Chapter Fourteen: Helm's Deep

The march was long, cold and wearying. The voice in my head returned with a vengeance, and reprimanded me over and over: Now you've done it, you idiot. You've gone and left your friends to die, not to mention your sister. And now they all expect you to be some great commander? You don't even know how to kill!

I don't want to kill, I argued with myself. I got what I wanted.

What's that? the voice sneered. You wanted to be a commander?

No, I thought angrily. I saw Elennar. I held her in my arms.

But it wasn't who she wanted it to be, the voice hissed. It wasn't her brother Isilden; it was Snagra the orc.

Shut up! I snarled mentally. She loves me, and I love her. That's all that matters.

The voice fell silent, and I sighed. Maybe it had been right after all. Elennar hadn't been held by her brother, but by a green-skinned, White-Hand-wearing, hobbit-whipping orc. Snagra was no real substitute for Isilden; Elennar and I both knew it. But the voice in my head knew it best.

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The orcs didn't strike up conversations as we marched this time, so I was plagued again by their incessantly thudding footfalls. But I soon noticed another sound, an annoying snigger from beside me. The unusually short orc on my right was laughing, with a sound like shifting gravel.

"Keeheehee… gonna get 'em good, we are… heehee, fifty thousand against a couple 'undred… won't stand a chance, them… keehee!"

"Shuttup and keep marching, ya rat!" Zharag snapped. "Don't know why I put up with you, Dugum. Might as well order a rock to march, the way you listen…" He spat angrily on the grass. "Keep moving, all of you!"

Marching on, I suddenly cringed as my ears popped and my throat burned, almost simultaneously. It felt as if I'd just had boiling water poured into them both; they felt seared, and I couldn't hear or breathe for a short while. None of the other orcs seemed to notice or care, so I went on in stoical silence.

----

Dark clouds rolled overhead as the sun set. Icy rain poured down on us, seeping through gaps in our armor. My soaked tunic clung uncomfortably to my body.

I could see Helm's Deep looming in the distance, a shadow that grew with every step I took. As the horde drew nearer, I could begin to see the figures atop the walls; a great host of men and elves. And I was expected to kill them.

We halted before the wall, and I gazed up at our adversaries. I instantly recognized Aragorn and Legolas; the two of them were armed, ready to leap into battle at a word. I shuddered at the expressions of hate upon their faces. Everyone was utterly silent, waiting…

Suddenly an arrow whizzed down like a lightning bolt, embedding itself in the throat of an orc beside me. A voice cried out from above, "Dartho!" (Wait!)

The orc gave a groan and fell dead on the ground. The horde gave a roar fifty thousand voices strong, and charged. The war had begun.

Arrows hissed through the sky, striking elves and orcs alike. My companions fell around me, and I was lucky enough to receive only a grazed shoulder. Slowly I approached the wall, narrowly avoiding death many times.

An arrow zipped past, mere inches from my throat, and an idea struck me. Pretending the shaft had pierced my neck, I made a gurgling noise and fell to the ground as if I had been slain. The orcs all moved around me; some stepped on my back, thinking I was a corpse.

I warily lifted my head and crawled on my stomach toward where a group of orcs were erecting a tall ladder. Scrambling onto it, I jumped off onto the wall just as a man shoved it backward. Parrying his sword, I ducked away and was soon lost in the masses of fighting elves, men and orcs.

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated a dark-haired elf being forced back by a group of attacking orcs. The elf had a gash across his brow that was slowly dripping blood into his eyes. He slashed at his foes, half-blinded. I leapt on the orc nearest me and cut it swiftly down, then proceeded to finish the others.

The elf wiped his eyes with his sleeve as I lowered my sword and spoke to him. "Naa le tereva?" (Are you all right?) I asked.

Looking startled, the elf nodded. "Yé," (Yes) he replied. "Ya naa le? Sut ilue pedich Sindarin?" (Who are you? How can you speak Sindarin?)

"Tanya uumea rona si," (That doesn't matter now) I told him. "Iluea le uma meso'nat ten nin?" (Could you do something for me?)

"Ai'nat," (Anything) the elf replied. "Sut ilue bangadon le?" (How can I repay you?)

"Istach Aragorn ion Arathorn?" (Do you know Aragorn son of Arathorn?) I asked.

The elf smiled, a light entering his eyes. "Iston ro mae. Erin maba le na ro, ae anirach." (I know him well. I can take you to him, if you wish.)

"Hannon-le," (Thank you) I sighed gratefully. "Manke naa ro?" (Where is he?)

"Aphado nin," (Follow me) said the elf. "Mani naa essa lîn?" (What is your name?)

"Isilden," I replied, reverting to the Common Tongue. "My name is Isilden."

"I am Lord Elrond of Rivendell," the elf told me. "I am in your debt, Isilden."

"It was nothing, sire," I said with a smile.

Lord Elrond glanced up sharply. "Get down!"

We both ducked as arrows flew past just where our heads would have been. I glanced at Elrond, remarking, "Well, it looks like you don't owe me your life anymore, sir."

Elrond gave a brief laugh as he straightened up. "So it would seem. Now come with me, quickly!"

We raced along the battlements of the wall, hacking down orcs as we ran. Blood splattered my armor, only to be washed away by the torrential rain. Elrond's cloak was slashed in a dozen places, flapping in the cold wind. We fought as one, watching each other's backs.

After a while we stopped, and Elrond put his hand to his forehead, murmuring under his breath in Elvish. I couldn't see what happened, but when the elf lowered his hand, there was no evidence of a cut except for a crimson smear to show where it had bled.

"How did you do that?" I gasped.

"I'm a healer," Elrond answered. "It's a gift of mine; one of many." He removed his cloak and handed it to me. "Take this – you'll need it more than I."

I frowned slightly, inquiring, "Won't you be cold, sir?"

"A little," the elf replied. "But it will help to hide your identity. You'll be much safer this way."

I nodded, securing the cloak about my shoulders with the leaf-shaped clasp Elrond handed me, and pulling the hood up to conceal my face. Then I looked down dejectedly – it was even longer than the one I'd borrowed from Aragorn. That day seemed so long ago now.

"Ready?" Elrond asked me. "All right – let's keep going."

We ran on, with lightning flashing overhead and thunder roaring in our ears. An arrow very narrowly missed my ankle. When I tried to go on, I found that the shaft had pinioned Elrond's cloak to the stone beneath me.

"Lord Elrond, wait!" I yelled. "I'm stuck!"

Elrond turned, frowning as he spotted the arrow. Reaching out for it, he jerked his hand back as another shaft embedded itself in his cloak. "Use your sword! Cut it loose!" he cried.

I nodded, slashing at the cloth with my blade. Finally it tore away, and I stumbled back a pace. Regaining my balance, I was half-pulled along by the elf, hurrying to safety.

"There," Elrond gasped, suddenly pointing. "There's the door. Hurry!"

I looked, and saw a thin ray of red-gold light spilling out into the night. Rushing toward it, we both ducked into the keep, and were instantly jostled about by a mass of Rohirrim soldiers carrying wood for a barricade. Elrond moved in front of me, calling, "Aragorn?"

"Lord Elrond!" a voice cried out. I looked up to see Aragorn struggling to reach us through the crowd; he was followed by another man, with golden hair that came down to his broad shoulders, and framed his kingly face with its wise blue eyes.

Elrond and I both bowed our heads in respect. "Théoden-King," the elf said to the gold-haired man. "We can't hold them off for long. We need more time."

"How long?" asked Aragorn.

"As long as you can give me," Elrond replied, backing toward a hallway to the side. He looked down at me and ordered, "Stay here, Isilden," before re-entering the fray outside.

Aragorn sighed in relief, stepping closer to me. "Isilden! You're alive… Whose cloak is that?"

"Lord Elrond's," I replied. "Why?"

"Just curious," the Ranger shrugged. "Was it like that before you borrowed it?"

"Pretty much," I answered. "Well, except for the missing corner, that happened after…"

"Never mind," Aragorn halted me. He pressed himself against the wall as half a dozen Rohirrim passed, all bearing a long beam between them and shoring up the door with it. "How did you get here?"

"With the others," I replied. "All fifty thousand of them, give or take."

Théoden gave me a blank look, repeating, "The others?"

Aragorn nodded silently to me, and I slowly lowered my hood and unfastened Elrond's tattered cloak from my shoulders, revealing both my face and the White Hand upon the breastplate I wore.

Théoden's sword made a rasping noise as it flashed from its scabbard. Aragorn stayed his hand, nodding again. I took off my orc-armor and showed the king my sodden tunic, White Tree and all.