Screech!
The shriek of the fell beast split the sky. One of the Nazgûl circled over the lands of Rohan, then suddenly halted in midair and descended slowly.
"I can feel them, the scent of Men... and their souls."
A large army had just passed below, heading toward... Helm's Deep.
Though the Nazgûl could not see as mortals do, they perceived the world in another way, through the realm of the dead, sensing the faint traces of living souls.
Reinforcements from Edoras, the capital of Rohan, had entered Helm's Deep, the only defensible stronghold in that region: the Hornburg.
But this was still manageable.
The reinforcements numbered no more than two thousand, roughly the same as the garrison once stationed at the Fords of Isen. Counting those already at the fortress, Rohan's defenders would barely total four thousand.
No matter how you looked at it, twenty thousand against four thousand, the advantage was mine.
The Nazgûl mounted his fell beast again and gave a command from the skies.
The dark army marched swiftly, keeping just a step behind the Rohirrim reinforcements, both forces racing toward Helm's Deep.
Tension crackled between the two as they vied for time.
By dusk, the Rohan reinforcements, along with the four remaining members of the Fellowship, reached the fortress first.
Théoden met with his son, Théodred, in the council chamber. Father and son stood together, discussing their grim situation.
"I failed to hold the ford, Father."
"It is not your fault," Théoden said, looking at his only child with weary kindness.
"No one could have held it, unless there were men who could face ten foes at once, or a hero who could fight ten thousand alone. Retreating to the Deep was the right choice. It spared us further loss. As for that endless host of enemies... Let them come."
Even knowing that twenty thousand enemy soldiers were marching toward them, Théoden showed no fear.
"The Hornburg's walls are unbreakable. However many they send, they'll crash like waves upon rock, and shatter themselves."
"Father, those orcs are not like the common rabble," Théodred warned grimly. "I've fought them. They are far stronger."
From the corner of the room, Gimli added gruffly, "Aye, they're not common orcs. They're Uruk-hai, thick armor, broad shields."
"I am no stranger to war," Théoden interrupted sharply. "You think I do not know this? But we have only one choice, to fight to the death. If this is to be our end, then let it be an end sung in song, a death worthy of remembrance."
On the other side, Aragorn suddenly spoke, "We should call for aid. Send a messenger, my lord."
"To whom?" Théoden asked, glancing from Aragorn to Legolas and Gimli. "The Elves? The Dwarves? Who would send their armies?"
"The Free Cities would," Aragorn said.
"The Free Cities..." Théoden murmured, his expression darkening.
"They have ever been our good allies. In other days, I've no doubt they'd come without hesitation. But have you not heard the news? Garrett, their champion, fell victim to the Dark Lord's schemes and vanished in the Northern Waste. The Elves say he no longer walks this world. In fury, the Free Cities gathered all their strength and now stand locked in a standoff at the North and South Undeeps and the Black Gate. But they could not break through. Mordor holds over a hundred thousand troops within its walls. They are holding back more than half of Mordor's armies in the North. They can hardly spare a thought for us now. And besides, the distance from the Black Gate to here is vast. How could they arrive in time?"
"As for Gondor, say no more. Before we learned of this army marching on Helm's Deep, I had even considered sending aid to Gondor myself. But they have not lit the beacons. Their Steward has no trust in Rohan."
At these words, Boromir opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated, and said nothing.
This matter was far too complicated.
"We can't spare any more men," Théoden said grimly. "Éomer and his riders must remain stationed in the Eastfold. If the eastern border falls, we'll face not only the black wild Men and Uruk-hai of Isengard, but also draw the attention of Mordor itself. And when that happens, there will be no hope left, no retreat."
He took a deep breath to ease the tightening in his throat, then looked around the room.
"Where is Gandalf? Has he left us?"
"He departed halfway along the road," Aragorn replied.
"Where did he go?"
"Westward. He rode beyond the Fords of Isen, perhaps toward the City of Waters."
"Good," Théoden nodded slowly.
"His intentions are noble, but I do not expect anyone to come to our aid, unless..."
"Unless what?" Aragorn asked.
"Unless he can bring Garrett back, from beyond the world itself."
"That's... not impossible," Aragorn murmured.
"Abandon such hopes," Théoden said heavily. "We stand alone."
He sighed softly, then turned and strode toward the battlements without looking back.
"Tell every man still able to fight, take up your weapons!"
As preparations tightened and the fortress filled with grim resolve, night fell, unwanted, yet inevitable.
---
"Who are you?"
"What, have your old eyes grown so dim you don't recognize me?"
Not far west of the Isen River, the white-robed Gandalf, astride Shadowfax, the lord of all horses, suddenly came upon a gleaming host, a vast army clad in silver and white.
Astonishment flashed through him, but greater still was his joy.
He had set out to seek aid, yet the Free Cities had already come of their own accord?
Then he saw the one who led them, and the two men spoke.
"My eyes are as sharp as ever, Garrett," said Gandalf. "I only wish to know, are you still you?"
"Am I still me?" Garrett chuckled. "If you must ask such a question, then tell me, are you still you?"
"Of course I am," said Gandalf.
"Then so am I."
"Are you truly yourself?" Gandalf pressed, frowning slightly.
"When the day comes that you are no longer you," Garrett said with a small smile, "I will still be me."
The soldiers around them began to sweat nervously.
The moment their leaders met, they started trading strange, riddle-like words that no one could make sense of.
"Do not question it," someone whispered. "Our lord's words surely carry profound meaning. Perhaps they are discussing the philosophy of self."
"Indeed, the question of 'Who am I?' has always been a deep one," another murmured solemnly.
Someone had at least found an explanation, of sorts, for their mysterious exchange.
"Who are you, truly?" Gandalf asked again, still bewildered.
"Different from anything you might imagine." Garrett shook his head.
"Perhaps, when your task is done, you will understand a part of it."
"But one thing I can tell you for certain, what I am now is complete. No fragment missing, no part forgotten. I am Garrett, and Garrett is me. No other being, no other name."
"Very well," said Gandalf at last. "I understand."
"Good," Garrett smiled. "Understanding is enough."
Then his expression softened.
"Still... whoever I may be, one thing remains true."
"What is that?" Gandalf asked.
"We are still friends, aren't we?"
Gandalf's eyes widened, then his brows lifted as a smile spread across his face.
"Ah, that we are. What does it matter, then, my friend?"
"Welcome back."
"And you as well."