Hey, another chapter reviewed yey ! Get ready for a mouthful of snow.

His boots barely disturbed the fresh layer of powdery snow at his feet; the perks of being a firstborn. The sky was so deeply blue, a rich color only seconded by the purest of gems. Not a cloud in sight, barely a breeze to deter them from the ascension to the Redhorn pass and the brightest sunshine to caress his flawless skin. Yet, Legolas' spirits were not as high as the sun for the rest of the fellowship has struggled on the steep pass of the mountain, even before snow covered the sharp rocks. Now, they followed in straight line behind Gandalf who carved a path for them, heads bowed in exertion, cheeks reddened by the reverberation of the light that burnt their skin as much as the chillness of the air.

Free to roam without sinking in the snow, the elf ran ahead to ensure the coast was clear, then retreated behind the group. A never-ending task; one appointed by himself, just like a shepherd's dog. But he didn't mind; the weather could turn sour at any moment, mountains were treacherous; Caradhras most of all. With his stamina and ability to walk over snow, Legolas was the only one able to keep an eye on the fellowship in a timely manner. Still, even if they had struggled their way up, it seemed that Aragorn's will had summoned a little miracle to accommodate their needs. Attempting the cross the redhorn pass in the heart of winter was a folly; one accepted because the alternative was too bleak to consider. Never an elf would willingly enter the mines of Moria. Not without a desperate need. Little did he know that such need would soon push him into the entrails of the very mountain he was now treading upon.

As he overtook the little group of hobbits once more, Legolas found himself entertained by Pippin's huff.

- "It is too unfair that an elf can walk across snow while being so tall, and we have to dig into it when it comes to our hips"

Legolas chuckled, his spirits lifted by the innocence of Pippin who reminded him, so often, of a child.

- "And you seem unaffected by the cold", retorted Merry.

Grateful that neither cousins felt the need to use a title, the elf gave the hobbit a tight smile; he could see their reddened cheeks and the crispation of their hands carefully hidden inside their cloaks. As a first born, he did not suffer from the chilliness so keenly, even if he could feel it. His body adjusted by pumping more blood in his veins, something the second born and Hobbits had much more trouble doing. His eyes couldn't help but linger above Pippin where the lady Frances matched them step for step. Her legs were longer than the hobbits, allowing her to adjust her pace more easily than Frodo and Sam who preceded her. Her nose, reddened by the frozen air, her body tense and wrapped in the cloak even though the little hairs at her temple were plastered from the exertion. Yet, she showed no unease in the exercise.

He had to admit that for a young woman, she was sturdier than he might have thought at first. For a moment, the elf watched her graceful steps, space even between left and right, the economy of her movements as the long reddish braid danced in her back, the slight sway of hips and weariness that would never show had she been an elleth. And despite the relative easiness with which she progressed; the young woman seemed anxious. In a few steps, he was overtaking her.

- "What about you, lady Frances ?"

It was a distinguished, and very roundabout way to ask her how she fared. Her warm chocolate eyes settled upon him for a moment, as if she couldn't believe he was addressing her. The result of much time spent in silence as the climb had been too steep to talk. Now, the slope was more even, the pace easier to handle.

- "I can stand the cold for a short while. I am just weary of mountain weather since we have no equipment to face a storm, or icy ground"

The elf's features didn't change an inch, refusing to acknowledge that her concerns matched his. He was spared from answering as Merry questioned her.

- "You fear the mountains, Frances ?"

- "I do, as anyone should", came her steady voice. "And I love them equally; there is much beauty in those landscapes. It brings many fond memories"

Memories she did not detail, for her breath was short.

- "Why the fear, then ?", Pippin prodded innocently.

Legolas watched as the young woman nibbled her reddened lips, causing him to remark, for the first time, how red they were upon her pale skin. A color so vibrant that they seemed coated with blood. The result of harsh wind and dry coldness, perhaps ? She gave him an inquisitive look before answering Pippin – she had caught him staring ! - causing him to dip his head to avoid her gaze.

- "Caution, no fear. Snow is treacherous by itself and the weather can change fast. It is better to be prepared"

The elf choose to remain silent, abiding by Frances' half truths; it was useless to detail the crevices that might swallow them whole, the avalanche or rocks and ice that could bury them alive or even the fate of poor men who had lost limbs to frostbite. But as his eyes met Frances' own once more, he could nearly read those concerns in their depths. She knew, just as he did, the dangers of their trek. Both Merry and Pippin butted in then, their voices too hopeful to be natural.

- "Is that not why Boromir, Aragorn and Gimil are carrying wood in case we need a fire ?"

- "So we've got nothing to fear"

- "Right", Frances muttered.

Unfortunately, Meriadoc was more insightful than his every naïve cousin.

- "You seem skeptical"

- "You have to admit that I lack insulation", Frances retorted with humour.

An attempt to suffuse the situation, perhaps, as the hobbits let out a puzzled 'what ?' that made her laugh.

- "I am a little skinny, some additional fat would have kept me from the cold, but all this walking doesn't really help a woman's figure"

As the hobbits rushed to reassure her about her 'fine figure', Legolas heard Boromir snort. Annoyed, once more, that the Steward's son would find reproach in Frances' comment, the elf stole a glance at the man. He was surprised to find a gentle smile upon his lips, devoid of mockery or contempt. What could possibly roam his thought, this great Captain of Gondor forced to undertake a mission he didn't believe in ? For the moment, nothing but amusement at the mention of Frances' figure. Was it because she was, purposefully, redirecting the conversation to more trivial matters, disparaging herself in the process ? Or had the man formed an opinion about said figure ? Perhaps he agreed with her, finding her too thin compared to Gondorian women. Perhaps it was the contrary.

After all, Boromir might come to consider Frances a proper match for marriage, for despite her unknown lineage, she was considered highly by the family of Elrond and had strong ties with Rivendell. She was young, and healthy. Strong, brave and soft-spoken; the perfect bride for a man of power who wanted heirs. Gondor was not renown for its even treatment of women; Aragorn's stories of his time as Thorongil were appalling enough. How would Frances adjust to a court that abhorred strong characters ?

Legolas found that his heart felt unsettled by this line of thoughts. The elf frowned; he needed to catch up with Gandalf at the front. So, with one last look to the woman that walked a few feet ahead of him, he decided to close the subject; she wasn't too skinny. Lean, but feminine enough, not unlike an elleth. And now, he wouldn't think upon her figure anymore, even if the trail of her fiery braid taunted him as it swayed over her hips.

Soaked to the core, the company was slowly descending the rocky slopes of the mountain that had defeated them. After nearly loosing their lives to a snow storm, the company now marched down to join the halls of Khazad-Dûm. The storm had piled up tons and tons of snow on their path, hindering their progress greatly. Despite her deep love for it, Frances swore she never wanted to see a flake again. A renewal of her thoughts, earlier the previous night, when Estel had gently coaxed her to his side to share body warmth. Huddled in a cave like structure, they had eventually relented and built a fire in the dark. Despite Gandalf's warning that it would sell them away to any of Saruman's spies, the men had insisted. They were right, of course. Being a higher being, Gandalf didn't suffer from the cold; he had issues understanding that they would be nothing more than an elf and a wizard to find the next day without the fire. Men and hobbits alike would have died on the mountain side, stranded by the storm that had nearly buried them.

So when the decision was made to go through the Mines of Moria, Frances could do nothing more than share a defeated glance with Estel, who in turn, had turned to Legolas. The silent exchange didn't go unnoticed; both Gandalf and Boromir chose not to comment, offering, instead, their own body warmth to the remaining hobbits. A miserable night had ensued, until an equally miserable, white dawn has greeted them. There was no other way than to retreat. And so the fellowship went. Down, and down again, all the way back from yesterday's trek.

The chilly wind had worsened and all them started to feel exhaustion gaining over their frozen bodies. The hobbits looked like they would sink down at every step, but curiously enough, they kept going. Frances, however, was depleted. It was a strange sensation; her stamina rarely reached the bottom. The nickname her grandfather had bestowed upon her – gazelle – was meant to illustrate her never ending supply of energy. She that bounced all day long, even after days of hiking or hours of swimming she felt close to collapsing.

The young woman had been gritting her teeth for hours now, trying to keep a sure footing over the slippery rocks. The weakness that was overtaking her body only had an equal in the numbness that slowly crawled along her frozen limbs. It worried her; she felt colder and colder as time went on, until all she could think about was to close her eyes and… Her body was spent, yet she couldn't afford to slow down. Great shivers ran up her spine, failing at keeping her warm – their initial purpose lost. The horrible night, cuddled into a ball, had provided little rest. Her body didn't have enough energy to fend off the cold anymore, and she dreamt of a beach in the scorching heat, of the benevolent rays of sunshine that would burn her skin. Southern Italy, with volcanoes on the horizon and the intense dry heat typical of Calabria. And a good book, Alexandre Dumas… Yes, it would be neat. Yet, all she could feel was the numbness spreading.

Strider and Gandalf walked in front, the steep incline placing them way below her feet. This last leg of the journey followed a vertiginous rocky path where a dizzying fall would greet any misstep. It didn't prevent the elf from running back and forth, opening the path for them with his ageless grace. Estel had told her that elves did not feel the cold, and Frances would have given anything to be an eldar, or a vampire. If only the pain could end... As she trailed a bit behind the group of ever cheerful hobbits, Frances didn't even register their slumped shoulders and miserable gait. Her world had turned white and icy; her steps automatic. Feet landing with very little sensation, too frozen to feel the ground properly. Once or twice she slipped over the path, nearly losing her footing, but her reflexes kept her from crashing onto the sharp rocks. The near miss sent adrenalin through her veins, bringing back some alertness.

- "Careful, lady Frances"

The young woman nodded, too exhausted to respond properly to Boromir's plea who closed the little procession, his great shield flung above his shoulder. In other circumstances, she might have retorted that she was doing her best, and that asking her to be careful wouldn't make it better. But the steward's son was as exhausted as she was, and still took time to worry about her. It earned him a few brownie points – when in the middle of a crisis, the man of Gondor was strangely tolerable - that lasted until they stopped for a quick bite. Frances had trouble eating anything, her stomach too tight to be hungry. Sam's admonishment, though, had her nibbling on a piece of cheese. There was such sweetness in this hobbit that a little warmth returned to her heart. Her limbs, thought, refused to heat up.

When the fellowship started their long trek down, the slope had eased a little. Gandalf's pointed hat showed in front rather than below her feet; a meager consolation, for the little break had caused her muscles to seize from the cold. Frances grit her teeth and went on, wondering how in the world the hobbits still managed to march. It was then, as her eyes lifted to check upon Frodo who walked directly behind Estel, that, her boot encountered a patch of mud that covered a wet piece of rock. The slippery surface sent her off balance. Time slowed as reflexes kicked in, adrenalin rushing through her veins. Her hands shot up too late; she was already barreling onwards. Realizing that she would not escape the fall, the young woman braced herself and waited for the unavoidable shock that would crack her bones. She should have kept her eyes open to avoid hitting Pippin. Should have twisted around, like a cat, to avoid breaking her neck. But her mind was too numb. Frances closed her eyes, accepting defeat, awaiting her fate.

Nary a instant passed before an arm caught her across the collarbone harshly. Her feet touched the ground all wrong, her body twisting as another arm snaked at her waist, tightening around her frame to secure her. A gasp escaped her, heart thundering as her face landed upon a rough chest. The young woman felt warm hands steady her position while she clumsily regained her footing, and eventually she dared looking up. Two concerned blue pools were watching her. Only one being could have been fast enough to catch her before she cracked her skull on the ground, and the warmth that was radiating out of him was an indication that he wasn't human.

- "Are you all right, my lady?", asked Legolas.

His enchanting voice caused her to shudder, hypnotizing her mind.

- "Uh…"

Frowning, the elf realized how terrible the young woman looked now that her hood had fallen down; her lips purple, her hands barely able to grasp his jerkin. Steadying her against his frame, the elf felt her body trembling uncontrollably. Instincts took over, and he would later think upon this moment with equal shame and awe, for never the Prince of Greenwood should have ripped a glove out of a lady's hand to grasp her fingers. Yet, it was exactly what he did. His breath caught at once; her skin was so cold, fingers taking a very unearthly shade of blue. Unconsciously he tightened his grip around her shoulders, ignoring the sharp intake of breath that greeted his actions. Her eyes, slightly out of focus, gazed upon him as if he was an angel. How had he not realized how far gone she was beforehand ? He might have prevented her to fall to her death altogether. Ripping his gaze from hers, the elf was about to signal Estel to come over when he realized the ranger was already making his way up.

Legolas towered over Frances' frame by at least a foot and the warmth that spread from his body was a sweet torture. This was so embarrassing – an elven prince was touching her - yet… she never wanted to let go. Struggling to keep her eyes open, the young woman concentrated on her nerve terminations. Legolas' hand held hers tightly, and no matter how much she wished she could feel there were no sensations left in her fingers. As she watched his finely chiseled features frown in apprehension, Estel appeared in her line of sight. He gave a quick look at Frances's face, then touched her hands before a deep sigh shook his frame.

- "Forsbite"

The young woman nodded; it wasn't the first time her fingers turned white, or blueish for that matter. Once, caught in a snow storm on a skiing trip, her middle finger had even become all blackish. The only way to cure this was warmth, and she knew it. They had nothing of the sort at hand. And there still was a little margin between the blueish hue, and the totally black that would mean irreversible damage. Would the magic of the necklace recreate her fingers on her journey back to earth ? She highly doubted it. If all scars disappeared every time she was transported, she'd never had to replace a missing part of her. Better to keep all limbs attached for now.

To her horror, Estel removed his own fur lined gloves and asked for her hands.

- "They are warm. Keep flexing your fingers as you walk, and we'll sort this out when we stop at night"

Frances hid her unusable fingers under her cloak, shaking her head vehemently.

- "You can't…. your hands !"

The ranger gave her a very serious look.

- "Frances, I'm twice your weight. I will be all right, but we can't afford you to loose your fingers"

To her greatest shame, Frances relented then, offering her frozen apendage to the dunedain's care. His hands were rough but gentle as he slid his warm leather gloves on hers and the young woman sighed in relief.

- "Thank you", she said, teeth chattering.

- "Can you keep walking?"

Strider's voice was surprisingly soft. Had she expected him to start yelling at her weakness? The concern in his eyes was so touching that she would have wept. The man doubted he would make a good king, but she didn't. Frances knew she would have lost patience and urged people to go faster, but there was nothing more than gentleness about him. If she had not seen him fight, she would never have guessed him to be such a great warrior. His grey eyes were roaming her face, and Legolas still had not let go for fear she would fall. Now the hobbits had turned around, their faces betraying varying stages of disgruntlement. Shame overtook the young woman as she nodded.

Estel's grey eyes thanked her deeply for the effort; discouragement would quickly spread in the ranks if she gave up. As their leader turned away, the ranger gave the elf a knowing look and was rewarded with a nod. Slowly letting his arm let go of her, Legolas studied her balance while she shrunk out from his touch. Then he started putting down his pack and weapons; the cold wind suddenly seemed to blow harder as Legolas' warm body left hers, and Frances did realize how good it had felt to be clad against him. The sensation of safety and warmth had been so surreal but she knew that it was no time to linger. Her eyes got lost in the horizon as she gathered the little courage to start walking again when a piece of cloth darted in front of her face. Lifting her eyes to the elf in front of her, Frances realized that he was offering his jerkin for her to wear.

- "No!", she exclaimed, coming back to her senses, "You cannot do that!"

Surprised by her vehemence, the elf stared at her in disbelief. The soft fabric that laid underneath his coat was too thin against the wind, hence her refusal.

- "You will be too cold", she stuttered.

- "Maybe a little, but not for long"

His smooth baritone washed over her like a benevolent wave, coaxing her mind to surrender to his will. An elvish trick ? Perhaps, but Frances wasn't so easily deterred. So when the elf ordered her to put the jerkin on, she was ready to resist with the little pride she had left. Seeing he was getting nowhere, Legolas Greenleaf pulled a fresh tunic from his bag to overlay the one below. Then he started buckling his scabbard and belt again, knowing how her eyes watched him until he swung the bow above his head. The jerkin lay on the ground, discarded. Lonely, even, its beautiful embroideries abandoned in the middle of nowhere on the Redhorn pass.

Frances sighed. Sneaky elf; the whole company was watching the proceedings now, hoping to set off as soon as possible. She was only delaying the inevitable, so when Legolas' hand expertly removed her frozen cloak from her back, she gave up any resistance. In an instant, she was clad in a warm piece of leather encasing her upper body loosely and falling past her knees. In another life, maybe, she would have wondered what she looked like, but for now it felt like paradise to feel Legolas' warmth all around her. Even if the jerkin fit weirdly because of her tiny frame, Frances suddenly felt much better. His scent reached her nostrils, and the sweet odor of pine trees and exotic spices surrounded her in a world where the bitter wind had no say. As her cheeks flushed from the feelings that assailed her, the elf smiled. It felt as if the sun had emerged behind the clouds. For an instant nothing else existed than his warmth, his scent, his fair features and twinkling eyes. As the company started again, Frances contemplated the tall frame of the elf running along the path, his long silken shirt modeling his muscles as he moved gracefully. Shame washed through her, but at least she could keep going. Where was your gore-tex when you need it?