The Unforgiven { Legolas x OC - LotR Fanfiction}

30. The Walls of Helm's Deep

Darkness pressed its weight over the valley as the sun sank behind the hills and the moon rose to claim the sky. The light faded, and with it went the last of the day's comfort. A heavy stillness fell. It was not peace, but the anxious breath before battle. Men and Elves stood at attention along the walls of Helm's Deep, their gazes fixed on the black fields before them, where shadows stirred.

The ground rumbled. Long before the enemy came into view, their presence was known—boots, thousands strong, marching in rhythmic terror.

Doom. Doom. Clang.

The sound grew louder with every breath, every heartbeat, a harbinger of war. A sound that stripped courage from lesser hearts.

Ethir stood upon the battlement, flanked by Gimli and Legolas. The dwarf, too short to peer easily over the wall, grumbled to himself. Legolas stood tall, ever still, bow in hand, his keen eyes tracing every dark movement ahead. Yet half his attention, traitorous and stubborn, remained fixed on Ethir. She stood to Gimli's left, poised and still, but he saw the tension in her limbs.

Inwardly, he cursed her. Not brave, not fearless—foolish. That was what she was. A reckless, reckless girl who should have been in the caves, not standing here awaiting death. Childish! his Sindarin pride cried. She knew nothing of the cost of war.

Doom. Doom.

The sound grew.

The cold crept up Ethir's spine, though not from fear. It was the raw hum of anticipation, of fury rising in her chest. Her fingers curled tighter around the elven bow she carried—gifted by Ellon of Mirkwood. She was right-handed, but ambidextrous in war. Her bracers gleamed with raindrops; the quiver upon her back, a gift from the Lady of Light, was filled with twenty-five arrows.

This—this was not madness to her. It was purpose. She was raised for this. Made for this. Battle wasn't merely survival. It was breath. It was meaning. She didn't fight because she had no fear—she fought in spite of it. Not for glory. Not to prove herself. But because she would not leave her friends to face darkness alone.

Doom. Clang. Clang.

They were close now.

She turned her head slightly. Legolas stood like a beacon of precision. Untouched by rain, unmarred by dirt. Still perfect. Infuriatingly so.

To her other side, Gimli shifted his stance. He was the opposite—rough, honest, solid as stone. Kind, despite his gruffness. His axe never far from his hand, his heart never far from his sleeve.

And somewhere within the keep, Aragorn. Courage, honor, and quiet pain wrapped into a single man. A king not yet crowned. A leader not yet revealed. Her eyes flickered skyward. Let them survive the night, she thought. Let them endure.

Thunder cracked. Lightning tore the sky. And beneath it, the army of Isengard emerged—ten thousand strong. A tide of black armor and torches, snarling and howling with bloodlust.

"You could have chosen a better spot," Gimli muttered as Aragorn approached. "Well, lad, the luck you live by... let's hope it lasts the night."

"Your friends are with you, Aragorn," Legolas said quietly.

"Let's hope they last the night," Gimli added, glancing meaningfully at Ethir.

Torches flickered across the field. Saruman's legions had arrived.

Aragorn's voice cut through the air, strong and sharp:
"A Eruchîn, ú-dano i faelas a hyn an uben tanatha le faelas!"
Show them no mercy—for none will be shown to you!