The Witness of the First Breaths

by La Dame de foudre

Calion, a man shrouded in mystery, travels across the lands of Arda, bearing an invisible burden. When he crosses paths with Aragorn, their fates intertwine, awakening ancient secrets that could disrupt the fragile balance of Middle-earth.

17. Chapter 17

Make sure to read the previous chapter as I've updated the last two chapters.

---

The torchlight flickered across the vast training hall, casting long, shifting shadows over the organized chaos within. Everywhere, men, boys, and even elderly villagers struggled to prepare for the imminent battle. The youngest wielded weapons too large for their frames, while the oldest fumbled with rusted armor and brittle straps. Blunt swords, warped spears, and dented shields lay scattered in corners, a stark testament to their desperate lack of resources.

Calion stood apart, leaning against a pillar, his piercing green eyes observing the scene in silent intensity. He took in every detail—the trembling hands of those donning ill-fitting armor, the nervous glances exchanged between them, and the low murmur of fear that filled the air. But it was the raised voices at the center of the room that drew his attention.

Legolas, his face dark with tension, stood facing Aragorn. His typically calm expression was taut with frustration, barely held in check.

"This is madness, Aragorn," Legolas said, his clear voice ringing with emotion. "Look around you! These are not soldiers. They are children and old men who have never held a weapon in their lives. The weapons they carry will shatter before the enemy even reaches them. How can you believe we have any chance?"

Aragorn, visibly weary but resolute, straightened to his full height, his piercing gaze fixed on the elf. "They may not be soldiers, but they are the people of Rohan. Farmers, fathers, sons. And they are fighting to protect their families, their home. That courage is worth more than any weapon."

Legolas shook his head in disbelief. "Courage alone will not be enough. This battle is lost before it has even begun. The army approaching is immense—a black tide that will overwhelm us. We will be crushed."

Aragorn, his face hardened by unwavering determination, stepped closer to Legolas, closing the distance between them. "Then I will die with them," he said gravely, his voice steady and firm. "If we are to fall, we will fall defending what we love. I will not turn my back on these people."

Calion, who had been silently observing, watched the exchange with sharp attention. He saw the weight of reason in Legolas' words, but he also recognized the steadfast conviction driving Aragorn. Their argument was more than a clash of ideas; it was a raw expression of their fears, frustrations, and resolve.

Before Calion could intervene, a booming laugh echoed through the hall. Gimli burst into the room, his axe slung over his shoulder and a chainmail coat hanging awkwardly on his stocky frame, far too large for him.

"By Durin, look at this!" the dwarf exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. "They've given me a coat of mail that could fit two dwarves! I look like a sack of flour!"

The unintended humor of Gimli's outburst shattered the tension in the hall. Several men burst into laughter, and even Legolas allowed a fleeting smile to cross his face. Aragorn shook his head gently, a hint of amusement softening his expression.

Still grumbling, Gimli adjusted the oversized chainmail as best he could. "If these orcs think I'll go down easily just because I'm swimming in this armor, they're in for a nasty surprise."

Calion, arms crossed, let a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps we should find a smith to adjust it for you, Gimli. You'll need to move freely if you plan to prove to these orcs that you're more dangerous than an entire army."

Gimli raised an eyebrow, a glint in his eyes. "Exactly, Calion. And while we're at it, maybe we'll find one for you—so I'm not the only one shining in the moonlight."

Mildly amused, Calion didn't reply, but the exchange lightened the mood. Even Legolas seemed to regain some composure, though his gaze remained shadowed.

Aragorn placed a hand on the elf's shoulder, his expression turning serious once more. "I know the odds are against us, Legolas. But we have no other choice. These people are counting on us, and I am counting on you."

Legolas held his friend's gaze for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Then we will fight. Even against the impossible."

Calion, watching the scene unfold, felt a renewed sense of resolve spread through the hall. Fear still lingered, but it was tempered by the determination of those preparing to defend Helm's Deep, no matter the cost.

The icy wind howled over the battlements of Helm's Deep, snapping the cloaks of sentinels who stood vigilant in the night. The pale light of the stars mingled with the flicker of torches, faintly illuminating Aragorn's figure as he leaned against the crenellations. His gaze, steady and alert, scanned the dark horizon. No light had yet pierced the shadow, but the battle was drawing nearer, inexorably.

Light, almost imperceptible footsteps echoed softly behind him. Calion, moving with a measured and silent grace, joined Aragorn on the battlements. Without turning, Aragorn sensed his presence and allowed a faint, knowing smile to curve his lips.

"What is it you want, Calion?" he asked gently, his tone laced with familiar warmth.

Calion crossed his arms and stood beside Aragorn, his gaze sweeping across the plains. The flickering torchlight caught in his green eyes, giving them an almost ethereal glow, brimming with the intensity that defined him.

"I came to see if you've rested," he said, his voice low but filled with genuine concern. "And eaten. The battle approaches, and you'll need to be at full strength."

Amused by the paternal undertone in Calion's words, Aragorn let out a soft chuckle, rough but heartfelt. He turned slightly, his features worn with fatigue yet softened by his smile.

"I'm fine, Calion. I've had a few hours of sleep and enough to eat. There's no need to worry about me." Then, raising a curious eyebrow, he added with a playful glint in his eyes, "But what about you? Have you followed your own advice? Have you taken time to rest and eat?"

Calion shrugged lightly, his gaze drifting back toward the plains as though to avoid the question. "That's not important," he replied, his tone calm but evasive. "I'm focused on what needs to be done. There's too much to prepare to waste time resting."

Aragorn sighed, shaking his head with a faint air of exasperation. "You're incorrigible. Calion, I've seen you endure hardships that would break most men. But I've also seen you push yourself beyond your limits."

He straightened, his piercing gaze locking onto Calion. "I remember you in Moria. You weren't just physically exhausted—you were drained in every sense of the word. And if that were to happen again?"

The weight of Aragorn's words struck home. Calion's shoulders lowered slightly, and a shadow of guilt flickered across his face. He seemed to shrink momentarily under the burden of the rebuke, his usual confidence wavering.

"In Moria…" he murmured, his voice carrying a quiet intensity tinged with emotion. "I wasn't just fighting visible foes. I was battling ancient fears, shadows of my past that refused to leave me in peace."

He lifted his gaze to meet Aragorn's, his expression firming. "That isn't the case now. I've made peace with myself—or at least more than I had back then. I'm ready, Aragorn. I'm fine."

Aragorn searched his face for any trace of doubt or hidden vulnerability. But all he found was a calm, steady resolve. After a moment, he nodded slowly, though a flicker of concern lingered in his eyes.

"I believe you, Calion. But I remind you of this: even you have limits. And even you have allies willing to stand by your side. Never forget that."

Calion did not respond immediately. His features remained immovable, but Aragorn sensed a subtle shift in the air, as though an unseen weight had suddenly settled on his companion's shoulders.

The silence that followed was not empty but heavy, almost tangible. Calion turned his gaze toward the plains. His eyes, so often filled with a resolute light, darkened, lost in distant thoughts. Aragorn, attuned to these nuances, frowned slightly, aware that something deeper was stirring within his friend.

At last, Calion drew a deep breath—an almost imperceptible gesture, but one Aragorn noticed, felt. It was the breath of a man preparing to reveal something long buried.

"Aragorn," Calion began, his voice tinged with uncharacteristic hesitation, "I must ask something of you. A promise."

Aragorn's frown deepened, curiosity sparking in his eyes. "A promise? What kind of promise?"

Calion inhaled deeply, as though gathering his strength, his gaze fixed on the plains. The faint glow in his green eyes dimmed as memories overtook him. "This is not the first time I've fought alongside companions. But this time is different, because you know what I am—what I carry within me."

Aragorn remained silent, sensing the weight of what was to come.

"When my companions thought they had seen my end," Calion continued, his voice faltering slightly, "they did what they believed was right. They buried me. Or burned me, according to their rites. For them, it was an honor—a final tribute. But for me…"

He stopped, his jaw tightening as a shiver visibly ran through him. He crossed his arms as if to shield himself from an inner cold. "For me, it was a horror. A prison I could not escape."

Aragorn, suddenly still, felt his chest tighten. "You mean… you woke up?" he asked, his voice low, horrified. "Beneath the earth, or…"

Calion nodded slowly, unable to form the words. His features were strained, his eyes glistening with a pain he couldn't fully suppress. "I awoke in dark tombs, under stone, sometimes beneath the earth, or among still-warm ashes." He averted his gaze as if fleeing from his own memories. "And each time, I had to claw my way out of that hell. Alone."

A heavy silence fell, broken only by the whisper of the wind. Aragorn stood frozen, his expression filled with quiet horror. He opened his mouth to ask a question but closed it again, realizing now was not the time or place. The visible anguish on Calion's face told him to let the man speak on his own terms.

Calion continued, his voice weaker now but laced with a cold determination. "I cannot go through that again, Aragorn. Not this time." He turned his gaze slowly to his companion, and Aragorn noticed the faint tremors in his arms, the muscles taut like a drawn bow. "If I fall, if I seem dead, I ask this of you: do not bury me. Do not burn me."

Aragorn, still processing the weight of Calion's confession, nodded slowly, his expression marked by genuine compassion. "What would you have me do, then?"

Calion took a deep breath, steadying himself. "Take me to a place of peace. Somewhere untouched by darkness, where nature holds sway. Leave me there. If life returns to me, I will find my way back. But this time, Aragorn, I don't want to vanish into nothingness. I want to stay. I want to continue this journey with you."

Aragorn placed a firm hand on Calion's shoulder, a gesture of solidarity and brotherhood. "I promise you, Calion, I will ensure that never happens again. But know this: I will do everything in my power to see that day never comes. I cannot bear to lose such a friend."

A comforting silence settled between them, the tension easing slightly. Calion nodded slowly, a faint glimmer of relief softening his weary features. "Thank you, Aragorn. That's all I could ask for."

Aragorn, despite his many questions, chose to respect his friend's pain. He tightened his grip on Calion's shoulder briefly before letting go. "Come," he said with a lighter tone, "these defenses won't inspect themselves."

Night had fully fallen over Helm's Deep, and with it, a suffocating tension filled the air. Preparations were nearly complete; the defenses had been reinforced as best as possible, and the soldiers, though anxious, were in position. On the battlements, sentinels kept a vigilant watch, their eyes scanning the darkness where ominous shadows lurked.

Suddenly, a flicker of light appeared in the distance. Dots of fire danced beyond the fortress, growing steadily closer, moving in an eerie, deliberate formation. One sentinel leaned forward, squinting at the sight, before pulling back sharply. "Torches," he muttered to himself before calling out more loudly. "Torches beyond the walls!"

Moments later, a soldier rushed into the great hall where Théoden and his advisors were gathered. His hurried footsteps echoed against the stone, cutting through the murmured conversations. All eyes turned to him as he came to a halt, breathless, before the king.

"Your Majesty, lights are visible beyond the walls. Torches," he announced, his voice trembling but urgent.

Théoden, standing tall and resolute, responded gravely, "Then they are here. Saruman's army has come."

The soldier hesitated, glancing nervously at his comrades before shaking his head. "No, Your Majesty... it is not the enemy."

A tense silence fell over the hall, broken only by the murmurs of confused advisors. Théoden's brow furrowed deeply, his expression incredulous. "If it is not the enemy, then who is it?"

Before the soldier could answer, a sound pierced the air—a powerful horn blast, clear and majestic, echoing across the fortress. Its call resonated through the stone and wind, silencing every voice in the hall. The murmurs died instantly, replaced by stunned stillness.

Legolas, standing near the entrance, widened his eyes, his usually serene face now alight with emotion. "It is the horn of the elves of Lothlórien," he murmured with absolute du formulaire

Aragorn, beside him, nodded, a mix of surprise and relief on his face. "The Galadhrim…"
Théoden, though incredulous, turned to them. "The Elves?"

Without hesitation, Legolas and Aragorn hurried to the exit, followed by Théoden and his advisors, while intrigued soldiers watched them pass. The heavy gates of Helm's Deep were cautiously opened, and the glow of torches grew brighter. A flawless line of tall, graceful figures approached, their steps silent despite the weight of their gleaming armor and their drawn bows. The Elves, majestic and formidable, advanced with a grace that seemed to defy the laws of the world.

At their head, Haldir, captain of Lothlórien, marched proudly, clad in silver armor and wearing a confident expression. When he reached the entrance to the fortress, he inclined his head slightly toward Théoden before speaking, his voice clear and noble.

"We come to honor the alliance between Elves and Men," he declared, his words resonating in the awestruck silence surrounding him. "Galadriel and Celeborn have sent me with my brethren to lend you aid. The darkness rises, and in this dark hour, we fight side by side."

A murmur of astonishment rippled through the assembled soldiers. Théoden, though taken aback, stepped forward and responded with dignity. "Your presence is an honor, Haldir, son of Lothlórien. We welcome you within these walls and will be proud to fight alongside you."

Legolas, a rare and sincere smile gracing his lips, placed a hand on Haldir's shoulder. "Your arrival is a blessing."

Haldir nodded softly, his features grave but his gaze filled with calm determination. "Together, we will hold this stronghold."

As the Elves entered the fortress, their fluid movements contrasted with the restless activity of the Rohirrim soldiers. A newfound energy seemed to flow through the walls of Helm's Deep. Despite the looming shadow, a glimmer of hope had risen. The battle was drawing near, and now, Men and Elves would face it together.

The greetings exchanged between Haldir and Aragorn were warm and respectful. The two, bonded by past battles and friendship, clasped hands firmly. Aragorn, both relieved and elated, expressed his gratitude for Haldir's arrival, praising the courage of the Galadhrim who had answered the call in these dire times.

"You have come at a crucial moment," Aragorn said, a genuine smile lighting up his tired face. "Together, we will stand firm."

Haldir nodded, a spark of determination in his eyes. "It is an honor for us to march and fight alongside Men."

As Aragorn and Haldir exchanged words, a slight movement caught the elf captain's attention. A few steps behind, Calion stood partially shrouded in shadow, leaning against a stone pillar. Though he remained unobtrusive, his presence commanded a quiet gravity. He observed the scene with calm intensity, his green eyes faintly glowing in the torchlight. His upright posture and impassive face gave the impression that he was not just listening but weighing every word spoken.

Haldir's gaze rested on Calion for a moment, and a subtle shift crossed his features. His lips curved into a faint smile, a quiet acknowledgment, before he dipped his head in a graceful and respectful gesture.

Most of those present barely noticed the exchange, but Théoden, alert to every detail in this critical moment, caught the gesture and regarded it with quiet curiosity. Why would an elf, known for his reserved demeanor, offer such a mark of respect to a ranger, even one who accompanied Aragorn?

Straightening, Haldir addressed Calion directly, his tone calm and deliberate, yet carrying an unspoken weight that seemed meant only for them. "My Lady sends her greetings, Calion," he said, his voice resonating softly in the stone hall. "Galadriel is pleased to see that the man you once were is finding his path again."

Calion stood unmoving, his reaction measured. There was no surprise in his eyes; it was as though he had expected this. He gave a slight nod before replying, his voice steady and composed. "Please convey my gratitude to your Lady. Her words, as always, are a light in the darkness."

Beside him, Legolas observed the exchange with quiet attention. Though accustomed to the mysteries surrounding Calion, moments like this reminded him how deeply his companion was shaped by ancient secrets he rarely revealed.

The night enveloped Helm's Deep, heavy and oppressive. The pale moonlight barely broke through thick clouds, leaving the flickering torches along the walls to cast shifting shadows on the defenders' anxious faces. Calion stood beside Aragorn, his sharp green eyes fixed firmly on the horizon.

Out in the darkness, countless points of light appeared—a sea of torches stretching endlessly across the plain. At first distant and faint, the lights moved closer with relentless purpose, slowly unveiling the sheer scale of the enemy force. The chill in the air was sharp, but the men on the walls felt sweat trickling down their brows as tension built.

Around them, the defenders—farmers, craftsmen, and older men—gripped their weapons tightly. Their hands shook, their fingers slipping on rough wooden spears or cold metal swords. Faces illuminated by torchlight betrayed the fear they could not suppress. Soft murmurs rippled through the ranks: whispered prayers, quiet reassurances, desperate attempts to summon courage.

Calion watched from the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable, his presence steady as stone. The flickering light illuminated his dark silhouette, highlighting a calm that stood in stark contrast to the nervous energy around him. He saw the fear, he felt the despair, but within him, a steadfast resolve held firm. There could be no hesitation tonight.

Beside him, Aragorn shared that same unyielding determination. His gaze scanned the horizon, his face taut but resolute. He stood as a leader, a figure the men could anchor themselves to in this dire moment.

Aragorn turned slightly toward Calion, their eyes meeting briefly. No words passed between them, but the message was unmistakable: they would hold. Together.

Haut du formulaire

When the enemy army finally reached the plain before the Deeping Wall, the torches halted abruptly, forming an unbroken line that encircled the fortress like a necklace of sparks. In cold and methodical precision, the orcs and uruk-hai took their positions. Rank after rank, their dark silhouettes aligned with terrifying accuracy. Black banners fluttered weakly in the wind, bearing Saruman's sigils, while broken, tarnished armor glinted faintly under the flickering torchlight.

They stopped a hundred meters from the walls, leaving a wide strip of barren earth between themselves and the fortress. The gap, though physically broad, seemed to shrink under the oppressive weight of their presence. The seething mass of the enemy army was so vast that it swallowed the horizon, while the defenders appeared insignificant, dwarfed by the tide of shadow.

Silence fell.

There were no war cries, no guttural chants from the orcs, no clinking of armor. Only the whistle of the wind over the battlements and the dull pounding of frightened hearts among the soldiers of Rohan. This silence was no respite—it was a threat. Heavy, laden with the promise of an impending storm, it pressed against the walls like an unseen hand.

Calion, his hands resting on the cold stone parapet, surveyed the scene with an intensity almost otherworldly. His green eyes glimmered faintly in the dark, catching every detail, every imperceptible movement. He could feel the fear emanating from those around him, but he didn't allow it to reach him. This fear was familiar—a companion he had met a thousand times and subdued just as often. Tonight would be no different.

Beside him, Aragorn placed a reassuring hand on the shoulder of a young soldier whose sword trembled in his grip. "Hold fast," Aragorn said softly, his voice firm yet comforting. The boy swallowed hard, nodding, and forced himself to stand taller.

A short distance away, Legolas stood with his bow ready, scanning the plain. Even his normally unwavering confidence seemed strained; his features were tight with focus. Gimli crouched nearby, gripping the handle of his axe with a tense impatience.

Returning to his place beside Calion, Aragorn murmured low enough for only him to hear, "They're waiting. But for what? What are they waiting for?"

Calion didn't look away from the torches as he replied, his voice calm and measured. "They want to break our spirits before they break our walls."

Aragorn nodded slowly, understanding the enemy's strategy. "Then we will stand. Let them come."

The two men stood side by side, unmoving, as the dark tide before them stretched endlessly, poised to strike. Helm's Deep had never felt smaller, nor hope more fragile. Yet on the battlements, Calion and Aragorn stood tall, bearing a resolve no army could extinguish.

The archers lined along the walls held their bows taut, arrows nocked and aimed at the writhing darkness below. Their arms quivered slightly under the strain, but they waited, eyes fixed on the mass of enemies that remained still a hundred meters away. The orders were clear: hold your fire until the assault truly begins.

However, the tension proved unbearable. A young soldier, his hands slick with sweat and his wide eyes filled with terror, lost control. His arrow, released too soon, whistled sharply through the air. All eyes turned toward him as the arrow struck its mark—an orc, pierced through the throat, collapsed heavily to the ground.

For a chilling moment, silence gripped the battlefield as every breath was held. Then, like a clap of thunder, a guttural and savage uruk cry shattered the stillness. The enemy army, once poised like a predator in the shadows, sprang into action. The torches wavered as the black tide surged forward, roaring and howling, and the assault began.

Arrows immediately rained down from the battlements, hissing through the air like a deadly swarm. The archers, spurred by urgency, fired rapidly, their lethal shafts cutting into the horde. The front ranks of orcs fell in disarray, but the wave pressed onward, undeterred. The uruk-hai, massive and relentless, bellowed their war cries, brandishing their heavy weapons as they charged the walls.

Ladders slammed against the stone defenses with metallic clatters. The defenders, already fatigued by hours of tense anticipation, scrambled to repel the attackers. They hurled stones, thrust spears, and desperately worked to topple the ladders before the enemy could reach the top.

In the midst of the chaos, Calion was a figure of unyielding resolve. Wielding Calimmacil, his sleek black blade, he carved his way through the assailants who breached the battlements. Each strike he delivered was precise and lethal, and his face, though taut with effort, remained eerily calm. His green eyes shone with an almost otherworldly intensity, capturing every movement around him.

All around him, the battle raged. A few meters away, Aragorn cut down an uruk with a powerful blow before shoving a ladder back with his shoulder. Nearby, Gimli fought with ferocious energy, his axe swinging in brutal arcs, growling with satisfaction as each enemy fell beneath his strikes. Perched on a tower slightly behind the fray, Legolas loosed arrow after arrow with near-perfect accuracy, dropping orcs before they could set foot on the walls.

Even as he fought, Calion's gaze occasionally flickered to his companions. Watching Gimli's relentless fury or hearing the whistle of Legolas's arrows fueled his own determination. Each member of the Fellowship fought with unyielding courage, and their valor helped sustain hope in the midst of this nightmare.

Time seemed both to stretch endlessly and collapse upon itself. The relentless effort to repel wave after wave of attackers made every second feel eternal, yet the night pressed on regardless. The enemy's torches grew more numerous, their ladders more frequent. The men, worn and weary, struggled to hold their ground, but their numerical disadvantage was becoming increasingly apparent.

Calion forced his way to a section of the wall under heavy assault. There, he felled a massive uruk with a swift backhand slash before kicking a ladder back with a powerful blow. His arms were beginning to ache from the strain, but he ignored it. There was no room for weakness—no margin for failure.

A desperate scream to his right caught his attention. A young soldier, barely more than a boy, stumbled backward, retreating from an imposing orc. Before the creature could deliver a fatal blow, Calion stepped in, his blade flashing with deadly grace. The orc fell, lifeless, at the boy's feet. Trembling, the young soldier murmured a barely audible thanks before returning to his position, visibly emboldened by the intervention.

Despite their efforts, the enemy continued to advance. Breaches appeared here and there along the battlements, forcing the defenders to redouble their efforts to close the gaps. Calion felt exhaustion creeping into his limbs, but he pushed it aside with a sharp mental resolve. This was not his first battle, and he knew that the hardest fights were often those where the end seemed nowhere in sight.

For a fleeting moment, his gaze met Aragorn's, who was still fighting with impressive ferocity. A simple nod passed between them—a silent promise to hold the line, no matter what.

A guttural uruk cry suddenly broke through the surrounding chaos, and Calion turned just in time to intercept a deadly axe swing. His black blade, Calimmacil, cut through the air, slicing the weapon in two before sending the enemy tumbling over the parapet.

He took a deep breath, his muscles taut, his eyes scanning the horizon where the enemy forces seemed endless. The battle raged on, relentless, and yet, amidst the chaos, a spark of determination continued to shine in his gaze. The night would be long, but Calion, like his companions, would stand firm until either dawn broke or the end came.

The battle's chaos consumed everything. Cries, the clash of metal on stone, the guttural roars of orcs, and the desperate pleas of men blended into a grim symphony. Calion, at the heart of the melee, fought with unyielding precision and efficiency. His blade, Calimmacil, carved arcs of dark light with each swing, cutting down foes with an almost supernatural ease.

But as he parried yet another assault, a piercing scream rose above the battle's din—a sound that cut through the tumult like a blade. He turned sharply and saw, just a few meters away, a young soldier of Rohan, barely more than a child. The boy, frail and trembling, gripped a spear that seemed too large for him. Towering before him was a massive orc, its hideous face twisted into a cruel sneer.

The encounter was over in seconds. The boy thrust his spear, but the orc dodged effortlessly. With one brutal swing of its jagged blade, the creature disemboweled the young soldier. The boy staggered backward, dropping his weapon, his bloody hands clutching desperately at the gaping wound. He crumpled to the ground, his legs giving out, and his wide, panicked eyes searched the chaos for a familiar face.

Driven by an irresistible urge, Calion cut through the melee to reach the boy. His blade swung in a lethal arc, felling the orc with a single, precise stroke before it could strike again. The enemy fell, but Calion spared it no further thought. Dropping to his knees beside the boy, he slipped his gloved hands under the child's head, cradling it gently.

"I'm here," Calion murmured, his voice low but laced with a rare and tender softness. His green eyes, hardened by the intensity of battle, softened as he gazed into the young soldier's fading ones. A deep, aching pain gripped him. He did not know this boy—not his name, not his story—but it didn't matter. No one, especially someone so young, should die alone.

The boy's lips parted as though to speak, but no sound emerged. A single tear slid down his dirt-streaked face, carving a clean path through the grime and blood. His gaze became vacant, and his final breath escaped his lips, as light as a whisper carried away by the wind.

Calion closed his eyes for a moment, a visible shiver coursing through his body. The chaos of battle seemed to fade, dissolving into the fragile silence of this brief instant. He placed the boy gently on the ground, his movements deliberate and almost reverent, as if to honor the young soldier's final passage.

Then he murmured softly, his voice nearly lost in the surrounding carnage, "You are not alone. Go in peace."

As he stood, an unexpected weight descended upon his mind. A vision struck him like a bolt of lightning, vivid and overwhelming. Images, blurred yet powerful, overlapped the present reality. He saw himself on a beach—one unlike any in Middle-earth. The sand was fine and white, the ocean stretching endlessly before him, its deep blue waters sparkling under a radiant sun.

In his arms, he held a fragile, hunched figure with large, sorrowful eyes. The creature's pale gray skin and spindly fingers clung weakly to his tunic. A surge of immense sadness washed over him, so profound it nearly took his breath away.

He saw himself kneeling, laying this delicate being gently on the sand, his hands trembling. At first, the creature's name escaped him, hidden in the fog of distant memory. But then, as though a veil lifted in his mind, it came to him, reopening an old wound: Dobby.

Calion blinked, the sound of a falling shield nearby jolting him back to the present. He stood frozen, his breath short, his hands still shaking. The vision, distant yet unbearably vivid, had stirred a pain he thought long buried.

The name lingered in his thoughts, but he dared not say it aloud. Dobby. The memory came from another time, another place—he knew that much. It only deepened his sense of displacement, but there was something else, too: a sharp pang of guilt interwoven with an unshakable love.

He drew a deep breath and straightened, his gaze burning with renewed intensity. The battle called to him once more, yet the vision and the fragile being it revealed would remain etched in his memory—a haunting reminder of a past he could never truly escape.

When Calion returned to the fray, his movements were sharper, more precise. His blade, Calimmacil, carved through the enemy ranks with lethal grace. Each strike was deliberate, every arc of his sword forming a deadly pattern. Around him, a space opened, a circle no enemy could penetrate. There was no frenzy in his actions, only absolute mastery—a deadly dance that inspired his allies and struck fear into his foes.

The soldiers of Rohan, though weary, found solace in his presence. Calion's precision, his unshakable composure in the heart of chaos, rallied them. Many instinctively gravitated toward him, working to repel the assault alongside his relentless strikes. He became their anchor, a testament that even in the deepest darkness, it was possible to hold firm.

Aragorn, fighting nearby, cast a quick glance toward his companion. He noticed the determination in Calion's movements, the way he seemed to channel his pain into sheer strength. A fleeting, almost imperceptible smile crossed Aragorn's face as he saw the effect Calion's presence had on their comrades. His resolve, his unwavering focus, was inspiring even the most hesitant among them.

Legolas, stationed on an archer's platform, was methodically taking down every orc that dared to climb the walls. Yet, between shots, his sharp eyes lingered on Calion, drawn by the man's extraordinary fighting style. Each movement was executed with terrifying precision, his actions as controlled and deliberate as those of an elven master of arms. There was a grace and power in Calion's strikes that seemed almost unnatural for a human, as though he was wielding not just skill but something far greater.

Even Gimli, wielding his axe and grunting with every blow, couldn't help but notice the fluidity of Calion's movements. The dwarf, despite the grueling intensity of the battle, allowed himself a comment to Legolas: "That man—I don't know where he hails from, but by Durin, he knows how to handle a blade."

Time stretched on, and the battle felt endless. Despite their numerical disadvantage, the defenders held their ground, inspired by figures like Calion, Aragorn, and Legolas. In the thick of the chaos, Calion fought off every attack with cold determination. Yet even amidst the violence, he never lost sight of his allies. At one moment, he intercepted an orc just as it was about to strike a man to his left, saving a father whose silent, grateful glance spoke volumes.

Every strike from Calion carried purpose. He did not fight for glory or out of rage but to safeguard those around him. His movements, relentless as they were, reflected a deep humanity.

Gradually, the soldiers instinctively rallied behind him. He didn't need to issue commands—they followed him naturally. They recognized in him a leader, someone who guided not with unnecessary words but through decisive action and sheer determination.

Aware of the weight of this newfound role, Calion began directing the men around him. His voice, steady and clear, rose above the clamor of the battlefield, delivering concise and effective commands. "Hold that line!" he ordered, pointing to a group of men. "Push back the ladders there! You—come with me! We need to hold their advance on this flank!"

The soldiers obeyed without hesitation, galvanized by the confidence and authority radiating from him. Each time Calimmacil rose above his head, the black blade seemed to catch the flickering torchlight around them. It glimmered with a strange golden hue, dazzling nearby foes and leaving them momentarily stunned—just long enough to meet their end.

Even in the heat of combat, Calion noticed this unusual behavior. He cast a brief glance at his blade, a flicker of both confusion and awe crossing his face. "What are you doing?" he murmured to himself, though he had no time to ponder further. The enemies kept coming, and his men were depending on him.

A deep rumble of crumbling stone reverberated through the air. A massive cave troll had broken through a section of the wall. Its towering silhouette loomed in the wavering torchlight, and a collective cry of fear rippled through the defenders. The monstrous creature, wielding an enormous mace, swept aside several soldiers with a single brutal swing, spreading chaos and panic.

Calion fixed his gaze on the beast, his bright green eyes now glowing with renewed intensity. Tightening his grip on Calimmacil, an almost tangible energy seemed to emanate from him. The air around him grew heavy, charged with an invisible tension. The men nearby felt its weight—not as a threat, but as a reassurance. Their leader had not taken a single step back.

Calion's eyes began to shine with an otherworldly light, mirroring the radiance of his blade. Calimmacil, now bathed in brilliant golden light, vibrated faintly in his grip, as though resonating with the determination of its wielder. The air surrounding him shimmered, distorted by an almost imperceptible heat or a subtle yet undeniable magic.

With fluid precision, Calion charged forward, his movements like a streak of dark lightning, closing the distance between himself and the troll wreaking havoc. The beast's soulless black eyes locked onto him, drawn by his unwavering determination. With a deafening roar, the troll swung its massive club, but Calion darted beneath the strike with remarkable agility, positioning himself for a counterattack.

Calimmacil struck the troll's leg with a resounding impact. The ground shuddered beneath the blow, sending a faint tremor rippling outward. The strike carried a force that seemed to transcend the physical, and the nearest orcs stumbled under the invisible shockwave.

The troll howled in pain, lashing out wildly with its colossal arm in a desperate attempt to swat Calion away. But he was unrelenting, darting around the creature with calculated precision. Each strike he landed targeted the beast's weak points, his blows accompanied by faint vibrations in the air, as though an unseen power amplified their effect.

The men of Rohan, initially frozen by fear, found their courage rekindled at the sight of their leader facing the monstrous foe. They rallied, pushing back the orcs attempting to exploit the opening, their spirits lifted by Calion's unwavering bravery.

After a series of fluid yet punishing attacks, Calion raised Calimmacil for a decisive blow. The blade, glowing with an intense golden light, descended with unparalleled force upon the troll's chest. The impact reverberated through the walls of Helm's Deep, shaking the very stones. The troll staggered backward, letting out a guttural roar of agony, before collapsing in a thunderous crash that silenced the battlefield momentarily.

Standing atop the fallen troll's massive corpse, Calion lifted his gaze to his comrades, his breath heavy but his resolve unshaken. For a moment, the soldiers were stunned, their expressions a mix of awe and disbelief. Then, as if moved by an unspoken signal, they erupted into a defiant battle cry, their voices rising above the chaos. Calion gave them a quick, commanding gesture to return to their posts before turning back toward the fray.

There was no respite for him—not yet. Until the dawn broke through the darkness, he would continue to lead, a living flame burning bright against the shadow.

The faintest promise of dawn still lingered on the horizon, but the battle raged on. Helm's Deep remained a cacophony of desperate courage and fragile hope. Calion, his face streaked with sweat and blood, his emerald eyes still glowing with otherworldly intensity, stood near Haldir. The wind swirled around them, scattering ash and sending the flickering torchlight dancing in unpredictable patterns.

Though exhaustion weighed on him, Calion's gaze remained sharp, scanning the defenses for any sign of danger. His tattered cloak whipped behind him, and his dark hair, damp with sweat and grime, framed his focused expression. As he monitored the left flank, a movement behind Haldir caught his attention.

An enormous orc, wielding a brutal axe, crept forward with lethal intent. Haldir, his focus locked on the enemies in front of him, was unaware of the looming threat. Calion's breath caught, and for a fleeting moment, a visceral fear crossed his face—a fear that mirrored the anguish he had felt watching Aragorn plunge from the cliff.

"Haldir!" Calion's voice rang out, sharp and piercing, cutting through the cacophony of battle.

Without waiting to see if his warning reached the elf in time, Calion acted. In a fluid motion, he drew his hunting knife from its sheath. The blade gleamed faintly in the dim torchlight, perfectly balanced in his grasp. With a quick inhale, he steadied himself, adjusted his stance, and threw the weapon with deadly precision.

The knife sliced through the air with a sharp whistle, embedding itself deep into the orc's skull. The creature crumpled silently to the ground. Haldir, startled by the shout and the dull thud behind him, spun around. His eyes quickly took in the sight: the lifeless orc sprawled at his feet, Calion's blade still lodged in its head.

Haldir's gaze lifted to meet Calion's, his usually stern features momentarily softened by genuine gratitude. But as he opened his mouth to thank his savior, his expression shifted abruptly. Terror widened his eyes as they locked on something just behind Calion.

"Calion, behind you!" he shouted, his voice laced with urgency and fear.

Calion reacted instantly, spinning on his heel, his cloak flaring with the motion—but it was too late. A towering uruk, its grotesque face twisted into a cruel grin, loomed over him, its massive blade poised to strike.

With only a fraction of a second to act, Calion raised his arm to deflect the blow. The blade collided violently with his bracer, sparking off the metal and diverting just enough to spare his torso. But the razor-sharp tip found its mark, plunging deep into his right thigh.

A guttural cry of pain tore from Calion's throat, raw and powerful. His face contorted as green fire flashed in his eyes, burning with adrenaline and agony. He staggered but refused to fall. His left hand remained locked around the hilt of Calimmacil, his grip unwavering despite the searing pain.

Haldir moved with elven speed, appearing at Calion's side in an instant. His elegant blade sang through the air, slashing the uruk's throat in a single precise motion. The creature gurgled in its final moments before collapsing heavily at Calion's feet, its dark blood splattering the boots of both warriors.

Calion stood, his face pale, his chest heaving. His trembling hand hovered over the blade embedded in his thigh. The pain burned hot and sharp, but it was the sight of the blood pooling around the filthy steel that unsettled him more. His mind raced with questions: Had it severed a vital artery? Would the wound hold him back?

There was no time to linger on these thoughts. The battlements were still overrun, and hesitation meant death.

Gritting his teeth, Calion wrapped his fingers around the blade. He whispered to himself, "This is going to hurt…" and yanked it out in one swift motion. Blood gushed freely, dark and warm, running down his leg and soaking into his boot. A wave of dizziness washed over him, but he forced himself to steady his breathing. He caught Haldir's worried gaze, the elf already reaching out to support him.

"Don't... even start, Haldir," Calion growled, his voice hoarse but firm.

Haldir gripped his arm insistently, his concern unabated. "You must fall back, Calion. That wound—"

"No." Calion's reply snapped like a whip. His jaw tightened as he fought through the pain, tearing a strip from his tattered cloak. With hurried, unsteady hands, he twisted the fabric into a crude bandage, tying it tightly around his thigh. Blood quickly soaked through the cloth, but he grimaced and pulled it tighter, forcing himself to ignore the unbearable sting.

"This isn't an option, Haldir," he added through gritted teeth. His hands, now slick with his own blood, struggled to secure the makeshift tourniquet. The sight of the filthy blade and the fresh wound beneath it filled him with dread. Infection was likely, but it was a problem for later—if there was a later.

Haldir's grip on Calion's arm remained firm, his gaze filled with concern. "This is madness! If you keep this up, you'll—"

Calion, with a sharp motion, pushed the elf away, his piercing green eyes blazing with restrained anger. "I've survived worse, Haldir! This is just another wound on a body that has seen too many already." He paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow, before continuing with quiet resolve. "If I stop, others will fall. I cannot leave."

The captain of the Galadhrim, proud and seasoned though he was, hesitated in the face of Calion's unyielding intensity. He recognized that look—the look of someone fighting for something greater than themselves, for lives not their own.

But Haldir was not ready to back down. "You can't keep going forever. You won't—"

"I'll keep going as long as I breathe," Calion interrupted, his voice calm yet unwavering. He leaned briefly against the wall to steady himself, drawing a deep breath before standing tall once more. His expression was impassive, as though pain were a distant memory. "If I fall, it will be on this battlement—not cowering in some corner."

Realizing he would not change Calion's mind, Haldir nodded slowly, frustration etched across his otherwise stoic features. "Very well. But know this—if you falter, I will not let you fall."

A tired yet sincere smile crossed Calion's lips. He patted the elf's shoulder lightly. "Then stay by my side. We still have a wall to defend."

Haldir inclined his head, and together they returned to the fray. The elf discreetly watched Calion's back, ready to intervene if needed, while Calion pressed on, ignoring the searing pain in his thigh. Every movement was an ordeal, but he refused to give in. The soldiers around him, unaware of his injury, continued to follow him, drawing strength from his presence and pushing themselves to hold just a little longer.

Blood seeped steadily through his makeshift bandage, trailing down his leg and staining his boot. Each step left a scarlet mark on the stone beneath him, but Calion clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The battle was far from over, and as long as he stood, he would fight.

Through the chaos, Calion remained an indomitable force, his dark silhouette cutting through the enemy ranks like a shadow with a blade. His injured leg caused a pronounced limp, but he pressed on. Haldir, loyal at his side, stayed vigilant, cutting down any foe that ventured too close. His silver eyes often flickered to Calion's leg, where blood soaked the improvised bandage and dripped onto the stones, leaving a crimson trail.

The elf couldn't help but wonder how much longer this man could endure. It wasn't the enemy that concerned him—it was the blood loss. Calion's sheer willpower was admirable, almost superhuman, but Haldir knew that even the most resilient spirit had its limits.

"You can't keep this up forever, Calion," Haldir said firmly, his voice low but insistent as he dispatched an orc with a swift slash to the throat.

Calion, panting, replied between swings of his blade, his tone steady and resolute, "As long as I breathe, Haldir, I will hold." His voice, though low, carried a raw power that seemed to defy exhaustion and pain.

The night, which had felt eternal, was finally yielding. In a brief moment of respite, Calion lifted his gaze to the horizon. A pale glow was emerging in the east, the first sign that dawn was at last breaking. His breath came in ragged gasps, and a cold sweat trickled down his spine. His body was at its limit. Movements that had once been fluid and precise now felt sluggish, clumsy. Yet he did not stop. He could not.

Calimmacil, his faithful blade, seemed to compensate for his waning strength. Though his strikes lacked their usual power, the black sword cleaved through armor and flesh with an almost supernatural ease. Every swing cut true; every enemy fell. But Calion knew it was not his body that kept him upright—it was his unyielding will.

A sound shattered the din of battle—a powerful horn blast reverberated through the fortress, piercing the hearts of the defenders. All movement paused for an instant as every gaze turned eastward. Calion, still catching his breath, followed their stares. And then he saw it.

A radiant light burst forth as the sun crested the highest hill. An army of horsemen, clad in the colors of Rohan, thundered down the slopes. At their head rode Gandalf, his white robes gleaming like the very light of day, a divine figure leading his people into the fray.

The effect was immediate. The defenders, weary and overwhelmed by exhaustion and numbers, found renewed strength. A battle cry erupted from the ramparts, lifting the spirits of the soldiers. Hope, long dormant, surged to life. The orcs, now caught in a pincer, faltered and began to retreat in disarray.

Calion, watching this sight, felt an immense wave of relief wash over him. His guard lowered slightly, and his body, long past its breaking point, protested vehemently. His legs trembled, and he staggered to the side as if about to collapse.

Haldir was at his side in an instant, gripping his arm firmly to steady him. "Calion!" the elf growled softly, his silver eyes locking onto the man's with piercing concern. "Hold on—I won't let you fall here."

Calion drew a deep breath, summoning his remaining strength. He clenched his jaw and lifted his head slightly, meeting Haldir's gaze. "I… I'll hold, Haldir. To the end."

Haldir gave a measured nod, loosening his grip but staying close, ready to catch him if needed. Calion returned to his position on the ramparts, leaning slightly on his sword for support. He refused to show his fatigue, but the fire in his eyes betrayed his iron will. He would not falter—not now, not after coming this far.

Below, the cavalry of Rohan crashed into the disorganized ranks of the orcs like a devastating storm. Gandalf, radiant as a beacon in the darkness, led the charge with unmatched authority and strength. The orcs, trapped between the horsemen and the defenders of Helm's Deep, were caught in a tightening noose. The tide of the battle had turned, and with the dawn came the hope many had believed lost.

Despite his exhaustion, Calion watched the scene unfold with a mixture of relief and quiet pride. Light always triumphs over shadow, he thought, tightening his grip on Calimmacil. Yet he knew the battle was not yet won. As long as he could stand, he would continue to fight.

For Calion, the final moments of the battle became a kaleidoscope of chaos. The shrieks of orcs, the clash of blades, and the labored breaths of soldiers blurred together with vivid flashes of memory erupting in his mind like lightning.

With every strike of Calimmacil, images overlaid his reality. He saw himself casting beams of light from a strange wooden wand. These flashes were unlike the battles he knew in Middle-earth. No, they belonged to another world, another time. Faces emerged amidst the chaos. A young man with fiery red hair, his resolve burning brightly even in the darkest shadows, fought at his side. A young woman with wild, bushy hair and piercing eyes exuded an almost tangible energy, her movements precise and deliberate.

Calion blinked, but the visions persisted. A towering figure, cloaked in dark robes, appeared in his mind. The man's face, framed by silver hair and sharp, penetrating eyes, grew clearer. Dumbledore. A strange warmth filled Calion's chest. This was no enemy—this was a guide, a mentor. But why was his mind conjuring this memory now, amidst the chaos of battle? The image blurred before he could hold onto it.

Then, a darker shadow loomed. An enemy, his face obscured, radiated a terrifying and malevolent aura. Calion felt a surge of anger, but it was accompanied by a fear he refused to acknowledge. Who was this figure? And why did these memories refuse to reveal themselves fully?

Beside him, Haldir, focused on the fight, turned sharply when he sensed a change in Calion's demeanor. Calion's strikes, once precise, were now erratic. At one point, he swung Calimmacil with great force, only to strike at empty air. Alarmed by his companion's behavior, Haldir redoubled his efforts to fend off the orcs, while keeping an eye on the man beside him.

At that moment, Calion, lost in his visions, turned Calimmacil toward Haldir in an unintentional but dangerous motion. The elf, with the reflexes of his kind, intercepted the blow with his own blade, deflecting the attack. "Calion!" he shouted, his voice sharp with rare urgency. "Your enemies are here, not elsewhere!"

The words pierced the fog clouding Calion's mind. His eyes flickered, rapidly blinking, as clarity returned to his gaze. He looked at Haldir, then at the battlefield around him, as if suddenly recalling where he was.

"Haldir…?" he murmured, his voice hoarse.

Haldir, his expression a mix of sternness and concern, nodded. "I'm here. But you must stay with us. The battle is here."

Calion drew a deep breath, struggling to push away the memories clinging to him. "I'm here," he said, more firmly this time, as though convincing himself as much as those around him. Straightening his posture, he tightened his grip on Calimmacil and turned his gaze back to the orcs pouring forward. But in the depths of his mind, the faces of the red-haired young man, the sharp-eyed young woman, and Dumbledore lingered—fragments of a past he couldn't yet piece together, but knew was crucial.

Haldir, still wary, remained close, ready to act if necessary. Yet this time, Calion seemed fully present, determination etched into his face, even as the shadows of his past lingered in the corners of his mind.

The enemy was finally spent. The orcs and uruk-hai, surrounded and overwhelmed by the final charge of the Rohirrim, were swept away in a tide of chaos and despair. The battle was ending, but its cost was etched into every stone, every lifeless body sprawled across the blood-soaked ground.

Calion, unable to chase the fleeing remnants, sank down onto a fallen section of stone near the ramparts. He sat heavily, his body trembling ever so slightly, and drove Calimmacil into the ground to steady himself. His hands, clenched tightly around the hilt of his blade, were stained with blood—a mix of his enemies' and, undoubtedly, his own.

His ragged breathing echoed faintly in the smoky, dust-filled air. His face, pale as death, was streaked with cold sweat, dirt, and ash. Beads of perspiration slowly trailed down his hollowed cheeks, betraying the immense exhaustion weighing on him. His vacant gaze was fixed on the ground, as if trying to escape the carnage surrounding him.

Haldir stood nearby, his expression tense and his keen eyes watching Calion closely. The elf had observed him throughout the battle, marveling at his tenacity and skill, but what he saw now troubled him deeply. Calion had clearly pushed himself beyond his limits, sacrificing his own well-being to see the fight through to its conclusion.

Crossing his arms, Haldir masked his concern with a facade of irritation. "Calion, you need to see to your wounds," he said firmly, though a note of gentleness softened his words.

Calion didn't respond. His gaze remained locked on the ground, his mind clearly elsewhere. His face betrayed a mix of physical exhaustion and inner torment.

"Calion, are you listening?" Haldir repeated, more forcefully this time, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice. Still, there was no reaction.

The elf leaned closer, placing a gentle hand on his companion's shoulder in an attempt to ground him. Calion flinched at the contact, startled, and finally looked up. His green eyes, usually vibrant, were dulled by some unseen burden.

Now crouched beside him, Haldir spoke in a quieter tone. "You fought with strength few men could muster, but there is always a cost. You must rest, Calion."

For a moment, it seemed Calion might heed his words, but his gaze drifted again, this time not to the ground but to the memories that besieged him. Vague images of light bursting from his hands, familiar faces, and a commanding mentor reemerged, unbidden. His hands shook slightly on the hilt of Calimmacil, and a shiver ran down his spine.

"Haldir…" he murmured at last, his voice nearly lost to the wind.

Haldir's brows furrowed, his worry now unmistakable. "Calion, what is it? What do you see?"

But Calion shook his head faintly, as though trying to dispel the questions. He drew a deep breath, attempting to steady his racing thoughts, yet his hands remained rigid, his body taut like a bowstring on the verge of snapping.

Haldir placed a hand on the pommel of Calimmacil, though he made no attempt to take it. "I will not leave you here to collapse under the weight of this. Stand. Let me help you."

Calion finally turned his head toward Haldir, his features etched with crushing fatigue but still carrying a glimmer of defiance. "I'm fine, Haldir," he murmured, his voice hoarse and weak. Yet it was clear, even to himself, that he didn't truly believe his own words.

Haldir sighed, rising gracefully with the ease only an elf could manage. "Then be strong enough to accept the help being offered." He extended a hand toward Calion, determined not to let him falter.

At that moment, Aragorn arrived. The leader of men, though clearly weary, seemed relatively unharmed save for a shallow cut on his left arm. His gaze immediately fell on Haldir and Calion, and relief washed over him as he saw them alive. "You're here," he said, a smile of gratitude lighting up his face as he strode toward them.

Haldir greeted Aragorn with a slight nod, but his expression quickly shifted from respect to restrained irritation. "If your renowned powers of persuasion are as effective as I've heard, perhaps you can convince your friend here to get proper treatment." His words, though delivered with the usual elvish calm, carried a detectable edge of exasperation. "He insists on sitting there and ignoring reality."

Aragorn, now deeply concerned, turned his attention to Calion. The man sat with his head slightly bowed, his vacant eyes fixed on the ground as though he wasn't truly seeing it. His pallor was striking, and though his hands gripped Calimmacil firmly, they trembled slightly. Aragorn frowned, his gaze sweeping over his friend, noting the layers of blood and grime that obscured his body and made it difficult to discern the extent of his injuries.

It wasn't until Aragorn spotted the dark, blood-soaked bandage wrapped around Calion's thigh that a cold dread settled over him. He crouched immediately in front of him, placing a light hand on Calion's leg. "Calion," he murmured, his voice tinged with worry. "Let me see this wound."

As Aragorn reached for the bandage, Calion placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. His green eyes, dulled with exhaustion, locked onto Aragorn's. His voice, though barely more than a whisper, carried his usual quiet authority. "Not here, Aragorn. Wait. Let's do this somewhere cleaner."

Aragorn, momentarily taken aback by the request, hesitated. But then he remembered how Calion always insisted on treating wounds with meticulous care, using only the cleanest tools and environments, no matter the circumstances. It was simply who he was—a man unwilling to compromise, even on the smallest details.

Nodding slowly, Aragorn relented, though his worry remained evident. "Very well, Calion. But as soon as we find a moment, I need to look at this. You've lost too much blood."

A faint but grateful smile flickered across Calion's lips. He gave a slight nod. "Thank you." With visible effort, he straightened his back, gripping Calimmacil to steady himself and conceal his trembling hands. "But don't worry. I can hold on a little longer."

Haldir, though still visibly annoyed, remained silent, his gaze softening with a quiet admiration. He knew Calion was stubborn, but he also recognized his unparalleled resilience. For now, he respected his choice, even as his concern lingered.

Aragorn rose and extended a hand to Calion, helping him to his feet. Calion straightened slowly, leaning heavily on Calimmacil for support. The stone where he had rested—a broken piece of the ramparts—still bore the dark stains of the blood that had seeped from his wound. He took a deep breath to steady the tremors in his body, but his legs wavered under his weight. The world seemed to tilt, and just as he began to fall, two firm arms caught him.

Haldir and Aragorn were at his sides, one on his right and the other on his left. They each draped one of Calion's arms over their shoulders, supporting him with a gentle yet unyielding strength. Calion looked at them both in turn, his green eyes dulled by exhaustion and pain. He murmured a nearly inaudible thank-you, but the gratitude etched into his expression spoke volumes.

The three men moved forward slowly, Haldir and Aragorn bearing much of Calion's weight as he leaned on them. Their footsteps echoed faintly on the uneven cobblestones, now littered with debris. The air around them felt heavy, almost oppressive, as if the battlefield itself held its breath. Every step was laborious, and though Calion tried not to burden his companions, his shoulders sagged with every passing moment, betraying his profound fatigue.

All around them, Helm's Deep bore the scars of the brutal battle. The once-mighty ramparts were breached in several places, with entire sections of walls collapsed into piles of shattered stone. Trails of blood, both crimson and black, marked the ground, pooling in sticky patches where the fiercest clashes had occurred.

The bodies were countless. Orcs and uruk-hai lay sprawled in heaps, their shattered armor and discarded weapons scattered beside them. Among them were human soldiers—some young, others far older—fallen in defense of their home. Their faces were frozen in their final moments, some serene, others contorted in desperate struggle. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the acrid stench of burnt flesh, and the air was thick with dust that stung the throat and eyes.

Women who had sheltered in the caves during the battle now wandered through the rubble, their faces etched with anguish. Some frantically searched for familiar faces among the fallen, their trembling hands lifting helmets or moving aside the bodies of orcs in hopes of finding loved ones. Others, calmer but no less grief-stricken, tended to the wounded, helping them to their feet with clumsy but compassionate gestures. The air was filled with muted cries and whispered prayers, along with the muffled sobs of women who discovered husbands or sons lying lifeless.

The trio moved slowly through this scene of devastation. Calion, his eyes half-closed, seemed detached from his surroundings. His heavy steps dragged slightly against the ground, and he appeared oblivious to the admiring glances and hushed whispers that followed him.

The soldiers still capable of standing stopped to watch him pass, some placing a hand over their hearts in a gesture of respect, while others murmured his name: "Golden Blade." Young men, their faces lined with exhaustion and lingering fear, exchanged quiet words about how he had brought down a troll or led the lines with the authority of a true leader. Yet Calion seemed deaf to it all—or, if he heard, he gave no sign of acknowledgment.

Haldir, however, noticed everything, and his worry deepened. Calion, usually so attuned to his surroundings, seemed unnervingly distant. Aragorn saw it too but chose to remain silent, understanding that his friend might need this moment to gather his strength, both physical and mental.

As they reached the intact halls of Helm's Deep, the air grew slightly easier to breathe, though it still carried the lingering stench of blood and dust. The flickering torchlight cast unsteady shadows on the stone walls, illuminating faces that were weary but alive.

Admiring glances continued to follow Calion, but soldiers and women quickly averted their gazes as he passed, as though afraid to disrupt his path. Still, the murmurs persisted, echoing softly through the corridors: "It's him, Calion, the Golden Blade…","He stood against the troll…";"A man like that, you only see once in a lifetime."

But Calion, still supported by his companions, remained unresponsive. His gaze stayed fixed ahead, as if searching for a purpose beyond these dim corridors, beyond this battle.

"We're almost there, Calion," Aragorn murmured, his voice laced with quiet reassurance. Yet his friend remained silent, his breathing heavy and uneven.

As they rounded a corner, Legolas and Gimli, who had been in the midst of an animated discussion about their respective tallies of fallen foes, abruptly stopped. Legolas's sharp eyes immediately caught sight of Calion's condition. His uneven gait, the exhaustion etched into his features, and the spreading stain of blood soaking through the makeshift bandage on his thigh—all of it was clear to the elf. He didn't miss the irregular trail of drops marking the ground behind him, either.

Gimli, standing a few paces away, squinted and frowned. When the dwarf finally noticed Calion's state, he let out a gruff growl. "By Durin, Calion, what's happened to you?" he exclaimed, his deep voice betraying his concern.

Calion, supported by Haldir and Aragorn, lifted his head with effort. His gaze, hazy with fatigue, sought out his friends. He managed a faint, genuine smile, one that only highlighted the weariness carved into his face. "Just… a nasty scratch, Gimli."

Legolas approached swiftly, his light steps contrasting with the heavy weight of worry on his features. Placing a hand on Aragorn's shoulder, the elf's piercing gaze focused on the wound at Calion's thigh, where the blood-soaked bandage seemed barely able to stem the bleeding.

Aragorn, his jaw set, gave a small, grave nod to Legolas, silently confirming the severity of the situation. Gimli, ever blunt, shook his head with a disapproving snort. "A scratch, you say? You're hobbling like an old pony past its prime, and you look like you're holding yourself up with sheer will alone!"

A flicker of amusement crossed Calion's tired green eyes. "I'm still standing, Gimli, and that's all that matters right now." Despite the levity in his voice, barely above a whisper, he clenched his jaw briefly as he shifted his weight, clearly avoiding putting pressure on his injured leg.

Legolas, his brow furrowed, turned his attention to Haldir, whose tension was visible even in his composed demeanor. "Why hasn't he been properly treated yet?" the elf asked, his tone sharp with concern.

Haldir, his own face marked by exhaustion and worry, replied curtly, though not without a hint of exasperation. "Because he refuses to stop. I've urged him to seek treatment, but he doesn't listen." His silver eyes locked onto Calion with pointed intensity. "Perhaps he'll listen to his companions now."

Aragorn, ever pragmatic, spoke with calm authority. "We'll find a place to settle him so he can be treated properly. The wound appears deep." His eyes, however, rested on Calion, searching for assurance that his friend could hold on just a little longer.

Calion, still leaning on them, exhaled deeply, his breath shuddering slightly. "I'll hold, Aragorn," he said softly, his voice strained but resolute. "Just… don't fuss too much. I've seen worse."

Aragorn nodded, though his worry remained evident.

As the group moved forward, Gimli grumbled under his breath, casting concerned glances at Calion. Legolas walked just ahead, his senses on high alert, while Haldir continued to bear part of Calion's weight, his worry etched into every step. Together, they carried their comrade deeper into the heart of Helm's Deep, where, at last, they hoped he might find some measure of rest.

"I'm fine," Calion murmured, his voice rough but steady. He briefly met Legolas's and Gimli's eyes, trying to convey a confidence he only half felt. "But… I won't turn down a bit of rest."

The small group resumed their march, with Haldir and Aragorn guiding Calion through the rubble. The intact corridors of Helm's Deep provided a welcome reprieve, though Calion barely seemed aware of it. His mind grew increasingly clouded, and the faces and voices around him blurred, as if seen through a dense fog.

With each step, his legs weakened further. The weight he placed on his companions' shoulders grew heavier, and he silently cursed himself for being such a burden. Yet he no longer had the strength to fight against it. His thoughts fragmented, flashes of the battle, his companions' faces, and even forgotten memories darting chaotically through his mind.

Legolas, scanning the area with sharp eyes, pointed to a secluded spot, slightly apart from the endless stream of wounded and the women bustling with buckets of water and armfuls of bandages. "Over there," he said, his voice calm but urgent, motioning toward a recessed alcove in the stone wall where a flickering torch illuminated a relatively clean and isolated corner.

As they made their way to the spot, Calion's weight suddenly increased. His already unsteady steps grew heavier, his legs nearly giving out entirely. His breathing, though erratic before, now came in shallow, labored gasps, as if each breath was a battle of its own.

Alarmed, Aragorn turned his head quickly toward him. "Calion? Stay with us." His voice, though gentle, carried an authority that could rouse the dead. But Calion didn't respond. His eyelids, fluttering weakly, began to close, and a faint sigh escaped his lips.

His body, drained of all tension, almost completely collapsed. Haldir and Aragorn, caught off guard, nearly lost their grip. "He's losing consciousness!" Haldir growled, straining to keep from dropping him.

Aragorn, despite his own exhaustion, tightened his hold around Calion's waist. "We're almost there. Hold on, Haldir."

The three men, their strength waning, half-carried, half-dragged Calion to the spot Legolas had indicated. Calion's unconscious body weighed heavily on their shoulders, each step making the distance feel longer. At last, they reached the secluded corner, away from the flow of wounded and the constant comings and goings. They carefully lowered Calion to the ground, mindful of his injured leg.

Legolas, ever vigilant, watched his friend closely. Calion's face was pale, his features drawn, and dark strands of his hair clung to his sweat-dampened forehead. The air around them seemed to grow heavier, laden with the urgency of the moment.

Aragorn knelt beside Calion, studying his face with mounting concern before turning sharply to Legolas. "Fetch hot water and clean cloths. Quickly." Though his voice was low, it rang with commanding urgency.

Legolas nodded without hesitation, his movements swift as he disappeared down the corridor. Gimli, meanwhile, stood nearby, his broad figure tense with worry, though he said nothing. Haldir crouched on the other side of Calion, his silver gaze fixed on the man's shallow breathing, the elf's usual composure strained by visible concern.

Haldir placed a hand gently on his forehead, his expression grim. "He's burning up. The blood loss and his exertion have weakened him far more than we realized."

Aragorn, focused and deliberate, began unwrapping the makeshift bandage around Calion's thigh. The blood-soaked fabric clung stubbornly to the wound, and as he peeled it away, it made a wet, unpleasant sound that made Haldir wince.

The injury came into view: a deep gash, clean in its cut but brutal in its severity. Though the bleeding had slowed, the surrounding tissue was inflamed, red, and slightly swollen. Aragorn gently touched the edges with his fingertips, assessing the extent of the damage.

"It's deep, but treatable," he murmured, as if to reassure himself. He glanced up at Haldir, whose typically composed features were now shadowed with concern. "If we act quickly and properly, he'll recover."

Moments later, Legolas returned, carrying a bucket of steaming water and several clean cloths. He set them down beside Aragorn and stood silently, his sharp gaze shifting between the wound and Calion's motionless face.

Aragorn wasted no time. He dipped a cloth into the hot water and began carefully cleaning the wound's edges. His movements were steady and precise, honed by years of tending to injuries in the wild. Haldir knelt opposite him, reaching out to gently stabilize Calion's leg while Aragorn worked.

"Calion, you've endured worse battles than this," Aragorn murmured, his tone carrying an unexpected gentleness. "You won't give up on us now."

A faint sigh escaped Calion's lips, so soft it might have gone unnoticed if not for the acute attention of his companions. Though his face was still pale and drawn, a subtle relaxation of his features suggested a fleeting moment of relief.

"He might hear us," Legolas remarked quietly, his piercing eyes searching for further signs in his friend's expression.

Without looking up from his task, Aragorn responded just as softly, "Then he knows he's in good hands."