Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters or settings from Lord of the Rings or Xena the Warrior Princess

Author's Note:

This is a LegoRomance (slow-burn)

ActII

Rise to War

Chapter 95: The Battle of Helm's Deep

Helm's Deep – Midnight, March 5th 3019

The weight of the night pressed heavily over Helm's Deep as the first rumbles of thunder rolled across the horizon. Lightning forked through the blackened skies, illuminating the fortress's towering walls and the determined faces of its defenders. In the armory, the flickering light of torches cast long shadows across rows of weapons and armor. The air was thick with anticipation, an almost suffocating tension as preparations for battle neared completion.

Xena stepped inside, shaking off her drenched cloak. Her leather armor gleamed faintly in the firelight, revealing the scars and bruises that marred her skin—a testament to her recent ordeal at Khafir's camp. With practiced ease, she began sorting through weapons, testing their weight and balance. The rhythmic clink of steel was her solace, a momentary distraction from the storm outside and the battle to come.

Legolas stood near the far wall, his sharp eyes trained on Gimli, who was grumbling about ill-fitting armor. The dwarf wrestled with a chain vest too tight around the chest, his mutterings punctuated by the occasional clang as he tossed another rejected piece aside.

"Perhaps you should fight without one," Legolas suggested dryly. "It would save us all the noise."

Gimli scowled, his reply sharp. "Not all of us have elven skin impervious to steel, princeling."

Legolas's lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, but it vanished the moment his gaze drifted to Xena. She hadn't noticed him yet, her focus entirely on the task before her. The sight of her—her bruised arms, the weariness etched into her posture—stilled his thoughts. He had known she had gone to great lengths to uncover the truth of his nightmares, but he hadn't truly seen the cost until now.

The elf's heart twisted in his chest. Anger flickered at the edges of his mind—not at her, but at the peril she had faced alone. And then came the worry. He hated the thought of her enduring such pain, especially for his sake. It was an unspoken truth that her resolve to protect him stirred emotions he hadn't fully dared to name.

Legolas approached, his steps silent on the stone floor. He stopped a few feet away, watching as Xena secured a blade to her thigh holster.

"You should rest," he said softly.

Xena paused but did not turn immediately. "There's little time for rest," she replied, her voice steady but tinged with exhaustion.

His sharp gaze caught the slight tremor in her hand as she reached for another blade. "You've done enough. More than enough," he pressed, stepping closer. "Whatever you endured to find those answers… it was not worth this."

Her shoulders stiffened. Slowly, she turned to face him. For a moment, their eyes locked—his filled with quiet intensity, hers guarded yet searching.

He crossed the room silently, pausing a few steps behind her. "You should have told me where you were going," he said, his voice low but firm.

Xena turned slightly, her hands still working to secure a sword to her belt. She didn't look at him. "We've had this conversation already, Legolas. It won't lead anywhere." Her tone was steady but tinged with exhaustion. "What's done is done. And if I had to, I'd do it again."

He faltered, her words slicing through his arguments before he could speak them. "You shouldn't have had to bear it alone," he said finally, though he knew it was a hollow protest.

A faint, humorless laugh escaped her lips as she turned fully to face him. "You would have stopped me," she said simply, meeting his gaze.

He held her eyes for a moment, knowing she was right. He would have tried. He would have demanded she stay, tried to convince her it wasn't worth the risk. And she, with the same unyielding determination he both admired and resented, would have gone anyway.

"I made a promise, Legolas," she continued, her voice softening. "To find the truth. To help you. Whatever curse haunts you, I will see it undone. That is my choice, and nothing will change it."

The room fell quiet save for the distant echo of thunder. Legolas's sharp grey-blue eyes studied her, noting the pallor of her skin, the shadows under her eyes, and the way she stood—resolute, but tired in a way that went beyond the physical.

"You've changed," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "You carry more than the scars of battle now. I see it in your eyes."

"And you think you're the only one burdened by the past?" she replied, her words pointed but lacking venom. "We all have ghosts, Legolas. Some old, some new. Some heavier than others."

His expression softened, and he took a step closer. "Then let me carry some of yours," he said quietly.

Xena blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. Her blue eyes locked with his, and for a moment, the walls she kept so carefully intact wavered. The scent of rain drifted in on the wind, mingling with the familiar crispness of his presence—a hint of mint and citrus that she hadn't realized she missed.

Her heart beat faster, adrenaline surging not from battle, but from something deeper and more terrifying. She saw him not as the prince of Mirkwood, but as the elf who had stood by her side through countless trials, the friend who had quietly become something more.

Without thinking, she closed the small space between them. Rising onto her toes, she leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a kiss that was both brief and deliberate. His lips were warm, soft, and he didn't pull away. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just the two of them, the kiss unspoken but honest, raw in its simplicity.

Legolas hesitated, his own surprise melting into an instinctive response as he lingered just a moment longer. Her lips, cool but soft, were a stark contrast to the storm raging outside. It wasn't a kiss born of passion but of quiet understanding, a fragile connection in the face of an uncertain future.

Xena was the one to pull away first, stepping back as quickly as she had closed the distance. Her gaze lingered on his face, catching the faint flush on his cheeks, the glimmer of confusion, and something unspoken in his eyes.

"Save your strength for the battle, elf," she said, her voice steady as she retrieved the weapons she had chosen. "You'll need it." And with that, she turned and strode out of the armory, leaving him standing in silence.

Legolas watched her go, his heart heavy with thoughts he couldn't yet name. The kiss still lingered on his lips, its meaning tangled with the storm of emotions she stirred within him. For now, there was no time for answers, no space for clarity. The storm outside mirrored the one in his heart—chaotic, relentless, and inevitable. All he could do was stand beside her in the coming hours, knowing he would follow her into whatever darkness awaited.

For a moment, the darkness of the Deep seemed absolute, the only sound the steady drumming of rain against stone. Then, a blinding flash of lightning illuminated the valley, stark and white, revealing the vast expanse of Saruman's army. The space between the Dike and the fortress teemed with black figures—some short and broad, others towering and cruel, their helmets like iron crowns and their shields sable discs of death. Hundreds poured over the Dike, surging like a black tide into the gap. From cliff to cliff, the wave pressed against the Deeping Wall, and thunder roared in the valley.

Tension coiled tightly in the hearts of those on the wall. Men and elves stood ready, their faces grim in the dim light of the torches. Anxiety hung thick in the air, like a living thing, clawing at their resolve. The army of Saruman was vast, greater than any the Rohirrim had seen before, and its approach was deliberate, menacing. Long before the Uruk-Hai came into view, the defenders heard them—marching in lockstep, boots pounding the earth in a relentless rhythm, the sound deep and resonant. Their guttural war cries grew louder with each passing moment, echoing off the cliffs. The sound seeped into the bones of even the bravest warriors, fraying nerves and darkening hearts.

Xena stood on the upper wall, her gaze sharp as she surveyed the endless sea of Uruk-Hai marching toward them. The rain plastered her dark hair to her face, but she paid it no mind. Around her, the elven archers of Lothlórien stood in disciplined ranks, bows in hand, their faces serene despite the storm and the enemy. On her left, Gimli stood tiptoeing to peer over the parapet, grumbling at the height of the wall that obscured his view. On her right, Legolas leaned against his bow, his sharp eyes alternating between the advancing army and Xena. He watched her more than he cared to admit, the set of her jaw and the steady grip of her hands a quiet reassurance amidst the chaos.

The rain fell harder, drumming against helmets and pooling at their feet. As the first lines of the Uruk-Hai came into range, the tension reached its breaking point. The opposing forces stared at each other across the void, weapons raised, their hatred palpable. This would not be a battle of survival—it was to be a massacre. Two thousand defenders, men and elves, against ten thousand Uruk-Hai bred solely for war and death.

These were no ordinary foes. The Uruk-Hai had none of the frailties of men. They felt no fear, no doubt. They were bred for this, shaped by the twisted will of Saruman to be merciless killers. Their siege towers loomed behind them, ready to strike the walls. Siege ladders and battering rams gleamed faintly in the rain, prepared to breach Helm's Deep's defenses. They came to destroy, and they would not stop until nothing stood between them and their goal: to crush Rohan and seize the One Ring.

At the front of the walls of the elven archers stood Aragorn, Legolas, Xena, and Gimli. Aragorn, soaked to the bone, prepared to issue commands to the elves, who trusted his leadership without question. Legolas stood ready with his bow, his sharp arrows poised to pierce Uruk-Hai armor and cut through the black wave. Xena's hand hovered near her chakram, waiting for the moment to release it, aiming to strike down as many foes as possible in one deadly arc. Gimli, axes in hand, grumbled beside them, muttering about cutting Legolas down to size if the elf's confidence soared too high.

Above them, on the battlements of the keep, King Théoden stood surveying his people. His eyes swept over the soldiers and archers below, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what was to come. Yet, his voice was steady as he gave his orders, his words firm and resolute, lending strength to the men who would follow him into the storm.

In the caves behind the Deeping Wall, Éowyn moved among the women and children, her movements betrayed none of the turmoil in her heart. She reassured the frightened mothers and crying children, her voice calm as she whispered words of hope she barely believed herself. Her gaze lingered on the cave's entrance, longing to join the fight that raged just beyond.

The thunder grew louder, and with it, the cries of the Uruk-Hai. The first arrows were notched, the air thick with tension. The battle was moments away, a storm of blood and steel waiting to be unleashed. And when the storm broke, there would be no turning back.

The storm's strength was relentless, marked not by brilliant lightning or deafening thunder, but by an ominous, ceaseless downpour that soaked every stone, every warrior, and every weapon. Aragorn wiped the rain from his face with a weary hand, his sharp gaze fixed on the approaching horde. Behind him, the elven forces stood like statues, bows in hand, their eyes trained on the enemy.

Though they brought strength and precision to the defense, Aragorn knew the odds were grim. With the forces of Saruman closing the gap, survival seemed a faint hope. Yet the resolve of the defenders was steadfast. No matter the outcome, they would fight to the last.

"A Eruchîn, ú-dano i faelas a hyn an uben tanatha le faelas!" (Show them no mercy! For you shall receive none!) Aragorn's voice rang out, cutting through the sound of pounding rain and rattling spears. The tension was unbearable; the Uruk-Hai sought to unnerve them with their relentless stomping and guttural chants, each moment of waiting stretching into an eternity.

"You could have picked a better spot," Gimli grumbled, straining on his toes to peer over the wall. He gave an irritated snort. "What's happening out there?"

Legolas, standing beside him, smirked and couldn't resist the jab. "Shall I describe it to you? Or would you like me to find you a box?"

The dwarf barked a laugh, amused despite the impending danger. "At least your humor hasn't drowned in this storm."

Xena stood nearby, watching the two with a shake of her head. Months ago, elf and dwarf could barely stand each other, and now they quipped like old friends. She turned her attention back to the enemy below, her eyes narrowing as the sound of pounding spears grew louder. The Uruk-Hai formation stood in grim stillness, a sea of black armor and wicked blades, poised for the kill. Neither side moved—both waiting for the other to strike first.

A single misstep broke the silence. An elderly soldier stumbled along the wall, his grip faltering. A bowstring snapped, and an arrow loosed prematurely. It struck an Uruk-Hai square in the chest, felling the creature in an instant.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to freeze.

Then the valley erupted.

The Uruk-Hai screamed and roared, their voices merging into a deafening battle cry that rolled like thunder through the rain-soaked night. They surged forward, spears glinting and banners whipping in the wind. Their arrows followed in a black storm, slicing through the rain and clattering against the stone walls. Some arrows struck true, eliciting cries of pain as defenders fell. The men of Rohan, amazed and horrified, stared out at the overwhelming tide of death that advanced upon them.

Aragorn's voice cut through the chaos. "Dartho!" (Hold!) he commanded, his tone firm and steady despite the onslaught.

The elves obeyed without hesitation, raising their bows in unison, their movements as fluid and precise as a single entity. Legolas lifted his bow, drawing it smoothly as his keen eyes scanned the charging mass of Uruk-Hai. Rain streamed down his face as he called out in Sindarin, his voice calm and sure. "Faeg i-varv dîn na lanc a nu ranc." (Their armor is weak at the neck and beneath the arms.)

Beside him, Xena drew her chakram, her fingers steady despite the cold and wet. The rain drenched her, but her focus was unbroken, her gaze sharp and unyielding. She took aim, letting the chaos fade into the background, her mind honing in on the first of many targets.

The sound of Aragorn's command shattered the moment: "Leithio i philinn!" (Fire!)

The sky darkened further as elven arrows flew, swift and deadly, streaking down into the advancing Uruk-Hai. Screams pierced the night as the first rank of the enemy fell, their bodies collapsing into the mud. Yet more surged forward, undeterred by the rain of death. The assault on Helm's Deep had begun in earnest, and the defenders braced themselves for the storm to come.

At first, the rain fell in gentle waves, a cool mist sweeping over the Deeping Wall. But as the hours dragged on, it intensified, turning frigid, the icy droplets biting into the skin of men and elves alike. The spring air lost its warmth, replaced by a chill that seeped into armor and froze hands on hilts. No wind stirred the night—only the whistle of arrows through the downpour and the steady drumming of Uruk spears against the sodden earth.

King Théoden's orders carried over the clash of rain and steel, and the archers atop the walls began loosing arrows into the advancing mass. Each volley found its mark, bringing cries of rage and pain from the enemy.

Legolas stood tall among the defenders, his posture deceptively relaxed. His right hand moved with practiced grace, plucking arrows from his quiver as he aimed with deadly precision. To an observer, he might have seemed indifferent, almost serene. But within, the elf's senses burned with sharp clarity, a familiar fire coursing through his veins. It was a feeling he knew well—the heightened awareness before battle, the anticipation that accompanied the knowledge of death's inevitability. His every muscle, though poised, was ready to spring into action.

Beside him, Xena worked in tandem with the archers but relied on her most trusted weapon: her double chakram. In a fluid motion, she separated the halves, gripping one in each hand. With a sharp flick of her wrist, one disc spun through the air, slicing through the throats and torsos of the Uruk-Hai climbing the wall before returning to her. She caught it mid-spin, her movements swift and precise. The other half followed, carving a path through another cluster of foes before rebounding to her grip.

Her eyes were alight with fierce determination, and a devilish grin tugged at her lips as she twisted her neck to the side, loosening her shoulders. Each throw was lethal, the chakrams glinting like silver fire under the rain-drenched sky. She darted along the wall, launching her weapons with unerring accuracy, her dark hair whipping against her face.

But even she was not immune to the strain. The repeated motions of throwing and catching began to wear on her arms. Her muscles ached, her hands trembling slightly as fatigue set in. She glanced at the elven archers, their movements fluid and tireless, and felt a begrudging admiration. Especially for Legolas. Despite herself, she muttered, "Show-off," under her breath as he loosed two arrows at once, both finding their marks.

The air thickened with the clash of steel and the whistle of arrows. On the walls, the defenders poured volley after volley into the Uruk-Hai. Below, chaos reigned. Uruk bodies littered the mud, their dark blood mingling with the rain. Yet still, they came—laying massive siege ladders against the walls, ascending one by one.

The Uruk-Hai responded with their own onslaught, their arrows blackening the sky, falling in relentless waves. The defenders on the walls ducked and shifted, but some were not quick enough. The first elf fell, then another, their light extinguished. The storm of death showed no mercy. A sharp, discordant blast of trumpets cut through the night, signaling the next phase of the assault. Uruk-Hai and Dunlendings surged toward the Deeping Wall and the causeway leading to the gates of the Hornburg. Their shields bore the White Hand of Isengard, a dreadful sigil illuminated by the flashes of lightning.

Xena's grin widened as the enemy drew closer, her eyes flashing with a fierce, almost malicious light. Nearby, Legolas dispatched a Uruk-Hai with twin blades, slashing in a fluid arc that sent the creature tumbling back. Before he could move to the next, Xena's chakram whirred between them, severing the Uruk's neck cleanly. She caught the weapon effortlessly, flipping it into her other hand and throwing it again, where it found another target among the climbing Uruks.

Legolas turned to her with a raised brow but said nothing.

Further down the wall, Gimli's booming voice echoed. "Two already!" he called, slamming his axe into another foe with pride.

"Nineteen!" Legolas replied with a smirk as he released another arrow, his tally climbing with every shot.

"Bah! I'll not be outdone by a pointy-eared princeling!" Gimli roared, redoubling his efforts.

Xena shook her head at their contest, slashing an Uruk's throat with her blade while mentally counting her kills. Despite herself, she found a strange amusement in the competition.

At the gate, Uruk-Hai shield-bearers pressed forward, ramming their way toward the Main Gate under Théoden's desperate orders to hold the line. But the real threat lay beneath the wall. Saruman's strategy came into view as Uruks carried explosive charges toward the drainage culvert.

"Togo hon dad, Legolas! Dago hon!" (Bring him down, Legolas! Kill him!) Aragorn's urgent shout broke through the noise, drawing the elf's attention to the torch-bearing Uruk sprinting toward the charges.

Legolas loosed two arrows, both striking true. The Uruk staggered but did not fall. Xena, realizing the danger, rushed to Legolas's side, her chakram spinning through the air to cut down surrounding Uruks. But the torch-bearer reached his mark. The explosion ripped through the wall with deafening force, chunks of stone flying in all directions. Xena stumbled as the ground shook beneath her feet. Legolas pulled her upright, but both were forced to retreat as the breach allowed Saruman's army to surge forward.

The Main Gate groaned under the Uruk-Hai's relentless pounding. Théoden and his men fought to hold it, but the force against it was too great. Splinters flew as the gate cracked, and the Uruks poured through, weapons raised.

"Hado i philinn! Hero!" (Hurl the arrows! Charge!) Aragorn cried, rallying the defenders. Gimli, now at the gate, leapt into the fray, his axe cleaving through the first Uruk-Hai to cross the threshold. He roared in defiance, but the tide of enemies threatened to overwhelm him.

Above, Xena and Legolas fired volley after volley into the advancing horde. As the chaos grew, Xena cast one last glance at the breach before gripping her sword tightly, finally, it was time to test it. The night was far from over, and the bloodshed was only beginning.

Xena and Legolas remained perched on the Deeping Wall, holding the steps against the relentless tide of Uruk-hai. Legolas fought with an almost supernatural precision, his swords flashing like twin streaks of silver as they sliced through flesh and armor alike. Despite the filth and chaos, the elf retained an unearthly composure—his hair untouched by grime, his movements fluid and effortless.

Xena, by contrast, was a whirlwind of ferocity. Blood and mud stained her leather armor, and her hair clung wetly to her face, but her focus was razor-sharp. As she turned to glance at the elf, she caught sight of him placing his blades back into their cases and drawing his bow once more. In the midst of firing, his gaze flicked to her, a momentary flicker of awe breaking through his usual stoicism.

For an instant, Xena returned the look, struck by the elegance of his movements. But there was no time for such thoughts. She dashed toward the stairs, flipping twice in mid-air and landing beside him with flawless precision. Legolas raised a brow at her acrobatics, his faint smirk betraying his admiration before the battle drew them back into its chaos. Together, they resumed their relentless assault.

All around them, the Deeping Wall was a maelstrom of violence and death. Corpses piled high, mingling with rivers of dark Uruk blood that pooled at the defenders' feet. The clang of steel on steel and the anguished cries of the wounded filled the air. Those still standing began to fall back toward the keep, the sheer numbers of the enemy forcing a retreat.

Gimli was dragged from the fray by two elven warriors, his stout body protesting every step. "Let me go, you blasted twig-eaters!" he bellowed, struggling against their grip. "I'm not finished yet!"

"You're finished when you're dead!" one of the elves snapped, hauling him to safety.

Amidst the chaos, Xena found herself fighting alongside Haldir of Lothlórien. The elf's movements were as precise as a dance, his blade carving through the enemy with deadly efficiency. Beside him, Xena was no less ferocious. Her chakrams flashed through the air, cutting down Uruks before returning to her hands. She ducked and spun, her sword slicing through flesh, her every motion calculated to kill.

The filth of battle clung to her—Uruk blood, mud, and rain mixing into a grim testament of her resolve. Her mind raced, not with fear but with the instinct of survival, her thoughts consumed by her next strike. She felt the weight of her own exhaustion creeping in but refused to yield.

Then, in a single terrible moment, an Uruk-Hai loomed behind her, its blade raised high. Xena turned too late, her muscles taut with the realization that she wouldn't move fast enough.

But before the blade could fall, Haldir intervened. He shoved her aside, striking the Uruk with deadly precision. Yet even as the creature fell, another closed in. Xena scrambled to retaliate, but Aragorn appeared, his sword cleaving through the enemy before it could strike again.

Haldir staggered, his hand instinctively pressing against his side where a blade had found its mark. He dropped to his knees, his strength faltering as his life ebbed away. Aragorn knelt beside him, catching him before he fell to the ground. Xena knelt as well, her face pale, her breath catching in her throat.

Haldir's gaze locked with hers for a fleeting moment, a faint smile tugging at his lips before his body went still. Aragorn lowered him gently, his fingers brushing against the elf's neck in vain hope. Finally, he shook his head, his expression grim.

Xena clenched her fists, closing her eyes against the sight. Haldir's sacrifice burned in her mind, filling her with a sickening guilt. To die for her... it felt like a wound deeper than any blade could inflict.

The battle raged on, the Deeping Wall breached and the gate battered. Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas led the retreat into the keep, fighting every step of the way. The Uruk-Hai surged forward in an endless wave, forcing the defenders into tighter quarters. Every strike of their weapons carried the weight of desperation, but the sheer numbers of the enemy made it clear that survival was fleeting.

As dawn broke, King Théoden stood amidst his men in the keep, his face weary but resolute. "We cannot linger here," he said gravely. "The fortress will not hold."

Aragorn's thoughts turned to Gandalf's parting words: Look to my coming at first light on the fifth day. At dawn, look to the east. The ranger's eyes hardened with renewed determination.

"The sun is rising," he said, his voice steady. "One final ride. We meet them head-on."

Théoden nodded, his own resolve steeling. "So be it."

They mounted their horses, the king, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Xena leading the remaining riders. As the gate opened, they charged into the mass of Uruk-Hai, their blades flashing as they carved a path through the enemy. The first rays of dawn spilled into the valley, illuminating the chaos.

Then, from the east, a bright light flared on the ridge. Gandalf appeared, clad in white, his staff gleaming like a star. At his side rode Éomer, leading the Riders of Rohan, their spears glinting in the sunlight. The sound of their charge was a thunderclap that shook the valley, their war cries echoing over the battlefield.

The Uruk-Hai turned in confusion and fear as the riders descended upon them, their formation breaking under the onslaught. Retreating into Fangorn Forest, they met their end at the hands of the Ents and Huorns, who exacted swift vengeance.

Back at Isengard, the Ents unleashed their fury upon Saruman's stronghold, breaking dams and flooding the plains, extinguishing the furnaces of war. The power of Isengard was drowned beneath the rushing waters, and Saruman was left isolated in Orthanc, his dominion shattered.

As the last Uruk-Hai fell, the survivors of Helm's Deep stood amidst the wreckage, their bodies weary but their spirits lifting with the knowledge that they had prevailed. The battle had been won, but at a cost too great to celebrate. The dead lay among the ruins, their sacrifice a stark reminder of the price of freedom. As the sun rose higher, casting its warm light over the valley, the defenders began their grim task of gathering the fallen. The day would be remembered, but its scars would linger long after the victory.

((Upcoming Chapter Ninety-Six))

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