| |
One Moment Laid Bare
by Legion
"Yes. Yes! The Horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the deep one last time!" Theoden turned way from Aragorn, calling out to his men to prepare the horses for a charge as he strode away into the depths of his hall. Gimli nodded to himself as he followed the King and Aragorn. This was the way to conduct a battle: ride out to the enemy and meet him, not be dug from the rock like a winter-fat bear! From the corner of his eye, he saw the wild light in Legolas' face and knew that he agreed with him. Before the sun was much higher, many, many Orcs would taste death from those slender, skillful, lethal hands, but not, he vowed in private amusement, as many as would find it from this Dwarf's sturdier ones.
Tearing himself loose from a knot of men rushing to do the King's bidding, Gamling said hurriedly, unhappily, "My Lord, forgive me! But none can be found who have the skill to sound the Horn!"
"Surely that is no difficult thing!" Theoden snapped.
"I fear that it is, sire, not so much for the gift of music but so much for the capacity of breath needed for such a large instrument."
Fury and displeasure chased over Thoden's face, and for a moment Gimli actually thought the King would strike his liegeman for simply speaking the truth. But he reined himself in and said only, "Ah, what a small thing to have such a bitter bite. The Horn would stir our men as nothing else could. At this moment, I would not willingly surrender any gain, no matter how slight."
Aragorn nodded his understanding, and briefly laid a sympathetic hand on the Kind's forearm. "They will hear it in their hearts, my lord. That will suffice."
Perhaps because he knew well how the spirit could rally at the right sound or sight - perhaps because he could see that Aragorn dearly wished for even that small advantage - Gimli found himself saying, "I can give voice to the Horn. It is not unlike one that my father uses to summon our people to council." Privately, he unwillingly admitted it was much greater in size as well, but he was not going to say that aloud. He had no doubt he could still manage quite well.
"Gimli!" Aragorn said in surprise. "If you do this, you will have to be left behind when we ride out."
"Aye, and I would be spared being bounced around on the back of that blasted horse as if I were a great sack of potatoes, as well," he said in gruff good humor, meaning it, at least in part. "Good enough reason to volunteer. There will be no shortage of Orc necks waiting for the taste of my ax, no matter where the tide of battle carries me."
Eyes narrowed, Theoden looked from Aragorn to Gimli, realizing that in this matter, it was Aragorn who would command, regardless of whose hall they stood in. Since that was precisely the case, Gimli waited calmly until Aragorn gave him a short nod of approval before running for the stair to the topmost rampart. He would have looked back at Legolas, to catch his eye and say with a look all that needed to be said, but even as the thought touched his mind, his heart told him that the light footfalls echoing his belonged to Legolas.
Gimli threw open the door, and climbed the first few spiraling steps, enough that good solid rock would shield prying eyes. He spun on his heel, and found himself eye to eye with Legolas. Clutching shoulders that looked too slender to endure his strength, he said sternly, "Once the Horn has done its work, I will defend the passage to the caverns to give the women and children as much chance to escape as I can. There I will stay until every last foul Orc and Uruk-hai is dead or gone from these halls." Gentling his voice, and his touch, Gimli added gently, "Or until I fall."
"I will come to you," Legolas said passionately. "If Theoden King and Aragorn are overwhelmed, I will turn and fight my way back to you, if I must fill the world with Orc blood to do it. Wait for me!"
"My word on it." Gimli brushed his lips over Legolas' forehead in promise, but resisted the temptation to do more, unwilling to trust his good sense with the heat of battle roaring through his bones. It would be all too easy to turn that fire into another kind entirely, especially with their first claiming lying so near to the moment.
"I shall hold you to it," Legolas murmured, fingertips flitting lightly over Gimli's cheeks and lips, gaze fixed on Gimli's mouth as if he, too, fought temptation.
In the distance Aragorn called, "Legolas! Arod awaits his rider!"
Legolas didn't look away, though Gimli could feel him tense. He forced himself to say lightly, "Go now, and be sure you keep accurate count! I do believe I am ahead of you by one."
Smiling, Legolas said, "Hardly far enough ahead, since you must come back down from this tower before you can recommence your tally. Perhaps I should level the field by not resuming my count immediately."
"I need no such advantage, Master Elf," Gimli rumbled, trying to sound irate and failing miserably. Throat suddenly tight, he rasped out, "Go! Now!" With a last careful touch to Legolas' cheek, Gimli focused all his thoughts on speed lest they try to follow one infuriating and dear Elf, turned and ran up the stairs.
In a far shorter time than would have been possible had he not been so fueled by the wrong sort of passion, Gimli reached the topmost stair and broke into the gray light of first dawn. Below, the Uruk-hai handling the battering ram roared in triumph. Somehow finding it within him to take a deep breath, Gimli set his lips to the mouthpiece of the Horn and released its sonorous call. There, he thought in satisfaction. Let that give those vile things a reason to worry.
He gave himself a moment to regain his breath, and sounded the Horn again, relishing the crashing echoes of its deep, booming tones and the faint noises of confusion and fear that came in its wake. The clatter of hooves on stone rang clearly in the morning air. Men's voices, defiant and proud, roared with surprising strength at the distant rumble of alarm from the Orc army. Gimli would have looked over the rampart to see this last charge of Rohan, but he could not persuade his conscience that he had any reason except to ease his heart. Taking himself to task, he blew the Horn a third time, putting all he had into it to cause the sound to resonate long and low, until it seemed as if the very rock and mountain rang in harmony with the Helm's battle call.
When he could no longer produce air enough for even the faintest sound, he released the mouthpiece and panted hoarsely. He allowed himself no recovery before retracing his steps to the main hall. Despite the surprise of Theoden's attack, he had no doubt that more than a few of the enemy would take the opportunity to pour into the hall to prevent any retreat. Unlikely though that was, Gimli was of a mind to make it possible, if ax and will could do so.
The rabble of boys and old men defending the last barricade were acquitting themselves well when he arrived, and Gimli wasted no time in joining them. It seemed to him that his axes had never been lighter or more willing to bite into Orc flesh, and his arms and legs worked with surpassing speed and strength, hardly needing more than a heartbeat to find, cut, kill, and move on to the next. For all his prowess, the numbers were against him, and more and more of his allies fell, most to mortal blows.
Yet even as he put his back to a wall and prepared for a last stand, a murmur of something - more than ill-ease, more than the customary temporary shift in loss and gain that happened in every battle - curled through the mass of Orc forces, turning their attention away from the fight in front of them. A sharp, disbelieving shout cut through the murmur, and his foes shifted away, looking back the way they had come. More shouts came, growing in furor and fear, until at last the Orcs' resolve broke and they began to flee. Not all, not necessarily in haste, but leave they did. Those who chose to stay and fight fell quickly to Men renewed by the sudden turn of the tide.
Roaring his defiance and triumph, Gimli pressed forward, driving back the few Orcs who tried to hold, making his way slowly but surely to the door, leaving no enemy alive behind him. He drew the surviving Men with him as though he led them by his sheer determination to kill every Orc between him and daylight. Somehow, muttering numbers under his breath as bodies fell in front of him, he succeeded. He stood on the other side of the threshold, splinters and fragments of wood all around him, but no enemy left to strike. Ax at the ready, he spun, body thrumming with battle fury, and found only Men, cheering and brandishing weapons covered with black blood and gore.
Gimli spun again, thinking to race down onto the battlefield, but some small fragment of reason whispered, "Stop. This is where he will look for you. Stop." Unwillingly, almost painfully, he lowered his weapon and gestured roughly at those around him to continue if they wished. But the Deep was empty save for the bodies of the fallen, and only the back of the enemy could be seen, far beyond any easy chase on foot.
"Come," one sensible man said. "Let us make sure of those still inside. I do not wish to fall to an Orc pretending to be dead so that he can catch me unaware."
It was good advice, and Gimli stepped back into the comfort of cold stone and strong wall. But he could not tear himself away from the entrance completely. Suddenly weary, aching in every muscle and bleeding from somewhere, he leaned heavily on his ax, distantly trying to remember how many he had slain. Somewhere in the thick of it all, he had lost count. For honor's sake, he would end his tally with the last number he was sure of.
Head bowed over his crossed forearms, Gimli stood in the warm, bright sunshine pouring through the door, and gave himself a moment to long for a long draught of cold beer and a mouthful of hot meat. "Perhaps, a hot bath to get the stink of Orc from me, as well," he muttered, but resolutely turned his mind to the tasks of removing the dead and tending the injured.
A shadow fell over him. He jerked himself upright, weapon at ready. He looked to the door, but could not move for the joy that spilled through him at the sight of the slender, graceful form standing there, haloed by the purity of the morning's light. "I waited," he whispered, sure of being heard.
Legolas crossed the distance between them in a few hasty strides and knelt before him. Eyes too bright, hands half-lifted as if he wished to test the reality of what he saw, he said softly, "I came."
|
|
|
|