Disclaimer: The events and characters represented in this story come from J .R. R. Tolkien and his brilliant mind. I am only borrowing them for a short while and will return them in the same condition I found them in. This is a entirely for fun and an non-profit endeavor on my part.

The Last Arrow in the Quiver

They continued to fight. They continued to fight fiercely as if their very lives depended on it. Which it did. He was an archer; one of the skilled and trained warriors, and he was determined to be one of the last ones standing, no matter the cost. Arrow after arrow he shot into the enemy line, each hitting their mark and successfully reducing the enemy’s number. For every one he stopped that meant they were all that much closer to victory.

He was knocked off his feet when the wall blew; the explosion had tossed combatants from either side arbitrarily into the darkened sky. Shaking his head to clear the ring in his ears, he reached for his bow and plucked the few arrows he had left from the mud. As he stood, he stuffed the remaining arrows into his quiver. He did not want to waste any for they were becoming scarce; several times he had to rummage through the bodies of his fallen foes for spent arrows. Whether made by friendly hands or those of his foe, it made no difference to him. They all had the same function; to kill his enemy.

He repeated his actions over and over: draw, sight, and release, until...he was down to the last arrow in the quiver. This shot he wanted to make count so he searched for the perfect target. There, upon the ramparts was one of the enemy’s great warriors. This horrible creature had brought down many of his kindred, and now he would make ‘it’ pay.

With that spiteful creature in his sight, he released his last arrow but victory was not his. The arrow narrowly missed ‘it’ because the combatants closest to him jarred his arm as he was taking his final shot. Growling in frustration, he drew his sword and turned to face the one that caused him to miss. He never had a chance, for his foe was quicker.

Aragorn was fighting in close quarters with one of the numerous Uruks and it seemed to him for every one he killed five more sprung up to take its place. The foul creatures of Saruman had all but overrun Helm’s Deep. He hoped with all his heart that Gandalf would return when he said he would, for it was going to take a literal miracle for any of them to get out of this alive. Even though he was fighting for his life he was still able to see one of the Uruk-hai archers take aim at the Prince of Mirkwood.

From his distance, Aragorn was not able to gain the attention of Legolas. Quickly dispatching the Uruk he was fighting with, Aragorn did the only thing he could do; slamming into the archer’s arm, he caused the arrow to miss its mark. Legolas continued to fight, not realizing how closely he had come to visiting the Halls of Mandos.

The Uruk turned in frustration with his sword drawn but Aragorn was quicker. With a quick thrust, Andúril, the Blade that was Broken but now re-made, drove deeply into the chest of the Uruk. Aragorn did not think twice about the dying Uruk as he pulled his sword free. Turning to meet his next opponent, a thought flitted through Aragorn's mind: maybe, just maybe, he would tell the Elf just how close to an untimely death he had came to. That was if they lived to see the coming of dawn.

The End

A / N: I promise I have not slipped over to the ‘Dark Side’. I still ‘heart Elf's’ but this is just what was whispering in my ear.