Zero Hour
The race was on. Time was flowing by like an unstoppable river, pounding across the rapids, beating mercifully on the rocks. The wind howled through the trees, causing the last leaves of the autumn to finally break away. Lungs burning, eyes watering, heart racing, nothing else mattered anymore. Nothing else could ever matter anymore.
There was no stopping it now. The future was set.
Aragorn raced as the time of the battle grew closer. He had to stand at the front lines, beside his friends in arms.
The wind rushed.
If men, Elves and Dwarves, indeed, all different people were going to die for all of this, he was going to be there. He was going to lead them.
A cold rain began to come down from the heavens above.
In that moment, the Ruler of Gondor was created from a man who never wished to be anything more than one man.
Frozen mists began to pelt down from above, stinging his eyes and his face. Making every part of him numb and penetrating him to the core.
What had brought him here? What was fate hoping to prove by doing all of this to him?
He was going to make it. He was going to stand there. He was going to fight.
The battlefield laid out before him as the mists cleared. The gravity of the situation weighed down upon his heart.
Would they hold? Could they hold?
He came upon Helm's Deep.
He stopped.
Lightning split the sky and all was quiet.
He drew his sword.
Fin