Part V: High Noon

"Lord Aragorn!" the servant boy shouted breathlessly, disproportional limbs flying askew as he skidded into the room. His eyes were wild with excitement, and a glint of fear sparkled in their Rohan-brown depths.

The warrior in question turned from his low-voiced conversation with Legolas and met the boy's thrilled gaze tiredly. "Yes?" For the life of him, he couldn't remember the boy's name, though he himself had appointed him to watch duty. E E-something, what was it?

The boy stumbled over his gasped words. "Scout- a scout from the, the army! The orcs! The army of Isengard!"

Immediately Aragorn dashed for the ramparts, past the boy who followed him with a look of self-satisfaction and awe. Legolas sprinted quickly after.

And his keen elven eyes saw what the Rohirrim could not: the scout' was most certainly not an orc.

He wasn't even a human.

He was an elf.

~*~

Cerise nearly fell forward in Naharendil's saddle as the elven-horse heaved himself laboriously across the plains that stretched out before Helm's Deep. She had never dreamed it would be this far; having never ventured anywhere before except the journey between Rivendell and Mirkwood, she had been unprepared for the sheer distance between Beleriand and the Lands of Rohan.

Naharendil, of course, being an elven-horse, had not tired until earlier today, when the strain of flying so fast that the mortal eye could not detect him across six hundred miles of Minhiriath and Enedwaith had finally caught up with him. His golden hooves had slowed, and Cerise's energy had with them, making sleep, a luxury that had eluded her for twenty nights and one that even elves needed, coax her eyelids downward.

But she was here! She had made the journey, and if Cerise had had the power to look upwards, she would have seen Legolas' bright head on the barricade of white stone, like a beacon in the night of treacherous loneliness she had endured.

He could never know she was the one beneath the helm. Cerise was sure that in his misguided well-meaning, he would send her back to Rivendell, back to a thousand nights of endless solitude and perpetual waiting. But she had to be here; she had to watch over him, protect him, and she had to fight. A primitive adrenaline rushed through her veins, lifting her head, and she spurred Naharendil on. The joys of battle had ever been past her understanding, but now she knew them, knew the thrill of possible victory. Cerise knew she had to keep her identity secret.

And now that she had lifted her head and saw the contingent of Rohirrim soldiers riding out to meet her, Legolas- Ai! Legolas!- and Estel at their head, she realized just how hard that would be.

~*~

Legolas urged the Rohan-horse he had swung himself atop just moments ago faster. Now, he could see the detail of the elf's appearance, and wondered at its strangeness: a dark-green under-tunic, draped with- the banner of Mithlond? How could this be? None of Cirdan's folk concerned themselves with matters of the outside world! Loose, rumpled trousers hung about his legs, and boots that looked several sizes too large covered his feet. A dark helm, also stamped with the symbol of Lhûn, obscured any vision of the foreigner's head, except for the flashing, wide eyes that stared from its slot at the temples.

And even in the cloudy light of late afternoon, there was no mistaking their color.

Green.

This made Legolas stop, losing himself in the brief stampede of Rohirrim Aragorn had insisted on being accompanied by, and simply stare at the strange elf. Before Cerise he had never, in his three thousand years of life, seen an elf with green eyes. Never. What were the chances that, in the same two months as he had met her, he would chance upon another elf with that characteristic?

Slim.

Very slim.

And so it was with great amazement and happiness that Legolas advanced upon this elf, this living reminder of his only love, reaching him at the same time as Aragorn. He noticed that as a weapon, the elf carried a blue-silken quiver of arrows and a bow carved of fine, polished wood, glimmering a deep mahogany in what little light there was.

"Glad I am to see another of my own kind, as late come as you are, friend," Legolas began, holding out a jubilant hand to the elf.

Who promptly collapsed off the horse, which caused Legolas, in a flurry of panicked thoughts, to not only realize that the elf had been riding HIS horse, Naharendil, but was also much shorter than a normal elf and extremely emaciated for a male one (this he saw when his tunic flew up briefly in the five-foot fall to the ground).

"There's something wrong here," he observed quickly, leaping out of the saddle to check the elf's pulse and feel for any broken bones.

"No?" Aragorn said sarcastically. "Er, Legolas?" He glanced surreptitiously at Naharendil. "Isn't this your horse?"

Legolas was about to answer back when the prone elf's eyes flew open, wide with shock, and he croaked out, "Get away from me!"

"I'm just trying to help you," Legolas murmured soothingly, testing for flexibility in the thin joint of his elbow.

"Get off," the elf hissed, pulling himself to his feet and dusting off his robes. "I do not need assistance."

Aragorn stepped in, curious more than ever as to this stranger's origin. "Where did you find this horse?"

"Lord Elrond lent him to me when I passed through Rivendell on my way to help you," the stranger spat, his voice high-pitched with anxiety. "Which is what I intend to do, if you will cease these petty questions and give me some water."

Legolas attempted to help the elf mount Naharendil again, but he brushed him off angrily and galloped away, toward the raised gate of Helm's Deep.

~*~

Cerise felt hot tears forming behind her eyes, blurring her vision as she sped the horse that had almost destroyed her disguise toward the gate. Her so-anticipated reunion with Legolas had crashed and burned the moment she'd collapsed from Naharendil. What was wrong with her? Fatigue had never troubled her before!

But then again, you've never left the North before, and you've certainly never ridden six hundred miles without stopping for food or drink in four days, she reasoned.

A shade of brown and gold appeared beside her, and Cerise turned, adopting once again her temperamental-male-elf voice. "What is it, prince?"

"So you know who I am," Legolas answered cheerfully as they entered the bridge.

"Of course I know who you are!" Cerise cried, turning Naharendil into the gate. "I'm riding your horse, aren't I?"

Legolas looked down at it, perfect blonde eyebrow arched. "Yes, and I'd like to know the story behind that. If you are from Mithlond, how is it you passed through Rivendell on your journey but come to us through the Enedwaith?"

Cerise sighed exasperatedly, but inside she was mesmerized by the perfect state of Legolas' appearance; she was sure she looked about as appealing as a newborn Orc, and really wished he would stop talking to her so she could go wash up or something. "I I was journeying in Rhûn when I heard of the darkness in the east, and so I made for home. Unfortunately, Lord Elrond stopped me as I came through Rivendell and asked me to ride here through Enedwaith to assist you. I protested that my horse would never make such a journey, as it had been bred by men, and Lord Elrond hastened to lend me this elven-horse." She ran a hand along Naharendil's buttery-gold neck. "He has been good to me."

Legolas looked troubled at this; he dismounted, however, dismissing it and seeming to accept her story. "Earrend!" he called, and a short boy of about twelve years hurried over. "Find some food among the stores for this archer, and take him to the caves, where he can refresh himself and have some water." Then, taking one last, confused glance at her, he turned and followed Aragorn, who had been shouting his name for the past twenty seconds.

Earrend gave her a long look as well, and he was not so tactful with his reaction as Legolas had been. "Where do you come from?"

"Just obey the elf's orders," she hissed, giving him a menacing glare.

The boy scampered off, leaving a tired Cerise to follow him as best she could. Below the fortress there were water-filled caverns, and this was where he led her; in the corner were stacked hundreds of barrels, filled with food. Earrend dug briefly in one before handing her a half-loaf of bread and some extremely suspect cheese. "Over there?" he began, pointing to a darkened alcove in which a pool of muddied water had been carved. "Drinking water." He gave a sort of snorting laugh, then walked off.

"Lovely," Cerise muttered under her breath, attempting to do something remotely like spreading with the suspect cheese on the incredibly hard bread. The water, too, was suspect, and she carefully strained it through the loosely threaded fabric of the blue tunic's sleeve before drinking it from her hand. Finally, giving up on the rock-hard food, she dipped her face into the water, which shocked her into full sensitivity to the scene around her and brought some clarity to her vision.

And with that, she fell asleep.

Cerise didn't waken until several hours later; the light that had streamed into the caverns before was vanished now, and the disconcerting sound of shouts and many men conversing on the surface replaced it. Pulling herself upright, Cerise felt her stomach clench with hunger. The bread and cheese still lay untouched on the ground; desperate, and knowing she would need it in the night to come, she ate them quickly, finding that the smaller the piece was, the easier it was to chew. Hurrying to replace her helm and tuck her hair beneath it, she ventured out of the alcove.

Human women and children sat huddled by the walls, their eyes wide with fear and anxiety. The little ones clung to the thick robes of their mothers, who halfheartedly tried to soothe them, but found it difficult when they themselves were terrified. As Cerise took a shirt of chain-mail from the haphazard pile by the cavern entrance, her stomach tightened again, but not with hunger.

Making her way up the horse-and-soldier-crowded ramp, Cerise reached back and unhooked her bow from the strap holding her quiver. Her hands trembled as she held it; she was not confident at all in her abilities with this weapon, and wondered why she had thought she could help at all. She wished for a long, war-bloodied dagger, like those brandished by men around her. Surely those could not be too difficult to wield. But this bow

Now she had reached the ramparts, and was struck with the magnitude of the situation. For hundreds of yards on the right side of the keep, a troop of Rohirrim archers were stationed, their white-plumed helms low and bows in their hands. Behind them were several ranks of knifemen; at the keep stood the generals of the army, each one positioned in front of her as though she had entered a painting or sculpture, paying her no attention. A bearded man who must be the king, for his square-jeweled crown was perched proudly on his graying head, watched over the proceedings; he was speaking quietly to Estel, whose mouth was set in a thin, determined line. Before them, ready at the ramparts, were arrayed Gimli son of Gloin, Legolas, and another man, who was almost at Legolas' height but whose tall plume proved him to be of Rohan. Remembering her role, Cerise took a deep breath and approached Legolas from the side, clearing her throat to gain his attention.

Legolas turned to her. "Ah, our enforcements," he remarked, lips quirking in a half-smile.

"Where should I stand?" she said quickly, making sure her voice was low.

"Here, of course!" Legolas' eyebrows raised. "The only two elven archers in the army must work together."

"Of- of course," Cerise agreed, mentally slapping herself.

Estel, having finished conversing with the king, turned to the stationed army. "Arms at the ready!" he cried, drawing Narsil from its sheath. Cerise stared. Naught had she known of the recovery of the blade that was broken Estel suddenly strengthened in her eyes, turning from merely the consort of a friend to the formidable leader so many others must see him as. He raised the blade, shining red in the moonlight, above his head, and the Rohirrim raised theirs in salute, cheering loudly.

Then Cerise turned out from the ramparts, and saw what had widened the Rohan children's eyes and made Legolas wish for his own kind.

Advancing upon the mortal fortress was a long, silent line of darkness against the white plains of the Hornburg, glinting menacingly in places with the saffron light of orc-torches. The clouds prevented clearer sight of the army of Isengard, but the obvious evil of the tens of thousands that must compose that line was enough to make Cerise wish she had never left Rivendell.

But now, there was no escape. Helm's Deep was built into a mountain, and the orcs covered any passage to the north. She was trapped.

~*~

Legolas was worried for the safety of the stranger. His wide, vivid green eyes were dark with terror, and the slim body swathed in blue was visibly trembling. His voice had been shaky when he asked where to stand; Legolas was starting to believe more and more that this elf had never fought a single orc, much less a battle. The bow he held, while finely carved, would not kill enemies on its own. Legolas sincerely hoped that he had some hidden talent with a bow and arrow, or they would soon only have one elven archer in the mortal army.

Of course, now it started to rain.

Torrents of water poured down upon the opposing forces, illuminating them in bright, irregular flashes of fluorescent light. Legolas quickly brought his bow up, notching an arrow in it with the fluid, fast movement that comes only from years of practice (in his case, about three thousand). The elf beside him was not so quick; trembling hands hindered his withdrawal of an arrow from the silken quiver he wore, but he seemed to know how to prepare the bow for shooting. Legolas turned his attention back to the oncoming assault, and felt his hands itching to release the arrow.

A storm of foul, poison-laced black needles flew without warning into the walls of the fortress, and the orcs, misshapen faces lit by torches, gave a shout of victory when two or three Rohirrim fell, one toppling over the side and hitting the wet ground with a sickening thud. Again the orcs attacked, sending another shower of arrows through the night, and again a few soldiers fell, but no response came from the silent army atop Helm's Deep. Confused, the denizens of Isengard held still, waiting for some answer.

"FIRE!"

Aragorn's cry rang wildly in the now-quiet rain, and though the orcs did not understand the Common Tongue, they knew that command, and hurried to counter the volley of arrows that flew from the ramparts.

Legolas watched the elf out of the corner of his eye, watched him draw the bow back and release the arrow in unison with his. They flew together, hitting two orc-generals who had climbed one of the rocks to shout orders to their army. Each arrow hit its respective orc directly in the right eye.

"Elbereth!" he breathed, turning slowly to the stranger, who was already hooking another arrow in his bow.

"Do you not trust Lord Elrond?" the elf asked as he shot the wrist of an orc who was attempting to swing a ladder against the wall.

"More so now," Legolas said, taking the other elf's hint and disabling the orcs in charge of the ladders.

The elf didn't reply, but Legolas thought he could see in his eyes a spark of happy amusement.

The orc army had been greatly diminished, but it was dawn, after all, and the wall had been breached, and those that were left had infested the fortress. Still fighting on the walls were several Rohirrim, Legolas, and, of course, the elf, though he was tired, and swayed on his feet frequently. His arrows still hit their marks, but both of them had been reduced to pulling orc-arrows out of their fallen comrades, then shooting them back at the enemy. However, a group of orcs seemed to be attempting a larger ladder now, and because Legolas was forced to use his free hands fending off orcs on the wall with his knives, the other elf was on his own.

Stabbing one orc in his black-clothed chest, Legolas brought his left leg up to kick him to the ground and out of the way, then used his two knives to slice the stomachs of two orcs- one on either side- open. At one point, an orc managed to hold his arm away long enough to let another pass, but thankfully the other elf heard his shout for help and fired an arrow into the offending orc's throat.

Having defeated the current wave of orcs, Legolas managed a muttered "Thank you," to the stranger before dashing after Aragorn, who was riding down the bridge alongside Eomer, swords drawn and grinning with glee. And he would have made the jump, too, had he not been stopped by a rather feminine scream.

Legolas turned, expecting massacre- had the orcs delved into the caves containing the women and children?- only to be confronted by something far worse.

~*~

Cerise struggled in vain against the incredibly bad-smelling orc who had pounced on top of her from the ladder, bowling her to the ground and knocking her bow from her hands. He seemed to be one of the smarter ones, and his grotesque, paint- and blood-encrusted features twisted into an insane smile when he saw how thin she was, and how easily she would be subdued. Saying something in the orcish dialect, he reached up and ripped off her helm, laughing in surprise and sadistic delight when her hair spilled from its metal confines. Cerise cringed and rolled out from under the orc, since he'd let up his guard, and hoped no one had seen this, but she could not get away before the orc sliced a ribbon of crimson across her back. Cerise cried out, her voice high-pitched with pain- anyone would know she was a woman- and, before she knew it, the world slipped away before her eyes, bringing welcome darkness.

~*~

Legolas rushed to the fallen elf's side, not even registering the change in the stranger's appearance until he got there. After gathering the fabric of the tunic and pressing it to the wound on his back to staunch the blood, he touched an amazed hand to her face, gently brushing a stray scarlet hair back with its companions.

"Ceriselen," he whispered in awe, tears almost coming to his eyes as the most eclectic mix of emotions he had ever felt rushed through his veins. Ecstasy that he had finally been reunited with her, sadness that she had had to fight for that privilege, and finally, terror that she would not survive the blow from the orc were all battling for precedence. Legolas managed to lift her off the ground, slick with blood and rain; feeling her body against his brought back a flood of memories of their affair in Rivendell, and he found himself fighting through the crowds of orcs and soldiers to get to the caves behind Helm's Deep. Everything's fine, he told himself, not looking at the limp figure in his arms. She's going to be all right

She had to be all right.

~*~

A/N: Just so everyone knows, I took the Helm's Deep details from the book, but the appearance of it from the movie, all right? I suck at writing battle scenes, so I tried to kind of cut through that and get to the plot. Er yeah. Anyway, I'm really grateful for all the reviews I've gotten, and I hope you guys keep clicking that button! (It's blue and down there by the chapter-chooser) yeah. Thanks for your support! Keep reading!

~goldenberry~