The arrival of the elves had meant a last moment change of plan. Now it would be they, led by Haldir and Aragorn, who would man the walls for the coming battle. The Aeanoreans would take up position in the quagmire behind, ready as a reserve to either the wall or the keep, along with those elves who could not stand with their brethren. It was a less glamorous posting and a part of Nemireth, the part of her that was princess of her kingdom, did rankle at the slight but it was no longer the time to make a big deal of it. This gave them their best chance and, compared to how she had felt just an hour previously, she was more than happy to swallow her pride.

For now, she stood on the walls, Legolas to one side and Gimli to the other. Around them, the elves of Lothlorien were still, serene. She wished she knew how they did it. Were their insides twisting in knots like hers were beneath those helmets? Was it experience that calmed them? Training? Was it something that only elves could master, beyond the fingertips of a mere mortal to even grasp? How could any being of flesh and bone stand so easy with what faced them?

Out in the darkness of the young night were torches. So many torches. They went back as far as she could see and no matter how many times she prayed, they did not seem to end, more and more coming over the hills and spilling into the valley. The sound of feet upon the ground was like a constant rumble from within the earth, the walls trembling as if even they had been struck by fear. How could ten thousand be a larger number than she could have imagined? How it was it possible for there to be more?

"You could have picked a better spot."

The voice of Gimli drew her eyes down, away from that bone-chilling sight to where he had been sandwiched between one elf and another, Legolas catching Nemireth's eye as his lips curled. He was trying not to smile, but the gesture was like bursting a wineskin holding the tension and she could not help but chuckle.

A blaze of light crossed the sky followed by a great crack that felt like a whip from the heavens. She heard the plink as a fat drop of water landed on her shoulder. Then another. Then another. Then the deluge began, soaking her hair through in seconds and sticking it to her armour, droplets sliding down her back and into her tunic, making it sticky and uncomfortable.

"Why?" The Princess closed her eyes, whisper coming out as a slight fog before her lips, "Of all things, why rain?"

Her questions went unanswered by mortal or otherwise as the flashes of lightning threw their enemy into stark clarity; their long spears, their broad shields, their hulking armour.

"Do not show them mercy!" Aragorn strode down the wall, his words strong, "For you shall receive none in turn!"

He stopped at them, watching the army of Isengard as it approached at the same slow but inevitable speed.

"Well lad, whatever luck you live by, let's hope it lasts the night." Gimli looked up at him.

Legolas nodded, "Your friends are with you, Aragorn."

The Dwarf snorted, "Let's hope they last the night."

Nemireth gave them one last smile, something she could not even hold for a heartbeat before taking a deep breath, "I should go. Good luck…I'll see you all on the other side."

"Aye, don't go dying on us yet, Lassie!" Gimli thumped her on the back, nearly knocking her forward.

Legolas took a long moment, a hesitancy she had not expected, eyes flicking as if he were looking something, an answer to some question within himself. Finally, he just nodded, barely masking a resigned, nearly pained expression, "Good luck."

Aragorn caught her as she went to leave, "Keep a sharp eye. Stay safe."

"And you," She took his shoulder as she had seen the elves do, a strange gesture but one he seemed to appreciate before she headed for the steps.

The King's Guard stood in four ranks a good distance from the wall, far enough to be out of range should any arrows come over the wall towards them. Xiphos stood with her helmet tucked under his arm, an eyebrow disappearing under his own helm as he handed it to her.

"Well, mustn't look too bad out there."

She gave him a pointed look before slipping the crested helmet over brown, sodden hair. She should have put it on beforehand, or at least a cap. Well, she was sure the discomfort would be forgotten about before too long.

Taking her spear, she saw the tip was shaking. This was it.

The rumbling stopped. Then came thumping, the sound of thousands of spears striking the earth together. An intimidation tactic. Like the cries of the Ellayan horseriders, or the hums of Daoine reavers, or even the calls of the Aeanoreans themselves, designed to intimidate and dismay.

It was working.

Then, as abruptly as it had started, it stopped. She heard a call from the wall but she could not be sure what was said over the rain. Then a booming horn from within the enemy ranks followed by a terrible roar and the pounding of charging feet. This was it.

The Elves began to loose arrow upon arrow at their foes, movements as smooth as water flowing through a font, as seamless an action as countless years training could produce. The Uruks retaliated, the harsh thunk of their crossbows contrasting to the sharp ring of elven bowstrings. Nemireth winced as she saw elves twist and fall from the wall, some thrown clean from its top by the force at which they were struck.

Then came a call she heard between two cracks of thunder, "Pendraith!"

Ladders.

Before she knew it, the uruk-hai were on the wall, as strong and terrible as she remembered from Isen. The archers had drawn their blades and were as graceful with these as their bows, skilled and precise. But the wall was narrow and room sparse. It was not a place for a dance but a brawl and in this tight space, the Uruks with heavy armour and iron bars as swords were taking a terrible toll of their lighter opponents, driving them from the ladders.

"Lochía!" She called to one of the sub-captains, a man she knew as Daros, "Your men to the wall!"

"Yes, your majesty! Eascn! Anni!" He should have commanded a hundred men, but it was barely twenty who lifted their shields and ran for the steps, drawing swords as they went. No sooner were they on the wall than they were in combat but now the uruks had to face Aeanorean steel as well as elvish blades and they were driven back. High above, arrows rained from the keep and those parts of the wall not yet scaled. Nemireth could barely take her eyes off the fighting above her, watching as her friends cut through their attackers. They were holding! She dared not believe it but they were holding!

Then she looked, there were uruks at the grate in the lower wall.

What were they doing? Piling strange spiked containers atop one another? Supplies? Hardly medical, given uruks? Hooks and ropes? Were they planning on digging beneath the wall?

"Aragorn!" She tried to get his attention, to warn him, but there was so much noise and so much movement that he didn't see, locked in battle on the wall, trying to both command and survive.

"Lochía Nevor!" She looked over her shoulder to the second of the four sub-captains, "Get to that grate! Stop them!"

"Yes, your majesty!"

Another twenty men advanced, their steps slow and trudging as they struggled through the mud, spears lowered and shields raised. She watched intently, waiting to see if they would need reinforcements.

The world went white.

A wave hit her like a hammer, sending the Princess sailing backwards and landing hard in the frigid, wet mud with a pained grunt. Her ears were ringing, high pitched, gnawing at her brain. A roar passed over her, louder than any thunder could be.

How long she lay there, she could not tell, her sight returned slowly while every part of her body was tensed and sore. Looking up at the blackened storm clouds, she could see it was no longer water raining from above but rock, great chunks of masonry. Her mouth was bone dry and her head throbbed as if picks were being driven into her forehead. Something warm trickled down along her eye; blood.

She looked up with a groan, the mud settled around her, and scarcely believed what she saw. The wall, sturdy and stout just a moment ago, was gone.

There was nothing between her and ten thousand Uruk-hai.

The Princess looked around frantically but the formation that had stood there was gone, scattered. She could see men here and there in clusters, sheltering from the remains of their only defence as it fell upon them. Ahead, the Uruks were checked, not by strength of arms but by the rush of water, a charging force that drove them back and bought her time.

She scrambled for the whistle hung about her neck, put it to her lips and blew.

No sound came forth.

Oh no…

It was filthy, doused in thick, brown mud, disgusting to both smell and taste but she tried again. A pathetic bubble welled up from the end and popped.

Clean it out!

Her fingers were shaking so much. Each attempt to claw out more mud only seemed to push it further in. Still no sound would come.

A rustle of wind passed above her head, white flashes so fast she could barely see them. Arrows? The first of the uruks twisted and fell under the volley.

The uruks had passed the first line of defence, the water subsiding and they poured forth, so close. Lochía Nevor and his men had vanished.

A strong hand grabbed at her collar and she found herself rising against her will. Oh, Eru she was going to be sick.

"Now, now! We can't have our princess in the filth like us commoners!" Xiphos laughed, his voice muffled and distant, as dirty as she but eyes bright and grin broad, "Araharné! Omáran!" He put his whistle to his lips and blew a shriek, loud and piercing normally but to her dull and thin.

From all directions came dazed King's Guard, capes torn and tattered, armour muddied and dented but they formed into ranks all the same. Crooked and uneven ranks but still ranks. Before them was the entire might of the Isengard.

There was only one thing to do.

"Herio!" She drew her blade and charged.

With a cry, her men followed.

The Uruk-Hai were ready for them, standing in organised rows with long spears waiting. The shield, strapped to her arm still, was glowing intensely. Those in front seemed to shy away as she hit with a cry in her throat. The first spear bounced off her shield, the second caught her shoulder but then she was amongst them, slashing frantically wherever she could reach. All around her, came the ringing of blade on shield and spear on breastplate.

The fighting dragged on. No matter how many she killed, there was another in his place, wincing at the intensity of Galadriel's gift but still launching relentless attacks upon her. To either side, her men died and those left had to step back. There were too many, too great a rush. The elves joined the fray, long and curved blades adding to the straighter wider Aeanorean weapons but they could not stem this tide. Step by step, inch by inch, they retreated.

"Nan barad! Nan barad!"

It was Aragorn's voice! But she had no time to rejoice that he lived, only to hear his words. To the keep. They were conceding the wall.

The King's Guard stood where they were. They had to keep fighting. Retreat now and it would doom those on the wall, those around them. They had to hold the breach as long as they could,

She could see above as elves took flight, running for the single, narrow staircase that led to the keep, around her they retreated. Still the King's Guard stood.

Another step back. The man beside her fell under a savage blow from an Uruk sword which she swiftly avenged.

Another look. There were no elves left on the wall. Only Uruks spilling over their ladders and down the stairs.

"Anaharné! Chórisaran!" The guard tried to follow her command, tried to take an organised step back. No sooner had they done so than their enemy was there. They had no time to move. No time to breath.

"Your highness! To our flanks!" She heard Xiphos and saw the danger. The Uruk Hai were to either side of them. Any longer and they would be surrounded. "We must break!"

Panic flooded her mind. What else could she do?

"Nemireth!" It was Xiphos again, his voice louder, "Command it!"

The word left her lips so quickly she was not sure she had dared speak it, "Tréxaran! Tréxaran!"

Run.

And with that one word, that one command, Xiphos' Company of the King's Guard, the most elite formation in all Aeanor, dissolved.

Men were in full flight, all thoughts of battle gone from their minds. The Uruk-hai were amongst them, chopping down so many trying to escape. Some faced their enemies, though through bravery or fear it was impossible to tell, they died quickly, overrun by the mass that confronted them.

Above the screams, she could hear Xiphos, "Protect the princess! Protect the princess!"

Soldiers were falling from her side as quickly as they could reach it, a disorganised cluster hacked away by their enemy. This was no longer a time for fighting but for survival and Nemireth watched as the steps drew closer, struggling through mud that now rose up to her ankles, making every step an effort worthy of the Valar. There was no sign of Aragorn, none of Legolas or Gimli or Haldir, no elves or Rohirrim occupied the deep now, only the Uruk-Hai of Isengard and the dead.

"Protect the Princess!" Still Xiphos called, "Protect-"

His voice cut out. She could not see him, only an Uruk who appeared at her back, snarling through his faceless helmet. She barely parried his attack. The steps were close but the enemy was closer.

White-tailed arrows fell amongst them. The uruk who had attacked her fell away as one embedded in his throat. Looking up, she saw the elves lined along the top of the keep, loosing shot after shot. Even with the wind, in the darkness and the seething mass of friend and foe so far beneath them, it seemed to be only uruks picked out by the archers of Lothlorien. In moments, those in pursuit were gone and the survivors charged up the stairs as quickly as they could.

Only once they had reached the top could Nemireth breath, take a second to understand what had happened. There was no sign of Xiphos, no sign of so many. Her breath was loud in her own ears, head pounding worse than ever. It felt like a bad dream, stomach rolling and churning.

"Princess," Legolas grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around, "Princess, we have to go!"

"To go…" She repeated the words without truly understanding them. Her head was swimming. Had his voice always been so muted?

"We have to fall back!" He was all but shouting in her face, holding her firmly, "The gate is about to be breached! Aragorn and Gimli bought us some time but not much! We need to reach the hall now!"

Another voice shouted above the others, "Fall back! Fall back!"

Legolas was all but dragging her now, elves and Aeanoreans running once again. Were there always so few? It seemed there had been more before the battle. Would she call it a battle? Little more like a stumbling block. Even with all her pessimism she not thought it would end so quickly. Had there ever been any hope?

Through the keep they ran until they were in the main hall, the door sealed and barricaded behind them. In the dim light of the hallway, she could see just how few were left. Barely enough for the hall, frightened and exhausted faces stood out to her everywhere.

"Quickly! Take the benches!" Aragorn ran from man to man, gentle with some and all but throwing others, "Barricade the door! They'll be coming!"

"The fortress is taken! It is over!" Théoden was being tended to by one of his aides, wrapping bandages around his shoulder. He had been wounded? There was blood on his armour. His own?

Speaking of blood. Only now did she remove her helmet and gasped at what she saw. A slice of rock sharp as any spear had buried itself in her helm, just above her eye, splitting the metal with a jagged edge. Still blood trickled down her face and she wiped it away with a sleeve. Without the helmet she would not have been alive.

Xiphos.

She could not see him. But he had to be here. Maybe he was wounded, amongst those being sent down into the caves. That was it. He had to have been injured. A lump formed in her throat at her own thoughts.

"You said this fortress would never fall while your men defended it! They still defend it! They have died defending it!" Aragorn's insistence, his fierceness shone out all the brighter in this, the darkest of moments but she could not bring herself to feel his hope. Théoden was right. The Battle of Helm's Deep had been lost.

"Is there another way out of the caves for the women and children?"

Silence. Théoden's aides looked amongst one another, faces like those of ghouls.

"Is there no other way?"

"There is one," Hama exhaled, "It leads into the mountains. But they will not get far, the Uruk-hai are too many!"

"Send for the women and children to make for the mountain pass, and barricade the entrance!"

"So much death…" Théoden was not looking at them but off into the far distance, locked in his own little world, "What can men do against such relentless hate?"

"Ride out with me" Aragorn said, "Ride out and meet them."

"For death and glory," It was so simple an idea, so foolish and yet Théoden's face lit up at the mere idea, "For Rohan."

"For your people."

The first light was starting to creep through the high windows of the hall and suddenly, not all was dark. When had she last looked upon a dawn as she did now? Had she ever? Likely she never would again.

"My lord," Hama coughed sheepishly, "If we ride, the doors to the caves will be exposed. They'll be vulnerable."

"We'll hold them," Nemireth heard her own voice as if it belonged to a stranger. Suddenly all were looking at her, "We'll hold the doors. For as long as we are able."

Théoden approached her, with an expression somewhere between pity and joy. He placed a firm hand on her shoulder, "Rohan is thankful that Aeanor was here to stand with us, Princess Nemireth. Here, at the end."

She nodded, feeling tears well up in her ears, "Fight hard, Théoden King, and die well."

"Die well…yes," He turned away, back now longer bowed, head no longer down, "Yes! The horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the deep! One last time!"

Those who could mount horses did so. Those who could not went with Nemireth into the second hall. It was a small force; those who remained of the elves, the Rohirrim and her own men. There had been a hundred and fifty King's Guard when the battle had started, now she counted only thirty. Aragorn had stayed with Théoden; he would ride out beside him. It was a fitting end, the kings of Gondor and Rohan dying in the field together. Gimli had gone to blow the great horn atop the keep, the bellow that would herald Rohan's last stand. Legolas, he had chosen to stay with her and with his kin.

So now here they were, a tiny force with their backs to the doors leading down into the caves. Behind she could hear banging and thumping as they were barricaded by those within. Ahead, the doors between halls had also been propped with a few benches and bars, all that was left. There was nowhere else to go, nowhere to retreat to.

So she settled into the shield wall, Aeanorean and Rohirrim together, elves behind with bows drawn. Ahead they heard a crashing and splintering of wood as the door to the great hall gave way, then a muffled cheer and galloping hooves as the defenders began their final charge. As the sound of ringing metal and Uruk roars came from beyond, slowing fading, she tried not to think of what would follow, Aragorn lying dead amongst the horses and guards of Théoden King.

As they faded away, all that could be heard was the breathing of those left. All who stood between the people of Rohan and the Uruk-hai of Saruman. It still didn't feel real.

"So, this is how it ends." Legolas spoke quietly to her.

"I guess so," She tried to offer a smile but could not bring herself to do so, "I hope you've still some fight left."

"More than enough," There was scrambling beyond the door, heavy footsteps carrying something heavy, "There is something I…need to tell you."

"I guess it can't wait," She was not looking at him, only watching the broad wooden door behind which waited her end.

"When I said I fear to lose those I care for, I was only partially speaking the truth."

Thump! The door jarred and settled back in place. A few of the benches fell away.

"There are those I care for and there those who I…who I love…"

Thump! The door groaned.

She looked at him. He did not look away.

Thump. The door bowed inwards before settling back.

They touched foreheads and embraced. She held him close, a moment of beauty in such darkness.

Thump! Part of the door fell away, beyond swarmed the armies of Isengard.

She could feel the eyes on hem, but no longer did she feel dulled, drowning in her own despair. Looking around at the haggard, drawn and frightened faces of whose left whom she commanded, she found her voice, "We are all of us soldiers, and we now have a choice, a privilege!"

Thump! The door sagged.

"Few get to die for something pure, something beautiful!"

Thump! It was now hanging off its hinges.

"Behind us, is the spirit of Rohan, it's soul! Every Uruk-hai you kill, every second you live, gives that spirit a chance to live!"

Thump! The last bar across the door splintered.

"We are soldiers of the Blue City! Of the Golden Wood! Of the Mark!"

Crash! The door gave way.

"We stand as one!" Nemireth settled behind her shield, sword levelled and ready.

"We stand together!" The answer came as a roar, loud and defiant. The shield wall rose ready and arrows were loosed into the flood of Uruk-hai that stormed through.

The Uruk-Hai fell upon them, but the wall held. Each defender, man and elf, fought desperately with spear, with bow and with sword. Nemireth's arms were heavy, her breath ragged in her chest but still she slashed and hacked, shield glowing in the dim morning light. The Aeanorean beside her fell, too tired and too slow to raise his shield. Legolas stepped into the gap beside him, dual daggers swirling as he parried and sliced his foe before him. If they were going to die, then they'd die together. Side by side.

Even in all the chaos, all the death, all the loss, her heart lifted a little. He loved her!

A horn blew beyond the door.

It was no orc horn.

And just that like, they were alone. The Uruk-Hai broke off and charged back to the door from whence they had come. No one moved, breathing hard but holding formation. It had to be a trick. They were on the cusp of victory, why would they retreat? They had to be regrouping, preparing for a second attack.

"My lady?" One of the Rohirrim looked to her.

"Hold position," She sighed, "Stand your ground."

Could she hear swords ringing? The calls of men? She couldn't. It had to be her imagination, some part that still hoped for salvation. The rising sun funnelled through the door to illuminate the defenders of the final door.

The clopping of a horse, Aragorn?

Not even by Eru's will could he have survived the charge.

A shape blocked out the sun, mounted atop a brown stead. She steadied herself, refusing to believe, refusing to hope.

"Nemireth," Aragorn said it softly, "We have victory."

"How?" She croaked. Her mouth was bone dry, lips cracked.

Two more figures rode up to him; one wearing the green cloak of the Rohirrim and a long horsehair-crested helmet, the other clad all in white, staff in hand. Éomer and Gandalf.

They had won.