Gimli stood atop the walls of Helm's Deep and gazed out at the darkening horizon. The orcs would arrive soon, and the warrior was prepared to fight to the death to defend the keep. He was steadfast and ready, though he couldn’t help but wonder, where was Legolas?

  "Hey, Gimli ol' boy, I've got a surprise for you," Legolas said, appearing next to him with a sly grin on his face.

  "Where the hell have you been?" said Gimli with a furrowed brow. "We don't have time for games. The orcs will be here any minute."

  "Ah, but this is no game, my friend,” said Legolas, chuckling. “I've acquired a new weapon, the latest in elven engineering. A sniper rifle."

  Turning to face his companion, Gimli's eyes narrowed. "You've been drinking again, haven't you?"

  Legolas shrugged. "Maybe a little. But fear not Gimli, 'cause this rifle of mine is a beauty. It'll take out an orc from a hundred yards, no problem."

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  "I don't trust those elven contraptions,” grumbled Gimli as he shook his head. “Give me a good, solid axe any day."

  Legolas pointed the silver barrel of his rifle toward the horizon. "When the orcs come charging over that hill, they’ll taste the bullet. Every single one. Trust me." He followed his statement with a swig of his flask as he leaned on the barrel of his rifle.

  Gimli snorted. "Put away the drink, lad. We’ve got a battle to fight."

  Legolas nodded, his eyes glazed over. "A battle indeed. A battle to the death. To our death. To the death of all Middle-earth. I bet you wish you had a sniper rifle like me."

  "Hand me that damn flask,” said Gimli with an open palm.

  “I have lived for over three thousand years, and in that time I have learned that one should never hand over one’s flask,” replied Legolas before throwing back another gulp.

  Gimli sighed and looked off into the distance. "And I’ve learned to never trust an elf!"

  Legolas laughed as he raised his rifle. "I may be an elf, but I’m an elf with a sniper rifle. And drunk elves don’t miss. Just wait, Gimli, you’ll see."