Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, all characters, places, and related terms are the sole property of J.R.R. Tolkien's estate and New Line Cinema.
Author's Note: This story is AU, and takes place during the Battle of Helm's Deep.
Flying to the Rescue
"Sir!"
Aragorn pulled his sword from the orc at his feet and turned in the direction of the frightened high-pitched voice. A boy of no more than ten years struggled toward him, weighed down by his heavy chain mail shirt and helmet, jumping over the dead bodies sown about the cold, wet stones. The sword in his small hand was dark with blood.
"Sir!" the boy said, once he was closer, "some of the orcs have broken into the Glittering Caves!"
Aragorn paled visibly for a moment before fierce determination clouded his face. Without a word he rushed to the lad, who motioned for the ranger to follow. Their progress to them seemed slow as they found themselves locked in combat with the orcs they tried to rush by. Fires of impatience and worry burned in their hearts. Suppose they were too late…!
Finally, the lad came to a hole in the fortress wall. Several lifeless Rohirrim and three orcs lay scattered around the self-made entrance.
"There were about ten that made for the caves," the lad breathlessly said as he followed Aragorn inside the dark passage. "They went to the left. They know the way."
Aragorn's eyes found the boy's at this statement. Those creatures intended…
"Stay here. Make sure no others come in," he instructed.
"I will come," the boy objected firmly. "My ma and sister are down there, sir!"
A small sad, understanding smile touched Aragorn's face. "Come."
Then they raced blindly through the passage. Their dismay increased as they passed through the broken doors of the caves and heard frightening cries from the women and children. Their swords were drawn and ready as they rounded a corner and saw some of the women against a wall, clinging desperately to each other.
Their eyes followed the others' gazes in time to see the last remaining orc screech loudly as a sword ran through it; falling to the ground among its dead comrades, it hissed and trembled momentary before it grew silent and still.
Eyes wide in astonishment, Aragorn and the boy eventually gaze from the heap of dead creatures to the long golden-haired figure that stood in the middle of the carcasses, yanking the sword from the orc.
Eowyn turned and met Aragorn's gaze. The lad gaped for a moment before remembering his manners.
"Lady Eowyn," he gasped in amazement and bowed respectfully.
Eowyn acknowledged the lad before her eyes returned to Aragorn's. His eyes were warm, filled with admiration and relief. Hers were unreadable, with a burning light in their depths.
At a loss for words, Aragorn simply nodded his head respectfully to her, a hint of a smile playing on the corners of his mouth. "My Lady," he murmured.
Eowyn's expression softened, and her eyes cleared. "My Lord," she said in return, nodding.
Their eyes held each other a moment more before Aragorn turned away. The battle was not yet over, and he knew he was needed. Breaking out into a brisk jog, he hurried to return to the heat of the battle.
THE END