The stars that speckled the sky were beginning to fade and the sinking moon shone bright, but the light brought little hope to the Rohirrim. The tide of black before the gates seemed only to be swelling, and still the waves poured up from the valley through the breach. Against the Deeping wall the hosts of Isengard roared like the sea. The three boys worked like machines, loading the catapults, launching, and reloading. Grappling hooks were flung over the parapet faster than men could cut them or throw them back. More than once, the evil black spike caught a man instead of stone and sent him tumbling down into the writhing black shallows below where the dead and broken were piled like shingle in a storm.

Dan, Josur and Grimme had managed to stay close together through most of the battle, but now the men of Rohan were weary and every arrow was spent. The catapult had stopped singing, and the boys had been ordered to either rally down below to fight with swords and knives, or collect stones and arrows and cart them back up to the battlements. Neither seemed a thrilling prospect, tired were their limbs and aching were their backs.

They sat at the top of the stair, sharing a water skin and trying to force their eyes to remain open. Two men stood by the wall, leaning wearily on their swords and looking up at the pale moon.

"This is a night as long as years," the dark-haired man said, his voice caught on the chill wind and carried to the boys' listening ears. "How long will the day tarry?"

"Same," said Josur in an undertone, yawning. "But I don't want day. I want a dark night and a nice warm hole to curl up in and go to sleep."

"You could go to the caves," Grimme suggested with a smirk. "It'll be warm in your mother's arms."

"But warmer in your mother's-"

"Shh," Dan said. "I'm listening to the fancy lords over there. They might say something interesting."

"Dawn is ever the hope of men." The dark-haired man's voice drifted to their ears. He was speaking in the common tongue, though he was now joined by two guards of the Meduseld.

"Or something depressing. I'd rather not know." Grimme said, scratching the straw coloured stubble that grew at his chin.

A blare of trumpets interrupted both conversations, and the boys started, jumping up and running to look over the wall beside the three men. There was a crash and a flash of flame and smoke. A moment of silence, and then the waters of the Deeping-stream poured out hissing and foaming: they were choked no longer, for a gaping hole was blasted in the wall.

Grimme swore loudly and vehemently and Josur clapped his hand to his mouth. By their side, the men exclaimed and flounced.

"Devilry of Saruman!" cried the bearded, dark-haired fellow. "They have lit the fire of Orthanc beneath our feet!"

"He should join the ballet, that one," Grimme muttered as the tall man leapt away, but even as he was talking a scream went up from below. The enemy surged and a hundred ladders were raised against the battlements.

Josur and Grimme swore in unison as they drew their swords, and Dan shakily followed suit. A ladder crashed into the wall directly in front of them and the two young soldiers charged forwards, only to flee backwards as a swarm of arrows whistled past their ears.

Dan cast his eyes around, panicked. There were very few fighters left on this stretch of the wall.

A ghastly, black hand appeared on the top rung of the ladder. Josur darted forwards, swinging his sword and relieving the Orc of a few fingers. Dan's sword felt like rubber in his hands.

There was no time even for panic. Josur's eyes were fixed in horror on the first black blood to stain his sword and now it was Grimme's turn, crossing blades with a huge Orc who'd have had Josur's head had Grimme not shunted him aside with his shield.

The Orc was bigger and heavier and far more skilled with a sword than the short Rohan boy. He was pushing Grimme back towards the edge where more Orcs were now climbing. Without thinking, Dan charged forwards with Josur at his side. It took three of them, stout blades swinging wildly, to bring down the Orc. By the time they had finished there were three more coming towards them.

"Fall back!"

A group of elves who had been manning the wall to the east were sprinting like the wind towards the stairwell, Rohirrim stragglers in hot pursuit. All around them the cry sung as men and elves fled like rats to the safety of the keep.

An Orc, that seemed almost as broad as Grimme was tall, was between Dan and his escape route. It leered at the teenager, revealing a wide set of yellow, pointed teeth. As it took a step closer it raised its scimitar slowly, clearly enjoying the terror across Dan's face. In response, Dan brought his sword up in front of him. There could be no doubt that this Orc was preparing to take Dan's head off in one smooth swing.

Dan darted forwards with all the speed of pure terror. He jabbed his sword desperately then twisted to the side. His attack hadn't seemed to make any impact on the Orc. It moved impossibly fast as it charged.

The tall Orc had Dan by the neck in its foul grip. Dan was lifted off the ground, powerless and choking. The Orc shook him once, twice, and then it seemed as if it was going to shake Dan to death. All vision was lost as his head heaved and his bones smashed into each other from his toes to his skull. Then suddenly the shaking had stopped and the Orcs eyes were bulging wide just millimetres from his own. Slowly, almost comically, the Orc keeled over and fell backwards to land on the flagstones with Dan on top of it.

A strong hand grabbed Dan's shoulder and pulled him up, dragging him forward as the elven owner of the slender fingers ran. Dan was fighting for breath. They joined the clamour of pounding feet, a few men and elves bringing up the rear with a furious assault on the attacking Orcs.

Over and under the wall the attack came sweeping live a dark wave upon a hill of sand. There were riders being forced back step by step towards the caves, but Dan found himself joining the surge cutting their way back to the citadel.

A broad stairwell climbed from the Deep up to the Rock and the rear-gate of the Hornburg. Dan and the elf were some of the last to flee to safety before the heavy doors shut fast behind them with a clang of wrought iron.

"Are you hurt?" The elf's voice was soft like whispering leaves.

"I don't think so," Dan said, his own voice hoarse. He pressed his hands tentatively to his throat, massaging his neck. "Thank you. You saved my life."

"As any decent man or elf would have. You were brave, if ill-placed, with your attack. You hold that sword like it does not belong to you."

"That was the first time I've ever tried to use it." Dan admitted. He looked at the shimmering blade, still clasped tight under his white knuckles, with distaste, and thrust it back into its sheath.

"It is as if it burns you," The elf observed. "You don't like to fight."

"No." Dan said shortly. "We played with wooden swords when we were children, and we've mucked about in the armoury with the great swords sent there to be sharpened. I've held swords before, and swung them. But never that one."

"There is a story behind your eyes. If we are to wait out a siege in this dark hall then what better time to tell it? Now is for rest and for tales." The elf's gaze was intense and sincere, and Dan found himself unable to hold it for more than a few seconds.

"There's no story, really," Dan said awkwardly. "It was my father's when he was training. He wanted me to join him in the army. I didn't want to be a soldier. I think it upset him, but he insisted on giving me the sword anyway. It's just been a constant reminder in my bedroom ever since that I'll never be my father and I'll never be the son he wanted." Dan felt very stupid talking about his childish insecurities to such a noble creature. This elf was probably many hundreds of years old and had seen great battles and great empires and great lords of Middle Earth. Did elves have family the way men did? Perhaps Dan's trivialities were incomprehensible to this warrior.

"That is a hard burden to bear," the elf said gently. "but one borne in vain. You do not need to become your father for him to love you. That is the coward's choice, and you are not a coward."

Dan wasn't sure he agreed, but he kept silent. He had felt cowardly when he had filled with relief knowing he'd be able to join his mother in the safety of the caves, and more cowardly still at the regret and horror he could not shift when he had chosen instead to fight. He had felt cowardly when the Orc had charged at Josur and he had frozen rigid instead of leaping to his defence alongside Grimme.

"In doing what was expected of you, your father could never have been impressed, only satisfied," the elf carried on. "The only way to make him proud is to do something that he did not expect you to do. Follow the path that you believe is right, not the one set out in front of you. That is true bravery."

Dan blinked. The elf's words seemed too high and too honourable and more than a little out of place for a stable boy from Rohan. Already a flush was rising in Dan's cheeks.

The elf smiled kindly. "Come, I see your friends. Let us go to them."

Dan felt a stab of guilt in his stomach. He hadn't even thought about Josur and Grimme, or what fate might have befallen them after the Orc had attacked Dan. He hurried forwards, his eyes wide as he took in Josur sprawled out on the floor and the red gleam of wet blood.

"Jos, you egg," he muttered, dropping to his knees beside the chestnut-haired boy. "What happened?"

"I got stabbed!" Josur grinned, and Grimme rolled his eyes.

"It's barely a scratch," Grimme said, but Dan could see the concern in his eyes.

"May I?" The dark-haired elf joined Dan on the floor as he delicately pulled aside the rags that covered Josur's wound.

The two boys' mouths fell open, looking from the elf to Dan with question in their wide eyes. Dan shrugged helplessly. They were all very still in the elf's presence, and Dan smirked a little to see the same dumb-struck awe that he recognised so well in his comrades' eyes.

"It is not deep," the elf said.

"Oh no, we know," Grimme said, fighting for words. "We weren't going to take him to the healers. Not least till they've dealt with all the properly injured people."

"Hey!" Josur protested. "I'm properly injured. There's blood!"

The corner of the elf's mouth twitched. "He need not visit the healers. I can bind this, if we can perhaps borrow some hot water. And, for this 'proper injury', maybe some herbs for the pain?"

Josur blushed crimson. "It doesn't really hurt. I'm alright."

"Your enemy glanced your rib cage, but he did not break any bones. You may sleep easy, young boy of the Mark. If you're lucky, you'll have a small scar." The elf straightened up and drifted off in search of water, leaving as silently as he had arrived.

Grimme shook himself out of his stupor, blinking a few times and turning to Dan. "Who's your friend?" He asked, unsettled.

"He saved my life earlier," Dan shrugged. "I don't know his name. But I'd have been very dead if it wasn't for him."

"We had the same," Josur said, wincing as he tried to sit up. "We'd have been Orc dinner if the elves hadn't needed to get past the Orcs that were attacking us to get here. They just cut them all down. It's cool to watch."

Grimme nodded, swatting Josur's hand away to retie the bandage. "Jos nearly was. Shame really."

Josur smiled fondly up at the blonde boy, picking absentmindedly at the dried crusts of blood on his leather vest. "We made it out alive, though. We're seasoned warriors now. They'll write songs about us."

"We killed one Orc, and it took all three of us. Calm down." Grimme patted Josur briskly on the shoulder as he finished.

"No, but I mean when they sing of men who fought on the wall and swung their brave swords at the vicious enemy. That'll apply to us. Or at least, that's what I'm telling my mum."

"You do that, sweetie," Grimme grinned. "And if I die, please tell her that I love her and to name our child after me."

Josur cursed and aimed a swipe at Grimme, but the stretch shifted the makeshift bandage, dislodging the blood clots that were trying to form and pulling the broken skin painfully over his ribs. Josur gasped, clutching his side. At once, Grimme's amusement was replaced with worry and he bent forwards, his thick, rough fingers surprisingly gentle as they worked.

"Curse Elendil, Amon Anwar." Josur's eyes were screwed shut, and just then their elven friend came running over, his feet light as air.

"Normally it is advisable for the wounded to stay lying down." The elf murmured. He carried a stone bowl of steaming water and a small leather pouch, together with some clean wadding to replace the dirty scraps of cloth that Grimme had ripped from his shirt to stem the bleeding. Gently, he set to work, and as he did he sang softly.

"What a cry-baby." Grimme muttered as Josur winced and squirmed, but his hand was on the taller boy's shoulder and his fingers moved in soothing, circular motions.

The atmosphere in the grey hall was tense and quiet, but overbearingly weary. It had been a long night. There were many wounded, and many more grieving.

Dan got to his feet. He was hungry for one thing, and for another this place full of scattered companies and stragglers had been an abrupt reminder to him. It wasn't just he, Josur and Grimme that were caught up in the peril. All the boys from their stable had set out together. The men and the horses they had grown up with, too. Dan's father. He walked cautiously towards the flurry of activity and yells and moans that held host to the wounded. They had been dragged or carried from wherever they had been struck down, and, exhausted, their bearers had set them down here in the entrance hall. Those who were not accompanying the wounded had moved further into the citadel, presumably in search of food and rest.

Dan wasn't sure he wanted to approach. He was looking out for familiar faces, but hoping with all his might that he wouldn't see one. Not here where ruined legs were being hewn clean off amidst cries of anguish, nor in the far corner where the dead lay quiet and stiff. He turned right instead, heading through a high stone arch to where the face of a friend would bring only joy and relief (and hopefully some breakfast).