If Robb had been slightly less exhausted, he would have very likely been annoyed at the treatment he received from his companions. He was ecstatic to be with them again, make no mistake, but he wished they were a bit less obvious in their concern.

Already an hour had passed—in which, to be fair, he had received a long-overdue bath as well as fresh clothes, had shaved and been subsequently introduced to the King of Rohan—but they would not stop giving him food. Fine, aye, he had been imprisoned for a week or so, in which he had drunk very little and eaten even less. But that had been then. As things stood, Robb had eaten more than his fill back in Isengard's storehouse, and managed just fine since then with his satchel full of stolen provisions.

Of course, when he had told Boromir all this, the only thing Robb had got in return for his troubles had been a poorly hidden look of anguish and yet another roll of bread. Knowing when a battle was lost, Robb had just sighed, thanked the man and, as soon as he was out of sight, handed the bread off to the next child he had run into. Unfortunately, Aragorn had lain in wait just around the corner, passing Robb an apple as he steered him towards the main hall.

Now, Robb sat in a chair—not as the only one, but all the other chairs had been given to the most ancient advisors, which, ouch—absently chewing on his apple as the king's most trusted confidantes counselled him on the best course of action. He barely suppressed a wince when one of them suggested letting their cavalry meet the Uruk-Hai in the valley to reduce their numbers.

'Whose numbers, ours?' he thought. Gods, this hurt.

Setting his apple core down with a huff, Robb finally stood up. "May I make a few suggestions, your Grace?"

King Théoden looked up at him with tired eyes and merely waved at him to go ahead.

Robb gave a sharp nod, pointing at the map. "As you all well know, this castle is expertly fortified, even without much in the way of garrisons. But there is one glaring weakness, and Saruman plans to use it."

He tapped the middle of the Deeping Wall, looking first at Théoden, then Aragorn, Boromir, and everyone else. Out of all of them, only Glorfindel seemed unsurprised, and Robb sighed.

"Gods," he murmured near silently, then cleared his throat and continued. "Very well. Saruman will use this culvert to blow a hole in the Deeping Wall, which is why we have to prevent anything and anyone from reaching it."

"How?" asked the man to Théoden's right—Galing? Ganing? He genuinely could not remember.

Robb frowned. "Spikes? Perhaps a wall of mud to reinforce them? There are several possibilities, each with their own merits and—"

"No," the man interrupted, "how would Saruman destroy the wall?"

Taking a deep breath, Robb pointedly did not clench his teeth. "If I knew the exact concoction he was going to use, I would have certainly told you already. Unfortunately, I do not, as I cannot yet presume to read his mind. Nor am I a maester—researcher? Scholar?—and thus, alas, I am unable to say."

"Robb."

His eyes flickered to meet Aragorn's across the table. The man shook his head. "No such concoction has been used before. Not to my knowledge, and certainly not here."

His shoulders slumping, Robb took a breath. "Truly? My apologies. I assumed, if not in warfare, they existed at the very least for mining purposes. Where I come from—"

"Surely I am not the only one who remembers Mithrandir's fireworks?"

Glorfindel's question made every head in the room turn to him. Evidently unbothered by the attention, he raised an eyebrow. "You know—big, loud, colourful? Extremely alarming if one is unprepared to see a Balrog made out of sparks suddenly appear in the sky?"

Relief rose in Robb's chest at the confirmation that he had not, in fact, assumed wrongly. It was unlike him to speculate like this, especially in a strategy meeting. But now he knew why he had done so: Sam had extolled the virtues of Gandalf's fireworks at length in the poem he had recited in Lothlórien. Even though the words now escaped him, the concept must have stuck.

Still, while Robb's companions displayed signs of understanding, the rest of the people gathered did not.

Robb sighed. "The idea is this: there is a substance—perhaps a powder, or a liquid—which, once set aflame, explodes in a great ball of fire. Its force is so great that it can tear bodies to pieces and reduce stone to dust. Which, again," he said, tapping the map, "is why we must keep Saruman's forces away from this culvert."

Théoden's advisors stared at him with wide eyes, much like their king.

"What do you propose we do, then?" Théoden finally asked.

Biting the inside of his lip, Robb inspected the map. He traced the length of the Deeping Wall with his fingers before a tiny smile worked its way onto his face. He looked across the table and caught Glorfindel's eyes. Grinning, the Elf nodded at him to go on, and Robb turned to address the king.

"How many shovels do you have?"

That, as it turned out, was the biggest problem. They certainly had enough people in the Hornburg who could dig, and were keen to do so once they knew the reason.

The soldiers and able-bodied refugees were divided into two groups. The larger one was outfitted with what shovels they had, as well as hayforks and the occasional pickaxe, and sent to dig a trench in front of the Deeping Wall. It was meant to be wider than it was deep, so it could not be jumped. The leftover dirt could be piled up at the edge closer to the wall as an additional obstacle. At close to a thousand people, Robb was confident it could be done before the army arrived, even if a part of them had to dig with their hands.

The other, far smaller group set to work sharpening spikes out of broken spears and lances as well as any piece of wood the refugees were willing to part with. Robb could hardly remove the stream which flowed through the culvert, and any earth they piled into it as a barrier from outside would be swept away quickly. Hence, spikes.

But neither a trench nor spikes would keep Saruman's army from the walls of Helm's Deep for long. No, they needed to fight fire with fire. Literally.

The storeroom revealed almost twenty barrels of oil and even more bags of sand. Robb sent a quick prayer of thanks to the Gods, then to the Valar just to be safe, and finally resolved to buy this Erkenbrand fellow a pint or twelve. He had never met the man, of course, but his foresight in stocking up the fortress was the one thing that made this plan possible and he deserved a reward for it.

By the time the sun disappeared behind the horizon, the spikes had already been set up and the trench was almost finished. The sand and oil had been brought outside, just waiting to be poured into the trench along with some hay, dry grass and the leftover chips of wood from the spikes. It would not burn for very long, Robb knew, but he hoped it might just stay aflame long enough.

The blaring of a horn startled him out of his thoughts, badly enough that he almost dropped the armful of swords he was holding. Around him, boys and men alike fell silent, their heads turning towards the open courtyard gate.

Brows furrowing, Robb handed the swords to the boy next to him with a nod, and stepped forward. He liked to think he knew what an Orc horn sounded like by now, and that was not it. Too high, too clear—whoever was approaching, it was not yet Saruman's army.

The view outside revealed a company of several hundred soldiers. They bore banners of blue and gold, and for just a moment Robb wondered whether Glorfindel had merely been their vanguard, seeing as he was clad in the same colours. But no, the blue he wore was richer, a darker tone than the sky blue of those banners—and more importantly, Robb was sure he would have mentioned it if he had had a company following in his wake.

Behind Robb, the people in the courtyard were becoming restless, more and more pouring in to watch the approaching soldiers. A tall, blonde woman came to stand next to him. She seemed vaguely familiar, which meant she had probably been introduced to him in those first few moments after he had arrived with Glorfindel, when Robb had barely been able to focus on anything beyond not flinching at every touch. On appearing normal.

He was calmer now—if impending battle had one advantage, it was the distraction it provided from his own thoughts.

In any case, the fact that he had been introduced to her likely suggested the woman next to him was important. She was certainly beautiful enough, and dressed in finer clothing than the rest of Rohan's refugees. Robb watched her out of the corner of his eye for a moment, just enough to see her lips part in a near-silent gasp.

"Do you recognize them, my lady?"

She threw him a glance and nodded. "Elves."

Robb's eyebrows jumped but the woman had already turned back towards her people, calling for them to clear the courtyard, to notify the king.

Figuring his friends were likely with the king, or already knew who was approaching anyway as especially Aragorn and Legolas always seemed to, Robb refrained from going to look for them. Instead, he cast his gaze around for the boy he had handed his pile of swords to and went to get them back. He was meant to hand them out, after all, not to hand the whole armful off to the next best person and disappear.

Luckily, the boy was more or less where Robb had left him, still holding the swords and looking a little lost. When he saw Robb, an expression of relief swept over his face.

"Sorry about that," Robb said, holding his arms out with a lopsided smile. When the swords had been safely transferred, he nodded in the direction of the armoury. "I will bring them back inside, hand them out there. Tell anyone who still needs one to come to the armoury, will you? Perhaps I should have done that from the beginning—that might have been more convenient."

Robb knew why he hadn't, of course—dimly lit and cramped as it was, standing inside the armoury had made his hands sweat and his heart race. So he had told himself he would be faster going around outside instead of waiting for the men in need of swords to come to him. Clearly, that plan had not worked out very well. So, back to the armoury it was.

"Of course, my lord," the boy said. He turned around, then stopped, unsure. "I, um. Should I take mine now? You'd not have to carry it around—"

"You—oh, I had not realised you were of fighting age," Robb replied, blinking. "How old are you?"

"Six and ten, my lord." The lad made as if to continue, then bit his lip and looked up at Robb. Tilting his head with a frown, Robb nodded at him to go on.

"They say we don't have enough men, so everyone who can hold a sword has to fight."

Robb inhaled sharply. He knew the situation was dire, but he had not thought—

No matter. Transferring the swords to one arm, Robb smiled and clasped the boy's shoulder to lead him to the armoury.

"What's your name, lad?"

"Deor, my lord. Son of Delraed."

"And how are you with a sword, Deor, son of Delraed?"

The boy shrugged. "My uncle is a guard of the Golden Hall in Edoras. He practises with me when he can."

Robb hummed. Behind him, the company of Elves were marching through the gate. He caught sight of Haldir at their head and for a split second thought to go and greet him, but then King Théoden appeared at the top of the courtyard stairs, Aragorn hot on his heels, and Robb decided he was not needed here. Not as much as he was needed by Deor and every other young boy in this fortress.

Instead, he turned around and led Deor inside.

The armoury was not empty, but neither was it as full as it ought to have been. Perhaps the arrival of the Elves had drawn everyone away, or perhaps it was dread that made them avoid it. In any case, it suited Robb. He put down the swords on a nearby table and turned to face Deor.

"I think the men are smart enough to know where to get weapons," he began, "so I have a different task for you."

"Alright," Deor said, clearly confused but trying not to show it.

"I need you to gather everyone your age—or younger—who ordinarily would not have to fight today, and bring them here."

"Why?" Deor asked, a badly hidden spark of indignation lighting up in his eyes. "We will not hide, my lord, nor run away. We're no cowards."

Robb raised his eyebrows, in equal parts amused and impressed by Deor's boldness.

"I did not mean to imply that," he responded. "I was going to train with you, but if you would rather prepare for battle yourselves, you are, of course, welcome to do so."

Deor's mouth dropped open in a silent 'oh'.

"I—I'm sorry, my lord, I should not have—"

Robb finally allowed himself to smile. "It is alright, Deor. I understand. Tensions are high."

The boy's shoulders sagged in relief. "I will—I will go look for them, my lord."

"Thank you, Deor. And...just call me Robb."

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US election results made my day infinitely worse so I decided to post in an effort to provide some escapism. My condolences to all my US-readers. Be safe.