I heard the news of the battle at Helms Deep. Lord Theoden ordered every man eligable to pick up a sword to do so and fight in the battle that very evening. The stranger with brown hair–I learned his name to be Aragorn son of Arathorn–was handing out swords. I watched him from a distance and knew the anger in his eyes, the frusteration in his pass. I saw him, from a distance, hand the swords to another man and walk to his companion, Legolas Greenleaf.

They began conversing in fluent elvish. I caught a few words like ‘if’, and ‘fear’. I still could remember something from the lessons my father gave me when I was about four. But then, he died.

Now the haste was in both’s eyes and at the tip of their tounge. There was something like an argument between them. The fair elf spoke loudly and slightly angrily. Aragorn replied very harshly. It was not his fault, I knew, for none were very happy with the large battle. I watched him leave amongst silent folk with quickness in his foot and saw Legolas make a movement as if to follow but then, he was stopped by Gimli, the dwarf, who was another of his companion.

“Let him be, Legolas,” Gimli told him.

I was very frightened.