In the end, the boys Deor had gathered were more than Robb had hoped for, but fewer than he had feared, which he supposed was as good as he was going to get.

The youngest was only three and ten, named Haleth, son of Háma. His father, Robb learned, had died just yesterday in an ambush on the way here, so he was understandably distraught. The tip of his late father's sheathed sword trailed on the ground, clearly too big for him, nevermind too heavy.

"Lord Aragorn said it was a good sword," Haleth mumbled, valiantly biting back tears when Robb suggested he exchange it for a shorter one.

Robb nodded. "So it is. But it is also heavy, and very long. You know, I tried to wield my father's sword once—a greatsword, beautiful and sharper than anything I'd held in my hands before. But it was longer than I was tall, and I couldn't lift it for more than a few seconds. I almost took my own foot off when I dropped it."

The boys around him chuckled, and Robb grinned. "Aye, that's funny, I know."

He gave them a moment before sobering up. "Now imagine if that had happened in battle."

The room became quiet, a few of the lads biting their lips or wringing their hands. Haleth's gaze had dropped to the ground.

"I do not mean to belittle you. I do not think you are weak or unable to fight. I fought my first battle at a younger age than anyone should have to and I know how it feels to be treated that way. When I tell you your sword is too big I do not mean 'you are too scrawny,' I mean 'you will be able to fight better with a short sword'. When I tell you not to use your father's sword, I do not mean 'never use it,' I mean 'not just yet.' Alright?"

Haleth nodded, squaring his shoulders. "Alright."

Smiling, Robb squeezed his shoulder before clapping his hands. "Then let us see if we can find something for you all."

❄️

Robb did not train with the boys for very long—tiring them out now would have the opposite effect of what he desired—but by the end of it, he was both proud and deeply uncomfortable with the thought of sending them into battle.

Was this how his mother had felt the first time Robb had ridden off to war? If so, he owed her several apologies. These lads were scarcely younger than he had been then, and yet he thought of them as children.

He watched them head back inside, their faces illuminated by the warm light of torches, and wondered how many would make it through the night. At least they were no longer so tense, even though Robb suspected that would not last very long.

Sighing, he picked up his own training blade and slung the wooden shield over his shoulder. He hadn't yet had the opportunity to select a sword he would wield later, what with all the planning and digging and then sparring with the boys. Robb had no earthly idea where Airilírë was—most likely still in the middle of a field, where it wasn't doing much good for anyone—and he hoped Haldir would not ask.

Robb gave the training sword a few swings. The balance was good enough, he had noticed that right away. It sat comfortably in his hand, not too heavy, and although the lack of a crossguard took some getting used to, it was far from the worst blade he had ever handled. If he could find someone to sharpen it, the sword would certainly be good enough to wield it for a night.

And after that—well, Robb supposed that was a bridge he could cross when he came to it.

Decision made, he turned to go back inside. To find a sheath, to find something in the way of armour, to wait for the battle to start: he was sure there were many things that still needed doing. There had been several dozen arrows hidden away in a chest in the armoury, he remembered—perhaps he should unearth them lest they rotted away. Gods knew he had only found them accidentally, and he doubted anyone else knew they were there.

Robb was barely through the doorway when he saw Aragorn leaning against the wall of the hallway. His eyes swept over Robb as he approached. Aragorn must have reached some kind of conclusion, nodding at him before he pushed himself from the wall and fell in step with Robb.

"You did well with them."

Robb snorted softly, looking at Aragorn out of the corner of his eyes. "I was them, not two years gone. I remember well what I was told and what I wish I'd been told instead."

Aragorn's face went through an interesting series of contortions, as though he wanted to grimace but at the very last moment tried to remain stone-faced.

"I wish you'd not remind me of your age right before we go into battle. I had just managed to forget about it."

Robb laughed. "Why? This is far from my first fight, even here in Middle-Earth. I did not think it ever bothered you before."

"Battle always bothers me," Aragorn sighed, "and I fear the day it does not. But you are right. All the other times we fought, there was little time for worry. We were all equally unprepared. Now that I find myself waiting, anticipating the fight, I seem to be unable to think about anything else."

Grunting in acknowledgment, Robb bumped Aragorn's shoulder with his own. "I doubt it helps you cease your worrying, but this is what I know. Waiting for battle, I mean. It feels more familiar to me than most things I have lived through in this world so far. Certainly, I can handle it better than any surprise attack. The planning, the strategy, the contingencies—that is what I do best.

"But I do know what you mean—" Robb nodded in the direction of the now deserted hallway ahead of them, the faint chatter of children growing closer with every step—"I worry about them, too. They should not fight, Aragorn. What can a few dozen untrained children do that hundreds of soldiers could not?"

Aragorn put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly. "I doubt they will be on the front lines. Perhaps Théoden will have them defend the rear gate. The only ways for any intruders to get there are through at least three heavily fortified gates or through the Deeping Wall—and if they do reach it, every other soldier will have pulled back there already."

Through the Deeping Wall, which Saruman had every intention of blowing up. Robb pressed his lips together but remained quiet.

"If you are that worried, Robb, why do you not take charge of them?" Aragorn asked. "They trust you already and your presence would surely lend them some courage."

Robb turned to look at Aragorn with raised eyebrows. In truth, it was not something he had considered, but the idea was appealing. Still, he had not thought Aragorn would want him to—then it dawned on him.

He stopped. "This is not about those boys, is it," Robb said, deadpan. "This is about me. You want me away from the fighting."

Aragorn's expression confirmed it, eyes downcast and everything. Robb closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Why?" he asked. "I told you I was fine. This is no different from any other battle—in fact, I feel better about it than I did all the other ones! You have known about my age since Lothlórien, so it cannot be that, and I am not so bad at fighting that you would not trust me to do well. What is so different about today that you—"

Robb paused. "Oh. Oh, you—! Is this because of Saruman?"

His hands had tightened around the hilt of his sword as well as the strap of the shield, so strongly that Robb's fingernails dug into his palms in painful crescents.

Gods, he was alright! All of his injuries were healed, he had eaten and drunk more than enough, he had even slept for several hours on the back of Glorfindel's horse. And fine, yes, perhaps he had almost thrown up several times on the way here from Isengard, but that was because he had eaten too much at once when he had discovered that pantry. That was just how bodies worked.

It was certainly not because Saruman—or Sauron, for that matter!—had somehow...somehow ruined him or anything. Robb was fine, and even if he weren't it would not affect his performance in the battle to come. Just thinking about that made him clench his jaw so hard his head started to ache.

"Robb, I do not doubt you," Aragorn finally said, his voice just as soft as his eyes. "But I do worry. The same way you worry about those boys, the same way I am sure you worried about your siblings, about Merry and Pippin, and the same way your mother must have worried about you. I cannot help it, not when we had believed you lost until mere hours ago. I— we thought you were dead, Robb."

Aragorn raised a hand to cup Robb's neck. His eyes glistened as they took in his face, lingering just for a moment on his cheek before he met Robb's eyes.

"I cannot risk losing you again so soon," he whispered, tilting Robb's head forward until their foreheads rested against each other. "I am sorry."

Tears suddenly burning behind his own eyes, Robb swallowed. He blinked once, then two more times, and finally nodded.

"I—" His voice was rough and Robb cleared his throat before swallowing again. "I will be outside with you when the battle begins. When—if the Deeping Wall or the main gate is breached, I will go inside and take charge of those lads. And I will stay with them until the battle ends. Aye?"

"Aye." Aragorn let out a long, shuddering breath. "Thank you."

❄️

Boromir was waiting for him in the armoury when Robb arrived. He stood leaning with his hip against the table at the back of the room and was talking to Deor while the other lads still in the room tried and failed to hide the fact that they were eavesdropping.

Robb's lips twitched, but he supposed he understood. Boromir was nobility, after all, and had likely spent a large part of the past few days with their king. The Gods knew Robb himself had tried to listen in on his parents' conversations with the King and Queen often enough when they had visited Winterfell, especially during that first feast. Not that it had been all that enlightening—Robert Baratheon had known no more than three conversational topics (whores, the 'good old times' in the Vale, and Robb's dead aunt Lyanna) and Cersei and his mother had barely spoken at all. Most likely the two had been connected.

Perhaps Robb should have tried to eavesdrop on the Royal family when they thought themselves alone instead—especially the Kingslayer and his sister. That might have been more revealing. More dangerous as well, of course, but look where not spying had gotten him. It could hardly have gone worse than that.

Boromir ended his conversation with a squeeze of Deor's shoulder and a, "Give your uncle my best," before turning his attention to Robb.

"I hear you trained with them," he said with a smile. "You truly do manage to gain admirers everywhere you go."

Robb raised his eyebrows and put his sword and shield to the side. "That is... not really my experience, but I'll take it."

Scanning the emptying room for anything in the way of a whetstone, he asked, "How do you know Deor's uncle, anyway?"

Boromir shrugged. "I don't, really. He was the guard who welcomed me to Edoras when I arrived. Young Deor was talking about his Uncle Háthain as I came in and the name rang a bell. But—" he pushed himself away from the table and turned to pick up something behind him— "that is not why I came to find you."

He held the package out to Robb. Wrapped in cloth, the object was long and thin but heavy at the same time if the way Boromir was carrying it with both hands was any indication.

Robb's gaze flicked from the package to Boromir, and then back again. The shape and size as well as the weight—a glimmer of hope bloomed in his chest.

"Is that—?" He reached out to flip back the cloth, only to hesitate at the last moment, looking back up at Boromir.

Chuckling, Boromir held his hands out further. "Go on, take it. You didn't truly think I would leave it behind, would you?"

Robb finally took the package and knew he was holding Airilírë again before he even unwrapped it. A wide grin spread over his face as the piece of cloth fluttered to the ground and his fingers closed around his sword's hilt. The blade sang as he unsheathed it, sharp as ever.

"Thank you, Boromir," he said, catching his eyes. "Truly."

Boromir nodded, even if his smile was just a bit too tight to be entirely genuine. "It was the least I could do. Your fur cloak is still in my pack as well—as is the one from Lothlórien."

Robb hummed. He did not think Boromir would believe him if Robb tried once more to convince the man none of what had transpired had been his fault. Instead, he nudged Boromir's arm with his and let a lopsided smile take over his expression.

"It does save me from having to answer any uncomfortable questions from Haldir," he said. "I'm sure hiding from him would not have worked too well. I think he might have tried to kill me had he found out I'd lost the blade his lady gifted to me."

Next to him, Boromir stiffened and Robb closed his eyes in regret. Too soon. He should have known, after the conversation he had just been through with Aragorn.

Thankfully, Boromir dropped the matter without comment.

"The fortifications are ready," he said instead, clearing his throat. "Haldir and his men helped with the last of the trench and the spikes. The wood and oil are prepared, and we can start to boil the cauldrons of water as soon as the enemy approaches."

Robb ran through his mental list of arrangements, ticking off points, and nodded. "Good. Are they in sight yet?"

"Legolas said he saw torches a few leagues away some time ago. I'd wager we have perhaps another hour or two before they arrive."

Robb sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Alright. Thank you."

Time to get ready for battle, then. He would have to borrow some armour from this room, though: Robb's gorget, one of the few pieces of plate armour he had arrived with in Middle-Earth, had been dented since that Warg attack before they had entered Moria. He had stopped wearing plate entirely after Lothlórien, deciding it was far too heavy for long-distance travel. Everything else he had lost to his kidnappers. His surcoat, mail and boots likely remained in a storeroom in Isengard even now, never to be found again.

Eyes roving over the racks of mail and plate armour, Robb tried to guess which might be of the right size for him. He barely had enough time to outfit himself as it was, especially if he wanted to gather the lads one more time and tell them what to do, what to expect once battle began. It was far too late to try on armour after armour that did not fit.

Robb found a gambeson his size fairly quickly, although it was obviously older and had stains he did not care to know the origin of. By the time he had put it on, Boromir stood beside him with the rest picked out. He quietly helped Robb into the mail shirt, then handed him a surcoat—perhaps once a dark green, but its colour had faded until what remained was closer to grey—and finally fastened the plate armour on his body. The mix of leather work and riveted plates was similar to what Robb had seen on the other soldiers from Rohan, although its lightness felt different than the metal plates he was used to. Robb only hoped it held up as well as his old armour had.

He secured Balin's dagger at his hip and Airilírë on the other side, and was just about to pick up a helmet when Aragorn burst into the room.

"Saruman's army has reached the mouth of the valley," he said, panting as though he had run the entire way. "At their pace, they will reach the Burg within half an hour."

Robb took a deep breath and nodded, tucking the helmet under his arm. The weight of the armour was reassuring, settling something within him he'd not known had been unbalanced all this time. His mind was clear, his hands steady, and his heartbeat slow. Robb had never been on the defending side of a siege, but as he adjusted his gloves one last time, he felt confident that they could make it. So long as the wall remained standing, they could win this battle.

Next to him, Boromir straightened up as well. "Everyone is prepared?"

"As well as they can be."

"Where are the lads?" Robb asked as they left the room and stepped out into the night.

"Guarding the rear gate." Aragorn squeezed his shoulder and Robb threw a faint smile his way. "King Théoden was as loath to see them at the front lines as you and I."

They split ways once they reached the inner courtyard, Boromir and Aragorn continuing downstairs in the direction of the deeping wall while Robb headed through the main hall. The rear gate, according to the map Robb had studied intently during Théoden's strategy meeting, sat at the foot of the only tower Helm's Deep possessed.

Looking at it now, he decided that 'gate' was a bit of an exaggeration. The barred wooden door was barely wide enough to let two men through at once and the room that housed it was small, nearly taken up in its entirety by the spiralling stairway which led up to the top of the watchtower. Torches sat on the walls between a few embrasures, although they did very little to illuminate the room at large.

The skin on the back of his neck tingled, and for a moment—in this small, dark room, lit only by fire—Robb was back in a cell in Isengard.

Then he spotted the gaggle of boys sitting on the stairs, talking in hushed whispers, and forced himself back into the present.

Taking a deep breath, Robb let a smile spread on his face before he closed the door behind him. The lads quieted instantly, although Robb could still hear the shuffling of feet, the jingling of chainmail—they were jittery, anxious, afraid.

And who could blame them. Robb was surprised they were sitting at all.

"Lord Robb!" Deor cried out, jumping to his feet.

Robb's smile widened, became just a tad more real. "Deor. How are you holding up, lads?"

He got some nods and mumbles in response and almost chuckled.

"Alright," he said, "me too."

"Are you going to stay with us?" Haleth asked, his blue eyes wide. He held the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles were bone white. Haleth was not wearing gloves, and neither were some of the other boys. Young Eadwine did not even have a helmet and Robb barely hesitated before stepping forward and handing his own to the boy.

"Not yet," he finally answered, biting the inside of his lip as he watched Eadwine secure the helmet on his head. It was just a little bit too big, but anything was better than going into battle without one.

Robb cast his gaze about the room, meeting the lads' eyes one by one. "I will be outside with your king for now. But if anything happens that might put you in danger at all, I will come to you. I promise. In a way," he said with a deliberately cheery grin, "you will be much safer so long as I am not here with you."

"But what if you—"

The boy next to him clapped a hand over Haleth's mouth with a hiss and Robb winced.

"I won't, Haleth," he said, stepping closer and cupping the boy's cheeks with his hands. It was not a vow he should make, certainly one he might not be able to keep, and yet Robb felt compelled to do so. Today would not be the day he died.

Well. Died again.

"I swear to you I will be here. Alright?"

He waited for Haleth to nod before stepping back.

"But until I do so," he continued, "I need one of you to be in charge. Someone you all trust, someone who you think will make smart decisions, even without an adult here with you."

To their credit, none of them volunteered