Gerithor was glad to have left the battlefield behind, though the images of dead Rohirrim continued to plague his thoughts hours later. Who had those men been? Were their families safe somewhere, waiting for a return that would never come? Were they behind the walls of the Hornburg, waiting for their loved ones to deliver them from evil? 

As if Kalan could read his mind, he came to the ranger's side and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Worry not for the dead, lad. They're free from the troubles of this world."

"It is not they that I worry for, but for those they left behind," Gerithor replied grimly. "What kind of a world will they have?" 

Kalan frowned, his thick beard obscuring his pursed lips entirely. "Well, for the first time in years, the future is entirely unclear to me. What's good is evil, and Rohan burns. Who knows what troubles our own homes are facing?"

Gerithor frowned at the dwarf's uncharacteristically grim words, the weight of them settling in his chest like stone. His thoughts wandered, unbidden, to the faces of those he cared about.

He thought of Halbarad, ever the steadfast captain, now burdened with the charge of Mithlond's scattered remnants, its people fearful, weary, and looking to him for hope he could scarce give.

He thought of Taliel, the quiet elf whose gaze often lingered too long on distant skies, as though already mourning a world not yet lost. There was sorrow in her even before the Havens fell, and now it only deepened.

And he thought of young Gilian, barely more than a girl, though bloodied now by war; whose first true step beyond the bounds of peace had led not to glory, but to fire and ruin. What dreams she once held, Gerithor could no longer guess.

And at last, Caledorn. Long had the dark elf borne the guise of stoic silence, unmoved by pain or plea. But now, as if a dam had shattered within him, the weight of this war pressed heavy on his soul.

With a sigh, he adjusted the bow upon his back and continued on through the tall grass, Kalan at his side.

The vast fields around them soon transformed into rolling hills, waves of amber grass blowing in the gentle breeze. The memory of their grisly discovery eventually faded from their minds, but the shadow that hung over the group remained. 

Ever did an unseen presence trail them; dark, watchful, and oppressive, as if some hidden eye lingered just beyond sight, shadowing every step they took. Even Kalan, who was rarely daunted by weather or wraith, had grown silent beneath its weight, his thoughts bent only on reaching their destination with no further delay.

And the land itself seemed to share in the gloom. The skies, once clear and bright, turned sullen and heavy with storm, and distant thunder grumbled like the voice of some sleeping beast. The wind grew sharp, and the smell of rain rode upon it like a warning.

By the time the White Mountains rose before them, vast and pale in the stormlight, they were drenched through, cloaks clinging like sodden shrouds. Sheets of rain fell in relentless grey veils, and water coursed in rivulets down the rock faces and along the path.

Kalan gave a muttered curse in Khuzdul as he wrung out his beard for the third time, scowling at the heavens with dwarven disdain.

"If the sky means to drown us," he growled, "it might at least wait until after supper."

Gerithor offered a thin smile beneath his hood, his cloak drawn tight against the wind.

"This path Gandalf spoke of," he said, nodding ahead, "must lie between those peaks."

His voice was steady, but his eyes lingered on the narrowing pass with unease. For though the wind shrieked and the thunder cracked above them, it was not the storm that gnawed at his heart, but a deeper sound beneath it all: a low, relentless rumble, as though the very bones of the mountains groaned with warning.

Then they crested the rise.

And there, sprawled across the valley below like a great burning plague upon the earth, was the source of that sound.

Gerithor halted, stunned to stillness. A vast and shifting sea of torchlight moved in the gloom; thousands upon thousands of flames, swaying like fireflies in the hands of marching beasts. An army. No, more than that. A legion.

His sharp eyes traced the banners that rode the wind atop their columns. One was of black cloth, crudely smeared with a white hand. Isengard. Beside it, darker still, the standard of Umbar: sable cloth marked with the sigil of a blood-red half-sun. Corsairs. Beyond them, barely visible through the downpour, was the old fortress. Helm's Deep.

Gerithor's breath caught in his throat. Rain dripped from the brim of his hood, unnoticed. A sickness crept through him, not of the flesh, but of the spirit, as recent memory opened its cruel doors.

He was back at Mithlond... The fires, the screams. The ships burning in the harbor. The helplessness. The failure.

I have failed again.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, against the rising tide of despair.

Beside him, Kalan muttered a curse sharp enough to cut stone. But even the dwarf's voice held no humor now.

Gerithor swallowed hard and opened his eyes. The torches still burned. The banners still waved. And the storm, uncaring, raged on.

"So this is where they gather," he said softly, more to himself than to Kalan. "The hammer to break the West."

"What now? We can't just turn away!" Kalan exclaimed, his voice half-lost in the wind, though the fire in it was undimmed.

Gerithor stood motionless, his eyes still fixed on the distant flames. When he spoke, his voice was low and bitter.

"What can we hope to do?" he said. "Two blades against an army that vast? We are but dogs nipping at the heels of a warsteed."

Kalan turned sharply to face him, rain sliding down his beard, eyes flashing beneath furrowed brows.

"There must be something, lad! You and I've seen odds blacker than this. Perhaps we slip through, warn the folk inside, get them out before the trap springs."

Gerithor hesitated, his jaw tight. For a moment, all he could see were the burning ships of Mithlond; the children left behind, the cries swallowed by flame and tide.

"And if we fail?" he asked. "If we're caught before we reach the gates?"

"Then we fall with purpose," Kalan said, his voice quieter now, but no less resolute. "And not wandering these hills while others die."

There was a silence between them, filled only by the wind and the ceaseless drum of rain on rock.

Gerithor turned at last from the valley of torches, and when he looked upon the dwarf beside him, something steadied in his gaze.

"There are paths through these hills," he said. "Old ranger ways, used in the days when Dunedain still patrolled these lands. Forgotten by most. I know them not by memory, but would recognize them if I saw them. They'll be steep. Cold. Barely wide enough for a pack-beast. But they lead west, beyond the army's reach. If we walk silently and keep to the shadows, we may come to Helm's Deep before the horde attacks."

Kalan stared a moment longer at the firelit expanse below, then spat over the edge.

"Then what are we waiting for? I'd rather die with an axe in hand and a wall at my back than roasted on some Orc's pike while fleeing."

Gerithor nodded once. "We move as soon as darkness falls. We will not rest until we find our way to the Deep." 

"Music to my ears," Kalan muttered.

==============================

Gerithor had never come so far south, yet the old ways of his people revealed themselves to his seasoned eyes. The path, long-forgotten by most, was marked by subtle signs: small runestones, half-sunken in moss and shale, etched with fading sigils only the Dúnedain still remembered.

They wound like a whisper around the flanks of the hills, cutting through lands too steep, too broken for the tread of armies. Here, the cliffs loomed sharp and sheer, and the narrow trails clung to the mountainsides

The journey through the high paths was slow and perilous. Twice they nearly lost their footing to loose shale, and once they were forced to flatten themselves against a cliffside as a patrol passed below; orc-scouts, judging by the harsh speech drifting upward, their torches guttering in the wind.

But at last, just as the army stopped before the massive walls of the fortress, with the storm waning and the clouds parting just enough to reveal the pale gleam of the moon, they saw it.

Helm's Deep.

It rose from the stone like a fortress hewn from the mountain itself, walls tall and grim, bastions scarred from countless sieges, yet still unbroken. Fires burned along the ramparts. From this distance, the Deeping Wall seemed calm, but Gerithor knew that calm was the breath before the strike.

The main gates, far to the front, were already under distant watch. Torchlight from the valley below marked the creeping approach of the Enemy's vanguard.

But Gerithor led them along a narrow ledge, hidden behind a tumble of rocks, until they came at last to a shadowed cleft at the rear of the Deep: the postern gate.

It was small and half-hidden, a door of thick oak banded in black iron, built into the stone beside a shallow stream that spilled down from the hills. Once used for secret sallies or escape, it was now their only hope.

Gerithor approached it cautiously, rapping three times in a measured rhythm, an old signal of the Dúnedain.

For a long moment, there was nothing. Only the trickling water and the wind whispering over the stones.

Then came the soft grind of a bolt drawn back, and a sliver of torchlight cut through the crack in the door.

"Who goes there?" came a low voice, wary but not hostile.

Gerithor stepped forward, lowering his hood. "Gerithor, son of Gerimond, Ranger of the North. With me is Kalan of the Iron Hills. We come bearing dire warning."

"And why," came the voice again, firm and edged with suspicion. "Should I believe that such strange visitors appear at the fore of an Uruk host with anything but ill intent?"

Gerithor stepped into the narrow shaft of torchlight, rain trailing from his cloak.

"Because I am no servant of shadow," he said, voice low but clear. "I am cousin to Aragorn, son of Arathorn, who even now stands behind these very walls. Speak to him, and he will vouch for me."

There was a pause. A long one.

Behind the crack in the gate, muted whispers passed between men. They were too soft to make out, but clearly urgent.

Then, slowly, the door opened wider with a groan of ancient hinges.

A man clad in battered mail stood behind it, a spear in his hand and wariness in his blue eyes. His helm was dented, and a deep cut marked the side of his cheek, crusted with dried blood.

"Enter," he said at last. "But mind this: should you speak falsely, you'll not live to see the dawn."

Kalan snorted behind Gerithor, stepping through. "I've heard more cheerful welcomes in goblin tunnels."

Gerithor offered the guard a nod as he passed. "You'll find no lies in our purpose, only warning. The storm that comes is larger than you know."

The gate shut behind them with a thud, sealing them into the cold stone bowels of Helm's Deep. The air inside was thick with smoke and sweat, and the low murmur of weary men preparing for war.

"Come," the guard said. "If you speak truly, we'll soon know it."

They followed him through the narrow tunnel, the torch casting long shadows on the walls behind them. Soon, they emerged into the keep proper, where a great commotion stirred. Men moved with grim purpose, strapping on armor, sharpening blades, and hauling supplies to the ramparts. The murmur of orders and the clatter of arms echoed beneath the vaulted stone ceiling. Some turned to glance at the new arrivals; strangers in weather-stained cloaks, one tall and cloaked in northern austerity, the other short and broad-shouldered with the unmistakable air of the dwarves. Yet none had time to question them, for the hour was too late and the storm too near.

Near the firelight at the edge of the hall, a tall, fair figure stood watchful, his eyes already on the tunnel's mouth. At the sight of them, his brow lifted, and recognition lit his elven features.

"Suilad, Gerithor. Suilad, Kalan," said Legolas, stepping forward with the grace of his kind. He clasped Gerithor's forearm with a warrior's greeting, and offered Kalan a nod touched with reserved courtesy. "Strange indeed are the threads the world now weaves; to see the two of you here, at the edge of ruin."

Gerithor allowed himself a faint smile, wearied though he was.

"Strange days, Legolas. We bring both word and warning. Where is Aragorn? He will wish to hear this as well." 

"Come, friends," the elf replied, turning on his heel and leading the two further into the keep. Before long, they reached a chamber set apart from the bustle, where the firelight danced upon cold banners and flickered across the iron-rimmed table that stood at its heart.

Upon that table lay a weathered map of Helm's Deep, creased from long study. Around it stood six figures, grim and purposeful.

One was an aged man, silver-haired and proud despite the weight of his years, clad in the mail and surcoat of a king: Théoden of Rohan, his bearing regal even in exhaustion. Beside him stood two of his guard, broad-shouldered men with the horse of the Riddermark emblazoned on their cloaks, their eyes wary as wolves.

Gerithor's eyes moved to others gathered at the war-table. There stood Gimli, helm beneath his arm, beard singed but spirit unshaken. And beside him, taller and grim-faced, stood Boromir, son of Denethor of Gondor, his brow heavy with care. Gerithor hadn't seen him since Elrond's council, and time had etched its burden deeper into the man's face. 

And at the far end of the table stood Aragorn.

Clad in a coat of mail, with a sword at his side and a shadow in his gaze, he looked every inch the chieftain of the Dúnedain, no longer the wandering ranger of old. Though the dust of many roads still clung to him, there was a new strength in his bearing, as though the weight of his destiny now tempered him.

He looked up as they entered, and his eyes locked with Gerithor's. A faint light stirred behind the weariness, and he stepped forward.

"It is good, as unexpected as it is, to see a kinsman in this place," he said, embracing Gerithor and giving him a warm, if tired, smile. "And Kalan, it is good to see you again as well. But why are you both here? Are there not matters in the north to attend to?" 

"That's why we have come," Gerithor replied grimly. "We bring ill tidings from the northern lands." 

"Speak then," he said softly. "Though I would rather not hear it, truth must not be delayed. But first," he turned, gesturing to the older man at his side. "I would have you meet Théoden, King of Rohan."

"If you are kinsmen of Aragorn and come bearing tidings, ill though they be, then you are doubly welcome," he said. "For such voices are sorely needed in a world where so few speak truth."

"If true words alone could deliver us, we would have no need of these walls," Gerithor said darkly. "Much has changed in the North, more than you yet know, and it may well shape what must be done here. Mithlond has fallen. The Grey Havens burn. Corsairs have come from the western sea and joined forces with the legions of Isengard. An army marches now, one the world has not seen in an age: vast, relentless, and without mercy."

He let the silence stretch, letting the weight of the truth settle upon the room.

"Helm's Deep is strong," he continued, "but not strong enough. We might make a sea of corpses before the gates, aye; but it would not turn them away. It would only slow the tide. And worse still: you sent word to your nephew, Éomer, hoping his riders might come to our aid. They will not. They are fallen, every one. Whatever strength Rohan had left in the field was buried with them."

Theoden's jaw tightened, and a shadow passed over his eyes. Aragorn's brow furrowed, gaze heavy with the burden of leadership.

At last, the King of Rohan spoke, voice low but steady as thunder on the horizon.

"I did not ride all this way to flee, ranger," he said. "If doom comes to the Hornburg, then let it find me standing upon its walls, sword in hand, as my fathers stood before me. I will not run to the hills like some craven Dunlending, hiding behind stone while others bleed."

"This has nothing to do with honor, Théoden King," Gerithor said, his voice rising. "It is not your pride that hangs in the balance: it is your people."

He stepped closer to the table, hands clenched at his sides.

"If you remain here, they will die. All of them. Not just the sword-bearing men upon your walls, but the women and children hidden behind them. The Uruk does not spare. It does not ransom. It does not show mercy."

The chamber fell into tense silence. Rain struck the stone above. The fire crackled, casting stark shadows across grim faces.

Gerithor's eyes met Théoden's, fierce and unflinching.

"You may wish to die with your sword in hand," he said, voice low and steady. "But will you ask the same of your daughters? Of children barely old enough to walk, let alone flee? Will you give them no choice but death in the shadow of your pride?"

Théoden's eyes burned with anger, and it was clear that he did not take this challenge lightly, especially from a wandering newcomer like Gerithor. 

At last, he spoke, his voice like stone grinding against stone.

"And what would you have me do?" he asked. "Run from cave to cave like some wounded stag, hunted until there is nowhere left to hide? Abandon our last stronghold to the Enemy without drawing sword or spilling blood?"

He stepped toward Gerithor now and his voice echoed in the hall, not with bluster, but with the bitter, proud fire of one who had lost too much already

"No, ranger. I will stand. Even if death comes, it shall find me standing tall and unbroken. And it will be a stand worthy of remembrance."

The two men stood face to face, the air between them taut as a drawn bowstring. Around them, the room held its breath. Kalan shifted uncomfortably at Gerithor's side, one hand resting on the haft of his axe, his unease clear.

At last, Aragorn stepped forward.

"Perhaps," he said, voice calm but firm, "there is a middle path."

He looked first to Théoden, then to Gerithor, his words measured, seeking to temper fire with reason.

"I would not ask you to flee in defeat, Théoden King. Nor would I see you robbed of your honor, should this be your final stand. But neither can I stand idle while the innocent are left to die within these walls."

He turned slightly, addressing the room as much as the king.

"Let us hold the Deep. Let the brave and the willing stay and fight. But Gerithor, Kalan, and those who ride with me will lead the women, the children, and those who cannot bear arms through the mountain pass."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"If Helm's Deep must fall, then let it not fall with all hope buried beneath it."

Théoden was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed not on Aragorn, but on the great map spread before them.

At last, he spoke, his voice roughened by the weight of decision.

"Very well," he said. "Let it be so. The women and children shall be led through the pass. I will not chain them to the fate I have chosen."

He looked up, his gaze falling upon Gerithor, then Aragorn.

"But hear me, and hear me well: they do not leave under cover of fear, nor by the hour of cowardice. They depart under my command, with my blessing, and with armed escort. If any say that Rohan fled, let them know it was to preserve what still lives, not to flee before the growing dark."

He stepped back from the table, voice gaining strength.

"And those who remain will make our stand not as relics of a fading age, but as the Hammerhand upon the shield of the Enemy. Let them taste the fury of Rohan before the end."

A murmur of agreement spread among the captains and guards nearby. Even Kalan gave a curt, approving nod.

Gerithor lowered his head in respect. "Then we will see them safely through."