Thalion Faer, Doltha Hún

"It's true you don't see many dwarf women.” Gimli sat upon a horse led by Lady Èowyn, “And in fact, they are so alike in voice and appearance, they are often mistaken for dwarf men."

She released a heartfelt laugh, the first bit of happiness I had seen from her since our informal introduction. She glanced back at Aragorn who was ahead of me on his horse beside the king. Feredir was walking beside me, Legolas on my other side. He, of course, was oblivious to so miniscule a thing as a look exchanged between two people. Aragorn made some gesture with his hands that made her laugh again as Gimli continued.

"And this in turn has given rise to the belief that there are no dwarf women. And the dwarves just spring out of holes in the ground!" As Gimli continued, his horse suddenly spurred forward, causing him to eventually go tumbling onto the ground. Laughter erupted as Èowyn rushed to his aid. Again, she glanced back at him.

It was a horrible sort of emotion that I felt. I ventured so far as to call it jealousy. But jealously was something that should only be felt in instances of ownership. He belonged to neither of us, and yet still the mere connection of their gazes was enough to break my heart. And then, as if my emotions were not enough, King Théoden told Aragorn words that multiplied my guilt tenfold.

"I have not seen my niece smile in a long time." His voice was quiet, full of the plague-like sadness rooted deep within the people of Rohan. "She was a girl when they brought her father back dead. Cut down by Orcs. She watched her mother succumb to grief. And she was left alone to tend her king in growing fear. Doomed to wait upon an old man who should have loved her as a father."

I now felt like a thief. Here was a girl so young, so weathered in the region of pain, and the bit of happiness she was finding was threatened to be taken away. Stolen, just as Boromir was from me. It would not reverse the action if I took from another; it would not make the memory fade nor the hurt go away. I shook my head, putting the situation from my mind entirely.

We had been traveling for two days now and were only a few hours’ march from Helm’s Deep. Having stopped last night, I found little rest. I felt uneasy, as if there was some great evil headed our way. The feeling stayed with me throughout the day, and Legolas fell quiet the closer we came to the fortress. Since our reunion with Gandalf I had been waiting for a vision, prepared not to fight; willing to accept it. But none had come. In a time where I wished for something to come, there was nothing.

Two of the guard rode ahead of us, and Legolas’ eyes followed them as if he were in a dream. He watched them for a while, riding up the steady stream of villagers. He then stopped his movement and mounted Feredir, casting a weary glance towards me. Offering his hand for me to take, I sat before him on the saddle. He led us past the first villagers, halting and scanning the land. A blackness filled my mind, something evil clouding it. It spread from my mind to my body, submerging me in this uneasiness that I could not lean away from.

"What is it?” One of the guards called to his partner. “Háma?"

“Do you feel that?” I whispered to Legolas. He nodded, and my heart sped up a bit. It didn’t feel good at all.

“I’m not sure.” Háma replied, looking ahead of him.

“We’re under attack.” Legolas breathed, leaping off of the horse and racing forward as a beast appeared from the cliffs and attacked Háma. It viciously clawed at the soldier, an orc sitting atop its back.

“A scout!” Legolas roared. The people were now beginning to panic at the sounds they had yet to match to the image before me.

"What is it?” Théoden called out to me, riding closer. I had finally snapped out of the stupor I was in, my heart racing as I turned around. “What do you see?"

“Wargs!” I cried. “We’re under attack!”

The panic spread even more now, wails and screams filling the air as chaos ensued. I took a deep breath, whispering my phrase of courage and taking hold of the bow and arrow hanging from Feredir’s saddle. It had been so long since I brandished a bow, my weapon of choice had always been a blade. But now was no time for favourites and as a battalion of wargs broke the horizon I took careful aim. Tightening my legs against Feredir for better grip, I prepared to shoot. Legolas was already rushing past me for his horse, and then I was alone.

They rode forward, at least a hundred strong, orcs bearing rusty weapons and wargs brandishing crooked grins. I held my breath, releasing an arrow and watching as one of the wargs fell to the ground. Load, pull, release, repeat. I did not take note of how many I successfully hit, only focusing on aiming as best I could. By the time they were close enough to charge at, the other soldiers had saddled up and were now prepared for battle.

As Feredir lurched into line with the other horses, everything became quiet to me. Almost as if my ears had been plugged up; there were no hoof beats, no warrior’s calls, no orc cries, just silence. I inhaled once, and we clashed. Like a storm’s rain colliding with the ground, so the Rohirrim did with the wolves of Isengard. It was a very surreal experience, and very much reminded me of when I had foolishly attacked the goblins in Fornost.

I was never exactly sure of where I was, and completely oblivious to the whereabouts of anyone else. All I saw were orcs and wargs, the latter of which worrying me more. I had encountered orcs; I knew how to use their skills to my advantage. Wargs, however, were frighteningly more foreign. What worried me most, though, was the fact that I had known them to only come out at night; purely nocturnal beings. This was indeed some trickery brought about by Saruman.

There were many injuries that I sustained, but when in the heat of battle it was a matter not given much attention. I was, in the end, doing more damage to the enemy than they were to me. It was almost like déjà vu when I was attacked, as if I knew it was going to happen. I imagined that my foresight was to thank. As barbaric as it sounded, it almost made me feel better to be fighting. It was such an effective way to release one’s pent up emotions.

At last I began to descend from my rush, and I was aware of my surroundings. Hundreds of bodies lay on the ground—orcs, men, wargs—all reduced to the same fate; the same level. There were some that held onto life by a thread; gaping wounds in their bodies and blood leaving them profusely. It was horrific, such an obtuse juxtaposition to the reality I had been in before.

There were wails, people praying and crying out for mercy. There was the smell of blood, that metallic, copper-like scent mixed into every bit of air; inescapable. The image of war, at long last brought to life before me. In my stupor I was hit hard from the front with some unknown object. It sent me flying off of Feredir’s back and crashing onto the ground. I winced, immediately crawling towards my scattered blades before my enemy was upon me. I scrambled to my feet, whipping around until I caught sight of the warg rider galloping towards me.

It had uneven steps, this giant beast more than half the height of a horse and a good two feet longer. Its teeth were like daggers; a whole set of them purposed on its giant head. I didn’t know which to go for first—the ride or the rider. The beast lunged at me and I dove to the side, slicing the back of its left legs before going for the orc, swinging my blade across its neck and nearly beheading it. The orc slide off the beast’s back and it came back around for me, forcing me sideways once more before I brought down my blades through its head.

Withdrawing my weapons, I looked around for Feredir who had fled. Instead I realized that the remaining wargs were retreating, leaving the survivors of the Rohirrim to tend to the dying soldiers. Legolas’ voice tore me from my analysis and I searched for him. He was calling out to Aragorn who was somewhere on the battlefield, as was Gimli. I went to Legolas’ side, sliding my hand into his as he led the way.

"Tell me what happened and I will ease your passing!" Gimli’s voice caught our attention and we walked over to where he stood next to a dying orc. The orc was laughing as best as it could at us.

"He’s… dead.” He was coughing up blood as he spoke. “He took a little tumble off the cliff."

At first the words didn’t hit me. They were just words; unprocessed by my heart or my soul. Simply syllables spoken by a diminishing adversary who lay on a battlefield wrought by his doing. Even as Legolas proclaimed him a liar, the words meant nothing to me. It was only as the orc’s final laugh sounded and Legolas retrieved something from his hand did they hit me.

He was gone.

Legolas fingered the Evenstar in his hand. The pendant given to Aragorn by Arwen, held in the hands of neither party. I couldn’t believe it. I could not accept that for a second time I was rendered helpless. Absently I wandered to the edge of the cliff, gaze falling to the churning waters hundreds of feet below. There was no sign of life. What I felt was as if you crumpled a piece of paper in your hand. I felt crinkled and small and balled up. Coldness spread throughout me as Legolas came into view beside me, and the King beside him.

"Get the wounded on horses. The wolves of Isengard will return." Théoden commanded. “Leave the dead.”

I wondered in that moment what it would be like if I simply took one more step forward; if I stepped off of the cliff and into the abyss. An ocean of tears was brewing deep within me and I fought hard to keep them back. The King disappeared and Legolas placed a hand on the small of my back. All of me wanted to collapse against him; to cry and cry as I had when Boromir passed…But it would not changed a thing. Instead I pushed away, whistling for Feredir and barely noticing as he trotted up beside me. I absently heaved myself up, preparing to follow the remaining soldiers to our final destination.



I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was helping any way I could in hopes to keep my mind occupied. I helped to organize the rations, set up the armory, and then I went to help the wounded soldiers. I was aware of the undressed wounds covering my own body, but they could wait. It was heartbreaking, how many were lost in the ambush. The hope residing in the hearts of Rohan was already dwindling, and this last blow was not helping any.

It had been a hard few hours since our entrance of the city, the sun fading away with all courage. The people of Rohan did not take it well when so few soldiers returned. Èowyn especially was heartbroken upon learning of Aragorn. The sight of her only furthered my desire to weep. I had long since abandoned the populous areas of the fortress, finding instead a quiet spot to sit and stitch myself up.

I had with me a cloth and a bowl of water, along with a needle and thread. Flattening my back against the cold stone wall I slowly slid down it, resting my head back against it for a moment. A few breaths of rest, and then I began to loop the needle. Under normal circumstances I could do it in a heartbeat, but my hands were shaky and it took me a few tries.

Finally I had the thread through the needle and knotted, and so I rolled up my sleeves to study my injuries. They weren’t horrible, but a few would require stitching. Sighing, I dipped the cloth into the water and began to dab away the dry blood. The skin had already risen up around the other minor scratches, leaving Braille across my skin; a battle story printed on a body.

Picking up the needle, I tried to steady my hand. But after the first puncture all I could think about was the woods of Lothlórien, and Aragorn being the one stitching me up. As the memory grew more vivid my courage began to fail. I could not put off thinking forever. But the more I thought about it the more I shook, and the choppier my incisions became. It became so rough that I was causing more damage than I was correcting.

I wedged the needle into my skin once more before giving up entirely. The dam broke and the tears burst through, by bloodied hands rising to my face as I wept. It was a horrible feeling, and the smaller I pulled myself within the more it hurt. But it didn’t feel right to be sprawled open; it was easier to solve the pain with more pain. Another life lost; another death preventable. I had only just begun to come to terms with Boromir, and now Aragorn was gone.

There was gentle pressure on my shoulder and I jolted, relaxing only upon seeing the elf’s familiar face. His expression was sad as he studied the mess I’d made of myself. I did not protest as he took the cloth and began to do the job for me. It was all I could do to keep my breathing somewhat even as he stitched me back together, fixed my broken seams and made sure that my rag-doll self was back in tip-top shape.

He cleaned the wounds again after finishing and bandaged where necessary before stepping over me and sitting on my opposite side. He did not speak; he knew better. He only offered his arms as a safe haven for me to retreat into for the time being. It was neither the time nor place for me to be having such a breakdown. We were on the brink of war, struggling to keep the peoples of middle earth free—the eve of battle. Yet here I was.

I just wanted to go home. This journey was taking such a greater toll on me than I had ever anticipated. I tried to be so brave and courageous, to make up for the fact that I was a woman. I did not wish to be frail and weak and viewed as helpless. I wanted so dearly to prove that I could handle it; but it was so difficult. Every departure we made from our standing point was not to an end-destination; but to another stop along the way.

The end seemed so far away.

Legolas placed his lips on my forehead, ignoring the dried blood I had no doubt smeared onto my skin. This was what I needed. The same element of familiarity I had been denying my entire life; now that I couldn’t have it I truly desired it. I had calmed down, able to breathe normally once more and even stop shaking. I gently put my arms around his middle, tightening my grip as he mimicked me.

“Hannon le.” I whispered, catching his contagious smile as I was able to stand on my own two feet. And then, a familiar feeling took over me. It was less sudden than ever before; a gentle transition from the reality in front of me to the one that had yet to happen.

It was a very short image, only a few seconds. But it was all that I needed to bring my spirits up. In a few seconds, the figure of Aragorn came limping up the bridge of Helm’s Deep, horse in tow. That was it; that was all I had to go on. But it was enough to make me run.

Without even thinking to explain to Legolas my feet had deserted him, travelling down the unfamiliar steps and stairways of the fortress in a mad rush to the front gates. I called up for the men to open them, receiving many odd looks for the townspeople. But I cared not. Nothing now had my attention more than this. Not even Legolas’ voice calling after me.

Slipping through the doors, I stood on the bridge and hastily looked out into the distance. The sun was setting across the plains, casting a shadow on the valley. Legolas caught up with me and in some form of incoherent babbling I managed to get across what I had seen. We stood anxiously together, searching, waiting. He then announced he was going to get Gimli and left me.

As the moments passed I began to lose hope; the vision had failed to specify when he would be coming. All I knew was that he was alive. I did not know whether to sit or stand or wait on the bridge or return inside; I just needed to occupy myself. And so without hesitation I set off down the bridge. As I descended I trailed back which direction we had come from, knowing that Aragorn would follow the path here. I realized I was running and working up a terrible sweat as I came to the top of the hill.

And then my heart accelerated even more. There, at the bottom of the hill, he lay half alive against Brego. I called out to him, running down the hill as he dismounted and winced at the injuries he had sustained. I knew how frightening I would look: wild eyes, bloodied face mingling with sweat and bandaged arms. But I did not pay any attention. I only focused on him, the fact he was alive and with me.

I uncontrollably wrapped my arms around him, holding him tightly against me as the tears continued to flow. I could only think of how happy, how relieved I was. I wouldn’t have been able to handle losing him, not the both of them. The feeling of his arms against my back, his wounds against mine, I would have missed it far too much. When at long last I released him, it was only to bring his lips to mine.

It was a gesture I was unaware of until it was too late to stop, and it all felt too right to let go. But eventually I stopped, pulling away and taking a step backwards; I wondered if I had gone too far, crossed the line. He only took my arms gently in his hands, studying them and shaking his head. He met my eyes once more before speaking.

“I need to see the King.”