien sight to her not so long ago. She searched the faces beneath helmets for signs of Amathor but she did not see him amongst the assembled ranks.

"How many?" She asked without turning.

"A hundred and fifty, all told," Xiphos answered gravely, "And another twenty wounded who won't be ready."

"Where will they be?"

"In the caves, your majesty. They'll be the final line of defence when…if, the worst should occur."

The Princess nodded, unable to shake the heaviness as she watched some elderly refugees being helped up the stairs to the keep, "The men have been fed and rested?"

"As much as can be."

Only now did she turn to inspect the top of the Wall. It was good and thick with large and solid stones firmly locked together but for a small grate at it's base, currently half-submerged in rainwater. It was smaller than the walls she was used to at Minas Luin, but it would be enough. There was little point in wishing for more now.

"Has Théoden given us any archers for support?"

"Aside from Legolas, your majesty?"

"Besides him."

"None yet. He has said that the archers can support the wall from the keep."

"All of it?"

"So he says."

She looked up to the Keep, tall and imposing from so close to the ground and then across to the other end of the wall, "Ask if he can spare anything. Even spears that we could throw. I'll take pebbles if he has a few."

"I'm sure he'll happily lend us some stones."

She glanced to her Captain. He was not smiling, nor was he making eye contact. She bit her lip but fought back the urge to just talk to him. Now was not the time.

"Then there's nothing more we can do until nightfall. See that the men are ready."

"Of course, your majesty." He turned to the assembled troops, "Araharné! Tafenan!" He blew his whistle and the men broke up, most heading for the keep. Xiphos went with them, muttering in a low voice to a few, gesturing to their weapons and drawing a few laughs. She went to follow but instead found herself fixed in place, half sunken into the mud, hands behind her back and now alone beneath the shadow of the Keep. She exhaled slowly, watching as her men climbed the narrow steps up to the highest levels of the keep. They would be a nightmare to retreat up, narrow and steep, should the worst occur. The heavy weight in her stomach seemed to twist at the mere thought. Only once she was sure they were gone did she head for the steps herself. Drawing her sword, she checked its edge and frowned. It was far from dull but there was not the sharpness she would have expected. And those notches, had they always been there? Nicked and chipped all along the blade?

So much the day had already gone and as she headed for the armoury, the sun was already beginning to sink, plunging towards the horizon with a speed she would have scarce believed. Each time she looked it seemed to have dropped further and further. Within, the armoury was a hive of activity; the general buzz of conversation drowned out by the high-pitched screech of steel on stone, the dull space illuminated by flying sparks.

Here she found Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, not hurrying around but watching. Only watching. She followed their eyes and gasped aloud at the sight.

A line of men had formed out of one door, old and young, bent and coughing, grey and worn. They were being guided by Rohirrim towards the back wall of the armoury where they were being handed spears, axes, swords or hammers with little rhyme or reason. Some got shields, some got mail, others got helmets. Most of those who left the room wore their armour as comfortably as she would have carried a horse.

"This," She could barely believe it, "This is Théoden's army?"

"Farriers, farmers, stable boys," Aragorn sighed, "No soldiers."

Gimli's expression was a mixture of disbelief and indignation, something that would have been amusing in nearly any other place but here, "Most have seen too many winters!"

"Or too few." Legolas…she did not recognise the look in his face. Not anger, not amusement. It was something entirely different. It was fear.

"This is the way of the Rohirrim," The Ranger was investigating one of the swords piled up, waiting for a claimant, "In times of need, any who can serve must do so. It has served them well before."

"There must be another way," Nemireth was near to tears as she watched a young mousy haired boy take a helmet. By Eru's mercy, his head was practically swallowed up by it. The axe was nearly the same height of him, "It's not right."

"The alternative is worse," Aragorn placed a hand on her shoulder, "They must do what they can."

"And this is all they can do," Legolas' expression darkened, "Look at them. They're frightened. I can see it in their eyes."

All activity came to a halt as all eyes turned to the elf.

"And they should be!" His voice had risen further and his gaze bored into Aragorn's eyes, speaking in his own tongue, "And they should be! 500 against…ten thousand?"

"They have more chance defending themselves here than at Edoras-" The Ranger got no further.

"-Aragorn, they cannot win this fight!" He was looking to her, "They are all going to die!"

"Then I shall die as one of them!" Aragorn stepped up until he was mere inches from the Elf. The silence that fell in the room was suffocating, like she could barely breath, eyes flicking between the two while Gimli tensed. Aragorn stormed out.

"Let him go lad," Gimli caught Legolas' sleeve as he went to follow, "Leave him be."

Instead Legolas left through the opposite door. Now it was just Gimli and Nemireth, facing down an entire room of Rohirrim.

"He's right, isn't he?" Someone called from within the crowd, "We're all going to die."

"There's no hope," The gathered were nodding, the pessimism spreading, "We are lost."

She felt eyes on her, a need for assurance or some desire for comfort but she could give them nothing. Her own gaze fell to the floor as Gimli's shoulders sagged and he shook his head.

Keeping her head down, Nemireth took her sword back, the edge now as gleaming and polished as it had been stepping onto the Grey Haven for the first time. Sliding it back into its scabbard, she fled to the battlements.

Night had fallen, the battlements now teeming with life as Rohirrim placed piles of stones, racks of spears and axes everywhere. Shadows loomed up and danced in their torchlight while hammering now broke up the curt commands being passed up and down the walls. At the highest point, she found Legolas. He was standing with his back to her, hands resting on the cold stone as if he could see out over all the world, his cloak billowed in the wind. All the sky was covered in a thick blanket of cloud, such that it felt like even the stars had abandoned them.

"Legolas?" The question came as little more than a clearance of her throat, "Are…are you okay?"

"I apologise for my outburst, Princess." Still he would not look to her, "It was unbecoming of me to lash out as I did."

"I'm not the one you need to apologise to."

A long pause, "No."

"Legolas," She stepped closer, "It's okay to be frightened-"

"-I am a Prince of the Woodland Realm, a companion of the Fellowship. This fortress, this…kingdom, it has been rife with fear since the day I stepped across its boundaries. I had thought myself capable of resisting, but the news Aragorn brings…" He shook his head, "It was too much, and for the first time in a long time, yes, I find myself afraid."

"Death is a fairly frightening thing."

"I am a child of Ilúvatar, destined to return to the Undying Lands. It has never been death that has so concerned me."

"Then what?"

He turned to look at her for the first time and for the first time she saw pain in his eyes, etched across his face like an old and deep wound, "Loss. It has always been loss. The loss of this world, the loss of those I care about. I have felt it once before and thought I could keep it from happening again," He shook his head, "But I cannot. So that fear grows in me once again and once again I am ashamed of it. I am ashamed that it robs me of the little hope I had left."

It was instinctive, though which instinct the Princess obeyed, she could not tell. She threw her arms around the elf and drew him in for a hug. He did not react at first, and for a moment she worried that she had overreached but then his arms came around her and drew her in. She had thought she would smell flowers like she had before now it was mostly leather and dirt, a legacy of the hard path they had taken and she was sure she was no better. But for all that, it was like it had been on the banks of the Anduin, a single perfect moment in long and deep nightmare. Only after an eternity did they part, his fair features now alight with confusion.

"Then fight, Legolas Greenleaf," She said, feeling the wind suddenly pick now that she was away from him, but she felt something inside her. Not the chill of dread but a flame, a spark perhaps but she embraced it, "Fight for those you care for, trust those you have followed. Do not let them take your will with everything else."

The pain she had seen just so recently, that would be seared into her memory had gone. In its place she saw something else, a fresh determination, a hope rekindled. "If you'll excuse me, I must go."

She nodded and watched as he took the steps two at a time, head straight and stride purposeful and those he passed watched him go, his confidence a stranger to the garrison.

Now it was her turn to look out upon Helm's Deep and the mountains beyond. It looked so peaceful, so calm beyond the walls. It was hard to believe an army of ten thousand was coming for them. Ten thousand, the number had still not yet sank into her consciousness. When had Aeanor last fielded an army of ten thousand? Had it ever?

Yet Saruman had built this army, just to crush Rohan. What did Sauron have in turn? What would he bring to bear?

"Gandalf," She found herself whispering to the open air before her, "If you ever had a magic trick up your sleeve, we need it now."

Footsteps from behind, too heavy to be Legolas' but not heavy enough to be Gimli's. They were regular too, the sound of a marching soldier, not a prowling Ranger. So, she did not turn, even as the wind whipped up her hair about her face. It was a fresh air, blowing away the smell of the fortress and mud.

"I don't suppose we ever got those archers?" She asked, trying to keep her voice jovial.

"You know," The accent was most definitely Aeanorean, "With the wind in our favour, the King might actually have been telling the truth."

"Well, if the winds were to pick a side, I'd hope we have some standing."

Xiphos laughed as he leaned against the battlements beside her, staring out as she was. How long had it been since he had laughed? How long had it been since she had laughed in turn? The sound had drawn yet more attention, for this was no longer a place of laughter or had it ever been thus?

"How is Éowyn?" She managed to ask.

"Well, she's not happy at being sent to the caves but I think it's best for all parties that she's there."

"Including you?"

"Including me, certainly. The people will need her, and one extra blade on the walls will do little good."

The Princess took a deep breath, "We're going to die here. Aren't we?"

"We are."

She glanced sidelong at him, "You're my captain. Aren't you supposed to talk me out of these moods?"

"Oh sorry, your majesty. We will of course win the day. Then we shall take a flock of winged horses to the Land of Sugar to recruit the Honeycomb to fight with us."

She punched him on the arm, a gesture that hurt her more than him as knuckles brushed his plate but it felt good, just as it felt good to hear him chuckle in reply.

There was more silence between them, but it felt good, companionable. It was something she had missed in the days that had passed.

In the end, it was he who broke it, "You were right, you know."

Now she had to turn wholly to face him, the beauty of the landscape dwarfed by this revelation, "Are you sure Saruman's not controlling you now too? Did you admit that I got something right?"

"Don't get too used to it, your majesty," He grinned and all the exhaustion slipped away when he did though it returned as swiftly as his smile dropped, "But in this instance, yes. You were right and I was wrong. We could not have abandoned these people, as I wanted to."

"I was lucky it worked out in our favour…such as it has." A dark chuckle, for this had surely to be stretching the definition of 'favour' to breaking point, "I could not have known Gandalf and the others would come."

"It was a stroke of luck true, but even if they had not arrived at all, you would have been right."

"Even though we're all going to…" She could finish her sentence, voice suddenly catching, "Even with what's happening?"

"Princess, let me share something an old soldier once told me, when I was a young welp in the 5th Legion. Death will come for all of us someday, it is inevitable. A kick from a horse, a fall from a roof, a cough in the night but soldiers, soldiers are blessed. Only the soldier gets to choose his death. For the longest time, I thought he was speaking nonsense. Soldiers don't get to choose their death anymore than grass can decide when it's cut. I could have been shot by a Sand Tribe arrow, I could have been cleaved in two by a Daoine axe, I could have been stabbed, crushed or hacked down a hundred times and none of them would have been my choosing, but here, now? His words make sense to me. A soldier can choose what he believes in and when he does, he can fight for it. He can die for it."

"And what belief have you found, Captain, here of all places?"

"A people. A proud people not unlike my own. A people who deserve a second chance. One in particular," A small smile came across his features, a dreamy look, "And the person who showed me that side to them, the side I couldn't see. Someone who makes mistakes but owns them when she does. Someone who can fight and one day will find she can lead. Someone I believe can rule. Can I fight for that belief? Yes. Can I die for that belief? Absolutely."

"Oh, Xiphos," She could feel tears building in her eyes as she drew him in, arms around his shoulders. He smelt mostly of filth and horses but she did not care as tears stained his cloak.

"Now, your majesty. It does not do to make a Princess cry," He laughed as they separated and she wiped at her cheeks, nose running as she dabbed both away with a cloth, "Karos would have my head." She giggled in turn, which only drew more tears, "Now, let us go. We have a battle to prepare for."

Xiphos went ahead to inspect the troops, to make the final checks before they would ascend the wall that would be theirs to defend. In the meantime, she prepared as best she could. There was a great many dents and scratches in her plate but none seemed to have weakened the metal nor were any of the straps broken. Her sword was as keen as it had been before in the armoury and her shield, the gift of Galadriel was comfortably weighty on her other arm. The spear she found was of Rohirrim make, rougher than she would have liked, prone to shattering like a lance but it would have to do. Her cloak was ripped in places but then she would have no need for it on the battlefield tonight. Best to keep it in here, where it was safe. The coif still wrapped itself around her head nicely and made a snug fit when her helmet slide atop it. Nemireth tilted her head this way and that, getting used to the crested weight that now sat on her shoulders. A few hairs needed moving out of her view but other than that, there were no complaints. Everything moved as it needed to move, no chinks or catches. The armourers had long taken their places in the keep so she was not sure what could have been done had anything snagged but fortunately, it was not the case.

The Princess had performed this ritual a thousand times. From the first days she had donned the weighty armour of Aeanor when it had taken so long to assemble. The guards had wanted to help her but she had refused. They had needed no help and nor should she. In time; days and weeks and months, it had become easier until putting it on was as natural as sliding on a dress. She had grown accustomed to the tightness in the chest, to the gravity of every movement and every action, each limb heavier than she was accustomed to. It was a symbol, true, but it was also a bridge to times long passed. The kings of Aeanor had worn armour since the first; Caldor and Othion, Amathor and even her father had performed this task just as she performed it now. Had they felt the fear she had when checking for weaknesses? Had they felt the thrill of coming battle? Had they uttered silent prayers to Eru, to the winds, to whoever listened for victory? Where they prepared for the glory of success? For the consequences of failure? At times these questions had felt like they would crush her and at others, like they were merely the idle fantasies of a child playing soldier. Today, they were a comfort. She was not the first of her line to feel this. She would not be the last.

Beside her, Aragorn had changed from his tattered and bloodied mail into a fresh set and he looked like a man reborn, a man alight with fire, with drive. No matter how grim the odds, no matter how badly things were skewed, he would not give up. It was hard not to feel the optimism rise within her. As the Ranger slipped a dagger into the sheath at his belt, he searched for his weapon, only to find it being held by Legolas.

"We have trusted you this far and you have not led us astray." He bowed his head, "Forgive me, I was wrong to despair."

"There is nothing to forgive, Legolas," Aragorn took the sword and the two placed their hand on the other's shoulder, the elven sign of friendship, she had long discovered. It made her smile, a moment of peace before the coming battle.

Taking a firm grip of her spear, Nemireth took a deep breath and let it escape slowly past her lips. She was ready.

Unlike some.

"If we had time, I'd get this adjusted," Gimli waddled into the armoury, holding in his arms a great bundle of mail. An extra set perhaps? Her curiosity lasted only moments before he let go and it fell to the ground as a wedding grown did at the feet of a bride. It took all her willpower then not to laugh at sight.

He looked to her as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "It's a little tight across the chest."

On the wind came the sound of a horn. Orcs? The Uruk-hai of Isengard here already?

No, she saw how Legolas turned, how his brow furrowed in confusion, "That is no orc horn!"

He and Aragorn rushed for the steps and, with an apologetic glance to Gimli, she followed.

Through the keep they ran, past assembling crowds of curious Rohirrim. A buzz was running amongst them, not the fear of the past few days but something else. Wonder? Excitement? It was hard to tell and that drove the Princess on until at last she cleared the crowds.

Assembling in the courtyard beneath the keep's stone steps were rank after rank of elves, draped in cloaks with long bows in hand, their footsteps so light that they barely made an imprint on the flagstones beneath them. How many had come? It had to be in the hundreds! The ember of hope which had crackled in the pit of her stomach now roared into life.

Watching over it all, looking as if he had seen a army of ghosts enter his fortress, was Théoden, his voice scarce above a whisper, "How is this possible?"

Facing across from him was someone she recognised. A blonde elf dressed not now in the cloaks of Lothlorien but the garb of a warrior, as proud a soldier as she had ever seen, Haldír himself.

"I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell; an alliance once existed between men and elves. Long ago we fought and died together. We have come to honour that allegiance."

As Aragorn and Legolas greeted the new arrival, the man's much more exuberant than the elf, as one they turned to face their hosts, as crisp a manoeuvre as she had ever seen on any parade ground.

"We are proud to fight alongside men once more."