Hey, so there they are on the road, wondering where to go and switching schedule because of Saruman's spies. Needless to say that spirits are heating up a little.
- "There, make yourself useful, my lady."
Legolas frowned, miffed by the condescension of Boromir's tone as he threw his tunic in Frances' lap. Sometimes, the steward's son was just too pig-headed to understand when an explosion was coming his way. Retaliation was swift.
- "Are you implying that I am being useless?"
The lack of title raised Boromir's hackles instantly; it was written all over his face. Despite his courage, the steward's son wasn't used to shed the mantle. His men called him Captain, the nobles of Gondor called him "my lord". And this girl, this tiny slip of a woman, dared shunning him! Needless to say, that her friendship with the Ranger who would be King was suspicious. Did she intend to marry Aragorn someday, and usurp the place of Queen? How else would she allow herself to speak him so sharply if she didn't intend to overrank him?
Silence had descended amongst the fellowship's members. The sun was rising, hence calling for a halt. After being rooted out by spies and birds, servants of Saruman, they had decided to travel at night and sleep at day. The dark circles under everyone's eyes said much about the difficulties to adjust to such a schedule. Surprisingly, the hobbits, creatures of habits, had shifted their patterns easily enough. Not a week through, and all meals now had another official time of night rather than day. Aragorn and Gandalf, being used to erratic patterns, just went with the flow. Legolas, being an elf, found his rest whenever he could. Under the trees rather than under the stars. Which left Gimli, Boromir and Frances to struggle with a pattern unnatural to men and dwarves alike. Tempers rose more easily…
- "When truth needs saying, I am not one to shy away from them."
There was a double meaning there, the devious tones of diplomacy not lost on the young woman who narrowed her eyes. Legolas wondered if she was going to explode altogether and fling back the garment to its owner. Instead, she chose to ignore the jab.
- "Then you know how to ask politely when YOU need some HELP."
Bluntness and avoidance, without nailing her point to give the steward's Son a little leeway. And once more she had the upper hand. Legolas' lips twitched; he had to admit that the lady's mind worked fast. Borormir's grey eyes widened, then, truly chastised. It was fortunate that the rest of the fellowship hid their smiles, for he knew the proud man would have reacted very badly to mockery. The elf shrugged, Boromir had dug himself into that hole. He should be able to find his way out. And so, Legolas stood and climbed a tree to keep the first watch and ensure the fellowship's safety.
Shuffles, grumbles, and the aroma of stew greeted his nose sometime later and the agile creature descended in camp without a noise, landing a few feet away from Estel. The ranger didn't even twitch; of course he knew he was there all along. The dwarf, though, jumped in the air with a muffled yell. Satisfied, the elf received a little stew from Samwise – bless the hobbit for his cooking skills! – and settled beside the ranger. His eyes landed upon a grumbling Frances who, needle in hand, was sewing a little triangle at the bottom of Boromir's tunic for reinforcement. Compared to elvish craft, the stitches were a little rough. But given the conditions, he found it sound enough, especially the idea to reinforce the flap. So she had done it, despite the insufferable manners of the steward's son.
Good. It meant the group was more important than her pride. He had no doubts, either, that if danger came about, the steward's son would put duty before the rest. If he read the signs properly, it probably was the reason of his animosity in the first place; that such a young and helpless woman be put in danger. Men were clueless, sometimes, to the true nature of their feelings.
Legolas watched from the corner of his eye as Frances exchanged the mended tunic for a bowl of stew from Boromir's hands, their gaze still hard, but an understanding passing through. Perhaps all hope wasn't lost after all. The elf decided to concentrate on the taste of the stew – wheat corn and lardo – his eyes lingering upon the fiery braid of the young woman seated a few feet away. It really was a peculiar colour, darker than the redhead he had seen in Greenwood, as if blood had melted into the brownish hues. She was different, that woman, from the Dunedain's wives.
Frances polished her stew without flourish, dipping brown bread in the bowl to suck at the remaining juices. Sam was an incredible cook, especially given the poor hand he was dealt with when it came to supplies. Give him a rabbit, and he would make the best stew ever! She needed to ask him about his technique, and learn more. Already, she observed him when he cooked; she wasn't a good one at home, having no time nor kitchen whatsoever. But the next time she was stranded, alone, she would channel Sam for sure!
Frances offered to clean the dishes by the river and Gimli stood at once. The young woman dipped her head gratefully; help was appreciated, and they never left her alone anyway. So, dwarf and lady gathered the bowls and made for the stream than ran nearby.
Gimli was a stout person, with an even nature and a fierce love for his kin. Hence the flood of information that came out of his mouth at the slight inkling of curiosity. Frances didn't mind; she wanted to know everything about this world, and the story of the retaking of the lonely mountain and Gimli's ancestry filled many blanks in her mind. So she stored the information, hoping to link it afterwards with the history she had read from Lord Elrond's library, and the ones told by Arwen in Rivendell.
When they returned to camp, they were surprised that the hobbits had not settled to sleep yet. They seemed … restless. And in the middle of an argument just as well. So when Pippin caught sight of her, he immediately called out.
- "Frances! We need a song. Can't get to sleep without a proper song."
The young woman's lips quirked up. Children… She had to admit, though, that the tradition sat well with her. Every new song was another point of entry in middle earth's lores, and the routine soothed her, somehow. Estel, sometimes, took the mantle, singing in elvish, or the songs of the Dunedain in the common tongue. Boromir, for his part, only had drinking and soldiers' songs to share and he tended to perform them off-key. Of Legolas they had heard only one, a merry tune of the sylvan folk. Enchanting. Most of the time, though, it was the hobbits that filled the air with merry singing. Altogether, or only Merry and Pippin depending on Frodo's mood.
- "So what have you decided upon this evening?" she asked.
- "Nothing! We just can't agree, and Frodo doesn't want to sing."
Frances' eyes caught the hobbit's large blue ones, wondering how he was holding up. Conversation was scarce with the ring bearer. First of all, because that annoying nagging always echoed at the back of her mind whenever she came too close to the ring. Secondly, because every time she tried to engage him, one of his cousins would pop up and start rambling. So far, she had only managed to corner him twice, and he had talked about his ancestry – as hobbit tended to do when conversing with strangers – and his time with Bilbo.
Today, deep blue pools pleaded at her to find a solution. Frodo was tired. So her gaze roamed the makeshift camp until it landed upon Gimli. After their exchange about Durin's line at the stream, she was rather looking forward to hear dwarven lore again.
- "Could you sing the song of Durin again, master Gimli?" she asked.
A grunt escaped his lips before his head shook from left to right.
- "It can't be done with one voice."
Frances nibbled on her lower lip; she had asked Bilbo to write the words for her, and remembered some part of the songs from the hall of fire. But she couldn't possibly sing it all; it was far too long and too complicated, even with her ear memory. Sensing the mood, Aragorn settled beside Gimli around the fire.
- "I can accompany you."
Nary a look passed between ranger and dwarf before the latter nodded.
- "Aye. That will do, but don't expect it to be too fair. I'm a warrior, not a singer."
Frances rushed to reassure him; she was so happy to be able to hear Durin's song again.
- "Thank you. I found this song incredibly beautiful."
With dawn rising, she wasn't too sure if the reddish hue spreading upon Gimli's cheeks was from the compliment or from the light. But here, concealed around a fire under a large pine tree, the mood certainly changed to one of storytelling. Aragorn, his voice low, started humming. Then Gimli's voice rose, and once more Frances was entranced by the depth of his tones. As if she had been pulled into the caves of Erebor, then walked the mountain's side, alone, in search of fellow souls. Durin's song had such a strong effect on her, transporting her to times past when the world was different. Merrier, just rising from the ground, oblivious to the darkness. Before even the first age, and Morgoth's wrath.
Aragorn took the next verse while Gimli sang a baseline. Surprisingly, Frodo started to hum under his breath, his voice intertwining with his comrades. Frances smiled discreetly; she wasn't the only one inspired by dwarven lore. And then, something rather extraordinary happened. The next verse spoke of Nargothrond kings, of Gondolin and western seas. Elf lore. And to acknowledge the fact that elvish people had not been forgotten by their dwarven counterparts, Legolas joined in the singing. And the words "the word was fair un Durin's days" sank into Frances' chest like a great light; the certitude that, once more, elves and dwarfs would come together. Her body started to hum, reacting to the now four voices of four different races singing at unison. A dwarf, a hobbit, a man and an elf, linked through the beauty of a song that spoke of distant days.
And while she didn't know the words, Frances' voice joined them, one octave higher just like the elves had done in the hall of fire. The last element to complete the circle: a feminine streak, quite like the fifth element. The outcome of their joined voices was so beautiful that tears sprang from her eyes, her whole body vibrating in the inner light that spread from her heart to her toes. Invisible, perhaps, to the outer world, but running through her veins like a blessing. And she failed at noticing the very peculiar look Legolas levelled her with as she sang, for her attention was entirely engulfed in the song.
The moment passed, elf and woman fell silent as Gimli and Aragorn led the rest of the song, responding to each other like a set of old friends. The rhythm quietened, a sombre mood settling upon the fellowship as the last verses. "The world is grey, the mountains old…" The silence and darkness of Khazad-dum pressed on her like heralds of doom, the sadness that those days of glory had become mere memories. That the halls would be empty once more, and their kin estranged with the world. Frodo had stopped singing as well, but Aragorn refused to relent, sharing in the grief of his comrade. Until he, too, stopped along the way for the last verses were meant to be sung by one single dwarf. And Frances … she felt like the sadness would crush her, and in a mighty show of will, decided that there should still be light in this world.
Hence, her voice rose again, crystalline, and pure, one octave higher. A companion to Gimli's who shot her a surprised, but relieved look as it gave the end of Durin's song another colour. Hope. And when the last verses came, stretching her voice to its highest – she had forgotten it would rise so – Frances didn't falter. Her voice remained true, the vibrato more pronounced in the silence, and barely audible. Just a ring of violin to echo the beautiful bass that was Gimli the dwarf.
A long silence stretched after this impromptu show, and the hobbits shuddered in their seat. Blinking, Frances realised dawn had passed, and the sun would remain behind the cloudy cover today. It was just as well; she had trouble sleeping in full sunlight. As the fellowship's member stretched and started unpacking their bedrolls, Frances asked:
- "So. Why is the song of Durin not written in dwarvish? Or maybe it is just a translation?"
The rumble of Gimli's voice, still thick with emotion, make her think of rocks and caves.
- "Khuzdûl is a secret language, Lady Frances. Mahal taught us and it is only spoken amongst dwarven folk."
The young woman frowned; the name didn't ring a bell.
- "Mahal ?"
- "Our creator. You may find the name Aulë, for he is the Valar who moulded the seven dwarven families and put them to sleep before Durin awakened to the world."
Too much information, too many links, and not enough brain power to handle it all. So Frances made a note to write all this down. And while she unpacked her bedroll, the shiny presence of the Prince of Mirkwood made itself known. Would she dare …? Or not. The elf locked eyes with her, sensing her hesitation. Wide blue pools sucking her into their depth. Frances inhaled sharply, then forced herself to relax.
- "Can I ask you a question?"
She didn't miss the gleam of disappointment in his gaze – she had not asked Gimli if she could pester him. The young woman just couldn't guess what mixed feelings inhabited the elf. Hence his response.
- "Always"
Frances froze; the earnestness flooring her for a moment before she recalled her line of questioning.
- "Elves sing in Sindarin, right? They do not feel the need for secrecy like dwarven folk?"
- "No. The common tongue is a secondary language that few of us master. We do not mingle with the world as much as dwarves do. Our literature and lores are sung and written in elvish."
- "Don't I know it… I had so much trouble finding books in westron in the library. But I remember Arwen saying that Sindarin is not the primary language of the elves"
The lithe elf exchanged a meaningful look with the ranger before answering.
- "There is a language that is only used in poems and writings. Quenya is spoken In Valinor, but had been banished from middle earth after the Kinslaying,"
Frances frowned, sensing that there was much more to it than the elf was willing to share. Perhaps now wasn't the time to dwell on such things, or perhaps it was a difficult notion to him. Had he lived through that Kinslaying? Or was he was fresh as a daisy, only a few decades old like his youthful face seemed to tell?
- "You seem to disapprove," his smooth voice questioned.
Frances nibbled on her lip, wondering how German people would have felt if their language had been banished after the Second World War. How highlanders had felt when Gaelic was forbidden. But again, she wasn't an elf. They were so … different, and seemed to have two languages that belonged to them in the first place. How could she possibly answer this question without looking like a 5 years old trying to understand a PhD?
- "Well. It is harsh. But I have a hard time relating this to our own wars. Your kin are so different. And hell, the edain are hardly known for their great wisdom so… Who am I to judge?"
Legolas bore holes into her, cocking his head aside as if he was observing a peculiar animal. Yet, he remained silent, expecting her to continue.
- "I just find it … very sad, that a language would be lost. Language embeds history of one kind. Loose the language, and you lose a part of yourself."
Legolas' lips quirked sadly; an expression that did not pass upon his features so often. She'd seen him gloomy, or merry, or blank faced mostly, and wondered what it meant. His next words didn't exactly shed light upon her musings.
- "You speak of little wisdom, but I find that the Edain can sometimes surprise the Eldar."
Then his gaze returned to Estel who gave him a questioning glance.
- "Repeatedly," he added.
Then he disappeared in a tree, leaving Frances to mull over his words.
They were arguing again. Very subtly, of course, but Frances had a keen hearing, and was supposedly fetching her arrows from the tree trunk she'd been practising on. The elf wasn't far away either; Strider had asked him to keep an eye on the young woman … to be able to argue about the road with Gandalf. Words like "Caradhras", "Redhorn pass", "Gap of Rohan" and "Moria" were flying in the wind, coming her way as she gathered her projectiles. Had she not studied those maps in detail, the young woman wouldn't even be able to identify them. Frances shuddered, remembering how "Moria" was the second name of Khazad-dûm. Darkness, in Sindarin, the empty and pitch black caves of the song of Durin.
Strider and Gandalf seemed to avoid each other when dinner was served; not out of spite, for both men – if the old wizard could ever be considered such – were too wise to indulge in petty behaviour. No. It just seemed that the argument had waned, and no more needed to be said. Frances awaited for the others to settle, pretending to sleep while the hobbit's snores started to grace the fellowship's campsite. Despite the exertion of long walking days, she still found difficulty in slumbering during the daytime. Still, more often than not, exhaustion won the struggle and pulled her into oblivion. Sometimes, Aragorn's voice graced her ears as he hummed under his breath. The lay of Lúthien – his favourite – or any other lore of the Eldar mingled with Dunedain's poetry. She had lost count, as weeks advanced and her muscles became accustomed to the long walking days, of the times she had been lulled to sleep by his voice. Did he do it on purpose? She wondered … perhaps it was only for himself, and perhaps he sook to bring reassurance over his companions. Either way, Strider was a born leader that managed to soothe her in the most undetermined situation.
She admired him; his strength, his drive, and the heavy weight upon his shoulders when he was, in truth, just a man. Not any man, but a second born still. If Gandalf was their natural leader; he decided on the path and most actions, he was too far away from a human mind for any of them to relate. Two thousand years he had roamed middle earth … and countless before that in Aman. Or so Lord Elrond had told her. This even beat the ageless elves. Gandalf may look like an old man, but devoid of the trials of the human psyche; he was a Maiar, a servant of the Gods. Doubts, fears, subconscious feelings held no sway over him. A wizard he was, powerful and helpless to strike Sauron, yet no human. He offered little comfort, and even less conversation, always speaking in riddles and careful not to share things that couldn't be grasped by the human mind.
Frances lifted her sore neck from the bedroll; the wizard was nowhere in sight. Neither the elf, who often paired up with Strider when it came to watches. There was a long-lasting friendship there; she would have to ask how long they had known each other. Seeing that the coast was clear, Frances dragged her woollen cape – courtesy or the house of Elrond – around her shoulders and stood. At once, Strider's eyes met hers – nothing went past him – and she gave him a tired smile, tip toeing around the hobbits to reach the boulder he had settled upon. For an awkward moment, she wondered if he would scold her like a misbehaving child; his face gave nothing away as she sat beside him. Bright grey eyes loomed over the camp, taking a sweep at the sleeping forms and way beyond. The sky was gloomy, the day one of those annoying neither raining nor sunny, the light giving very little contrast and mingling everything into shades of grey.
- "Can you not sleep?" he asked.
Frances was glad he was shedding the "my lady" part more often than not now. It was bad enough that Boromir and the prince of Greenwood still couldn't call her by her given name.
- "There is something weighing heavily on my mind. I was hoping you could help."
She kept her voice low, words separated by silences to allow him to keep watch at the same time. Strider's long, dirty strands swayed when he cocked his head aside before nodding his assent. He was a man of few words even not on watch, so she was becoming rather adept at reading his expressions.
- "Did you … did you decide which road we will take?"
Estel's eyebrows rose slightly, concern flooding his grey eyes. As once, Frances felt self-conscious about overhearing that previous argument.
- "I'm sorry… I remember you arguing about it in Lord Elrond's office so…"
- "You are quite the little spy," he said, amusement dancing in his grey eyes, but tone stern.
The seriousness of his accusation flustered her so much that shame flooded her.
- "I didn't mean to be sneaky," she stuttered. "I just like to know the road. I do hate surprises"
A warm hand landed upon her arm, grounding her instantly. She realised then that being a "little spy" might not be a chastisement.
- "You would be right. Fetch your map, I will show you," he responded, his low baritone soothing her stress away.
The young woman silently hopped to her bedroll, oblivious of the pair of blue eyes that followed her as she gathered the oiled map she had copied in Elrond's library. There was no supposed itinerary written upon it, every part detailed evenly so that the enemy wouldn't be able to understand their aim should they lay hands upon the item. Just a regular map of middle earth. Retreating to Strider's side, she opened it to show where she thought they were.
- "Is that where we are?" she asked.
The ranger moved her finger half an inch to the north.
- "So, where next? Gimli told me the high pass is a no-no."
Estel's eyebrows rose again at the expression, but he said nothing, worry line deeply creased upon his face. In this moment, he looked much older than his usual thirty-five … yet still much younger than the eighty-seven he was supposed to be. She still had trouble wrapping her head around the notion of the descendants of Numenor; had the twin sons of Elrond not let the can out of the bag, she never would have guessed Aragorn's age.
For the moment, though, she hoped that the ranger's long years roaming middle earth could bring a solution to their predicament. And most of all, she wondered why in the world Gandalf did not agree with his assessment.
- "So? Where to?" she whispered.
- "The gap of Rohan should have been our road, but the white wizard controls the region."
Frances bit her lip; Gandalf had warned them to never utter Saruman's name while out in the open. Neither to speak about the ring. His spies dwelt in forests and hills, animals that could pass unnoticed and would perk as the wizard's name. The betrayal of the white wizard, other than being totally unbelievable, certainly put a damper to their plans. How could a being only second to the Valar be so easily corrupted? A wizard that had led the white council for hundreds of years, turned around by Sauron the deceiver? Questions that might never find an answer.
- "What's left?" she asked, frowning upon the map.
There just wasn't any other option from her point of view, and the young woman kicked herself for not checking it out sooner. What if, by a twist of fate, the fellowship was separated? She couldn't rely on Strider and Gandalf alone … and Boromir seemed set on going through the Gap of Rohan. Didn't he get that he'd been lucky enough to escape Saruman's clutches because of his insignificance? But now, with the ring hanging from Frodo's neck, they could not count on it.
- "The Redhorn pass, at the feet of Mount Caradhras."
Frances' frown intensified; it was there that Celebrian, the twin's mother, had been taken upon her return from Lothlorien. But she wouldn't mention this, for what made the house of Elrond suffer was bound to bring sadness to the ranger. No, there was no need to dwell on such heartache when the main obstacle was more obvious.
- "How high is it?" she whispered.
The ranger mulled over her question and Frances mentally noted to take an altimeter next time she went on a mission. A precise map, with relief and all couldn't hurt, right?
- "I … don't know. But the mountain is the highest around."
The young woman nodded, watching as grey eyes roamed camp once more, his attention called by the rustling of leaves further away. In the meantime, Frances muttered to herself, trying to find a probable altitude for her mountain pass. If Caradhras was the equivalent of Mont-Blanc, her highest summit in the Alps, the pass probably was around 3000 metres high. Which meant 2600 metres, more or less, above their current level. Given a drop of 1 degree every 200 metres … 13 degrees less than in the high plains they were travelling.
- "Given today's temperature, we can expect a solid -7 degrees if the weather is nice, less if not."
- "Minus seven?" Estel whispered, his eyes still strained upon the same spot.
Frances bit her tongue; all those absolute notions were foreign to him and the cartographers of middle earth.
- "Zero is the temperature water freezes, and a hundred where it boils. More or less, so minus seven means freezing our asses"
The ranger lifted an eyebrow in a manner so reminiscent of his foster father that she couldn't contain the smile quirking her lips. Probably reacting to the "more or less" comment, or the "ass" one. If it was the first one, she really didn't want to go into the details of the solid/liquid curve as a function of pressure. Especially not while he kept watch. If it was her use of the "ass" word, well … he would get over it.
- "Long story," she sighed. "Anyway, we can expect a drop of fifteen degrees, and lots of snow. Do you think…"
At once, Strider was on his feet, his bow drawn. Frances froze, her breath itching, adrenalin rushing through her veins. Should she jump to her bedroll and grab her own bow? Or unsheathe her sword lying next to it? Sheepishly, she realised that she was caught a dozen meters from her weapons. Foolish, foolish woman! Weaponless, she could only wait and see, heart thundering against her ribcage. A sudden fluttering of leaves freed a set of birds who flew away, their grey coat unknown to her. But not to Strider whose shoulders sagged in relief. Yet his bow remained trained until a long tumble of blond hair appeared within the adjacent tree, signalling that all was well. Or so she thought, for Strider stowed his bow away and sat again.
Cheeks ablaze, Frances watched as he resumed his watchful attitude, seemingly nonplussed by the false alarm. Had the man been more irksome, she would have found his calm annoying. But here she was, panting and shaking from the adrenalin, drawing strength and reassurance from him rather than sending her ire his way. Strider was a model; she would aim, each day, at learning skills and being more like him. And it bothered her all the more, given his blatant skill, that he would disagree with Gandalf.
- "I … what's your choice? Of path, I mean"
Grey eyes turned to her for a moment, doubt swirling in their midst.
- "The pass"
Frances nodded; she doubted they would make it. Mountains could be treacherous, even in summer. Without equipment, how could they possibly survive such a hike in the heart of winter? They would have needed spiked boots, waterproof coats and Gore-Tex. And lots of cords. But Estel couldn't possibly ignore that fact, yet he chose to venture there. Somehow, it seemed a better alternative than the wizard's path in his eyes. Why? What could possibly more dangerous than treading upon a mountain path in the heart of winter with no more than boots or, for the hobbits, bare feet?
- "And Gandalf?"
- "Through the mines of Moria"
A shudder ran through her spine, a great sense of foreboding falling upon her shoulders like a blanket of darkness. Moria. The name itself was fearsome enough to send her heart plummeting into her shoes.
- "Gimli's kin?"
Estel nodded, his face impassive.
- "We haven't heard of Balin since they set off to retake Moria. And…"
He couldn't say it, not when the dwarf snored less than ten feet away from him. Still, he wasn't one to sugar coat and live in hopeful dreams. The loss of his father at such a young age had taught him that reality didn't care about wishes.
- "And?"
- "I fear they have fallen. It is but a feeling, I know. Nothing so rational … just a hunch"
His voice, ordinary so steady, was now trailing. Frances butted in without subtility, a hint of a smile at the corner of her lips.
- "Says she man whose family is laden with seers."
The irony wasn't lost on him, neither the trust she placed in his gut feeling. Perhaps that his fears weren't so foolish after all. But he wasn't Lord Elrond, neither Arwen.
- "Instinct saved me countless times. Yours, perhaps, as well. And honestly, that name doesn't bode well."
Did she feel it as well? The tightening of his chest whenever he considered walking through the mines of Moria?
- "Gandalf is adamant we can't pass the Redhorn, I feel like I'm dragging him to his doom."
The young woman scrunched her nose as was her wont whenever she thought of something distasteful. Then, her warm chocolate eyes locked with his, serious, their depth sucking at his soul as realisation hit her.
- "Does he think he is walking to his doom?"
Estel eyes widened; he'd been so busy fighting Gandalf to prevent him from setting foot into the mines of Khazad-Dum that he had not considered the wizard might know what awaited them inside. A huff shook his chest.
- "I have no idea. And if he did, he wouldn't tell me."
- "Fair game. There's not much of a choice, then."
The ranger didn't respond, baffled by the expression, but even more by her acceptance. He was starting to understand the reasons why she had been thrown into their world as such a critical time, bringing her outlandish point of view into this quest. She looked fragile, but was anything but. Still… would her inner strength suffice to keep her alive ? He watched the tiny slip of a woman retreat to her bedroll after thanking him profusely. For what? He had no clue.
As usual, leave a little comment and make my day ! Just to let me know if you like/dislike the interactions or anything else.