Leaving Lothlórien

At last, they had left the golden woods! While its giant trees and soft meadows receded, Frances' chest suddenly constricted. So many feelings were assaulting her body and mind right now that she couldn't make sense of it. The young lady's eyes left the river bank where the glowing form of Celeborn and Galadriel were addressing their final goodbyes. The peaceful waters of the Anduin were scarcely disturbed by the elvish crafts, opening only to allow passage and closing in behind them. Frances plunged her hand into the river. The ice-cold water was unexpectedly soft. The company progressed silently under the archways of branches, expertly guided by Aragorn in the lead canoe. The burden resting on his shoulder felt twice as heavy now, yet he bore it well.

They finally emerged in the open, welcomed by the winter glow. Not yet high enough in the sky to be warm, the sun nonetheless casts its light without the filter of the Lórien leaves. Frances relished in its caress. She had missed being out in the open. Despite its greatness, the Great Wood covered most of the sky. Once inside the forest, the blanket of trees was impenetrable. It provided cover for sure, but it somehow created a cage for the unaccustomed souls. Frances was one of them. If she couldn't live without trees, she still needed to be able to see the sky.

The young lady couldn't help it; a part of her felt relieved to leave the constant watch of Galadriel. The Lady's power was everywhere; in every dancing branch, even in the very air they were breathing. And despite the benevolence of her intentions, it was unsettling. Like a kid being watched by her parents, Frances had felt this weight on her shoulders. For sure, the forest was spectacular. The mallorn trees, graced by golden leaves, were so incredible that she was sure to never see such magnificence again. But there was a certain relief at being able to see the sky, at fleeing far from Lady Galadriel's influence. It was freedom, at last!

And yet, despite this weight being lifted from her shoulders, anguish was starting to creep in. Her heart had left something there. In the temporal bubble of Lothlorién, Frances had grown. Past the increased bond she had formed with the company, she had also learnt about her past. For the first time in many trips, the reasons why this blue rock sent her all across the universe had been revealed. This calling, the 'Keeper of time', started to make sense. Days and nights, she had thought about it, as she wandered from hot springs to elvish paths. After the spider fiasco, Frances had kept to the inner forest. So many questions stayed unanswered. Many times she had wondered if looking into Galariel's mirror could bring forth the answered she sought. Would it lead her to lose her free will?

Quite surprisingly, Boromir had become a good companion. Together, they had wandered here and there, sparred a few times, and covered a great many miles. The man apparently had enough on his mind not to ask whatever was on hers. A silent companionship had formed. Little by little, Frances had begun to see the person behind the title and the arrogance. And day after day, Boromir had left the lady's humour and skills impress him. She for sure didn't complain much about walking, nor being beaten, not having her muscles so sore that she couldn't sit properly on a bench. He had to admit that Frances was resilient … for a woman!

Deep down, Boromir's inherited misogyny was slowly crumbling as the girl rubbed on him. Yet they had their disagreements. As none would back down, each of them as opinionated and the other, the rest of the company would sometimes witness dire rhetorical fights. And Valar was she stubborn! Aragorn would never admit that he found some amusement in watching Frances crush Boromir's assertions with her quick mind. But the obstinate man went on and on, and yet his eyes laughed. He was leading her on, and she was following without resentment.

Aragorn had felt it too. They fought still, but with camaraderie. Sometimes, he was even sure that their argument was fuelled by the need to cheer the hobbits. Gimli, being his noisy self, always exclaimed and guffawed heartily. Legolas, on the other hand, seemed at loss. His senses could not reconcile with the heated arguments happening around the fire. Did humans always argue like this? Here and there, Aragorn peeked at the elf. Between the need to be with his kin, the Galadrhim, and loyal to his friends, the young prince was torn. Yet, he had seen a smile crack on his ever-serious face at Frances' jibs. Legolas had always been one to get along with men. Despite his noble manners, the elf could stand the grime, dust and heaviness of the second born. One more reason for them to be fast friends.

Lost in her thoughts, Frances risked a glance at the elf paddling silently. Ever graceful, the prince's movements were as soft as they were powerful. Only the eldar could muster such force effortlessly. The elf spun a little on his heels, risking a smile in her direction. Frances blinked, and turned backwards to Gimli. She couldn't fathom that the elf would mind her. Behind her, the dwarf was abnormally silent. In his pocket, the three strands of hair were safely stored. Three strands of the golden head of Galadriel! Quite a present!

Realising that the smile was indeed intended for her, Frances plunged her eyes into the water, her cheeks reddening a little. How stupid she felt for reacting this way, but she wasn't quite sure how to treat the elf. He still impressed her. The mix of fear, respect and distance was slowly receding. During their time in Lorién, Legolas had taught the company how to improve her archery. And some work there was!

At first, Frances had felt so ashamed that he would see how desperately human she was. Never before had she met such a master with the bow. Even the twins could have benefited from his teachings. There were so many corrections, so many remarks, so much advice to give! Never was his voice raised, no irritation passed, his patience finding no limits. Over and over he repeated the same sentences, the same movements to show the company how to improve their aim.

But Frances couldn't remember half of it. Always confusing right and left, always messing up. There was too much to mind at the same time. Unbeknownst to her, the elf had been quite impressed by her capacity to learn. While the blade wasn't her weapon of predilection, Frances seemed to have a natural gift for the bow. Legolas knew that humans had only a few years to perfect their craft. It was, in his opinion, quite impressive that she could do as much as she did with so little training.

And Frances was stubborn. She trained, and sparred, and ran, and trained again. Repeating the same moves over and over, it eventually started to feel more natural. Frances was painfully aware that she didn't master the blade as well as she should. Aragorn had even asked her if she wanted to stay behind. No matter how softly he brought the notion, it stung. Frances didn't show how hard those words rang true, for the ranger was worried. And he was rightly so. As an answer, she trained some more. Glorfindel's weapons helped her. Frances felt its magic running through the blade, coursing in her very veins as she used it. She knew how lucky she was to possess such a weapon. Even with her limited warrior skills, the blade seemed to teach her. Its curves, its weight, its balance guided her movements. When she reached a high state of focus, it was almost as if the sword led the fight in her stead.

Dear blade was now strapped to her hip in its scabbard. If Frances had consented to set it aside in the golden woods, vacation time was over. As the company left Lothlórien, Frances felt more confident in her skills. In truth, she had had the best teachers no one would ever hope to have. A uncrowned king, an elven prince, a steward's son. Quite a pedigree.

Casting one last glance behind her, Frances remembered a few words she had learnt a long time ago. To her, those months in Lórien felt like Christmas vacation. Like the passage of the new year. One lady had entered the woods. Another one came out. The gentle swooshing of the paddle produced an aquatic noise soft to her ears. Gently, almost imperceptibly, Frances sung.

'Old Christmas is past

Twelve tide is the last

And we bid you adieu,

great joy to the new'

Legolas straightened. Her voice was crystalline. Never would it be as soft and ethereal than the elvish voices that sung on the great hall of his father in Greenwood the Great. But still. Even if she sang very low, he could hear the softness in her tone. There was something different in her singing, something imperfect and yet so emotional.

As the word 'joy' died on her lips, the young lady tensed behind him. Legolas's body responded without him turning around. The elf frowned. How could he know such a thing? He was paddling softly, his keen eyes scanning the trees and the river bank as they floated gently down the Anduin. Facing front, his whole body turned against the young woman behind him, there was no reason to react this way. And yet he was sure of it. Nervosity came to him in waves.

Frances' chest constricted. Concentrating, she took one breath, then another. None of them knew where the boats were taking them. Frodo's eyes said 'to death'. No matter how cheerful he tried to seem, when no one looked, his blue orbs pooled with sadness and fear. Leaving Lothlórien was like leaving the safety of one's home in a world at war. As the rafts progressed on the smooth surface of the Anduin, Frances' eyes roamed across the river banks. The trees drank the silvery light of the afternoon, plunging their roots deep into the soil. There was no movement except for the oscillating leaves at the summit. The soft north breeze kept to the top. Ensconced in the valley, the company was strangely spared by the winter's cold.

A smooth voice pulled Frances out of her reverie. The elf was speaking to her. Surrounded by a halo of light, the sun was getting lower to the south, he appeared to her like a saint in the holy paintings.

- 'This song you were singing, it is one of your people? What is its meaning?'

- 'Ah. Er…'

Caught unaware, Frances tried to rewind the song in her head. Of course, it was a very old English song, something about a King and new year's eve. Her brow wrinkled in the effort, she was surprised to hear the musical laugh of the elf.

- 'Come lady, instead of thinking too hard, maybe you could sing it anew?'

Surprised, Frances had to consciously close her mouth. Could the elf be serious? With the eldar's inner talent for music, her singing could only ring wrongly even if in her world, she was a decent performer. Well, more than decent. But after hearing elvish songs in Rivendell and Lorién, she thought she would shut her mouth forever. Her face flushed red.

- 'Me, singing?'

This time, it was Legolas's time to frown.

- 'Of course, why not?'

Music was so natural for the elves that her apprehension startled him. Had he done anything wrong? The young lady's eyes were averted, and she said flatly.

- 'Isn't it dangerous? Like, are we not susceptible to be noticed?'

Frances was stalling and she knew it. But truth be told, she was not ready to expose her talents to the judgment of the prince. Unfortunately, it was another voice that answered. A voice that carried so much authority that she didn't have to turn around to identify its owner.

- 'We are quite safe Lady Frances. Pray, bless us with a song to accompany us on our journey'.

Frances pivoted and rolled her eyes to the leader of their company. Aragorn's boat was gliding closer to theirs, Frodo and Sam watching her with expectant eyes. At once, Boromir's raft curved its trajectory to join them. His face held a teasing smile.

- 'Don't ask us to beg my fair lady, for the little ones might as well do so.'

Pippin seemed ready to oblige. There was no way out.

- All right, all right, give me a minute. It's been a long time since I last sang this song.

In the pas, she had never been singing in front of anybody. Well, except for her dear cousin. But in a world without television or CD player, it made sense that anybody would do so naturally.

- 'What is a minute?' asked Pippin.

Frances blinked. This was one of the details to which she usually paid a lot of attention. This little slip outlined the state of distress in which the elf's request had plunged her thoughts.

- 'Shhh, or she won't sing,' came Merry's voice.

- 'Thank you for getting back to the subject at hand,' said Frances ironically.

And so much for my stage fright, she added in her head. Frances took a steady breath, and started singing. Loreena Mc Kennitt's voice came to her mind, guiding her through the notes as the melody oscillated.

'Health, love and peace be all here in this place
By your leave we shall sing, concerning our King.

Our King is well-dressed in silks of the best
In ribbons so rare no king can compare.'

Frances closed her eyes. There came the hardest part where the second voice took precedence over the others, and she wanted to sing it properly so the harmony would be preserved. The little raft held it course steadily, and on the water Frances felt more confident than in any other place. Her voice sung high, its crystalline tones enveloping the melody like a warm blanket. How she loved this song!

'We have travelled many miles over hedges and stiles,
In search of our King unto you we bring.

Old Christmas is past, twelve tide is the last
And we bid you adieu, great joy to the new'

A movement passed upon the company. Something akin to shock. As she sang the words, Frances' realised their meaning. Being French, she had never taken the time to consider this lyrics in depth. But to her companions it made an awful lot of sense! All gazes were on her. Boromir's unreadable. And none as intense as Aragorn's. And then she realised the enormity of her inspiration. She was celebrating the return of the King. As they paddled in direction to Gondor, the only song that had come to her mind was one speaking of a King coming home. Silence greeted the company. The only sound breaking her breathing was the gentle 'floc floc' of the paddles.

- 'It was beautiful Lady Frances,' said Legolas.'Thank you for sharing this song with us. But pray tell, what is twelve tide?'

And with this innocent question the disconfomfort dissolved, and both Aragorn's and Boromir's boats floated aside to keep a little more distance. A conversation started over the signification of Christmas which kept Frances' mind extremely busy. The hobbit's questions were endless, while Legolas's ones held more significance. It was difficult to explain the importance of Jesus Christ without revealing that she indeed came from another world. Except for Aragorn, none of the company knew of her origins, and the title that had been granted to her by the Valar. Thus the Keeper of time kept her brain busy until they made camp for the night.

It was cold outside Lothlorién, but much less misty. The air was drier than it had been in the Golden woods. Aragorn consented to light a fire. Nor him nor Legolas sensed any danger on this particular spot.

On they went, for several days paddling down the Anduin, munching on the supplies from the golden wood for lunch, and cooking at night. The river meandered around cliffs, sometimes gaining more speed, sometimes snailing gently. As they reached further south, the company progressively tensed. Discord was once again brewing between Boromir and Aragorn, much to everyone's distress. Frances knew better than to approach Boromir whenever he was angry. His words could wound as icily as a blade when his pride took over reason. Legolas, impervious to his moods, stayed his calm self all along. It somehow helped to travel alongside the elf. His soothing presence allowed Frances' mind to stay clear. And Gimli was as sturdy as a rock. No disagreement among men would tame his cheerful character.

On the fourth day, the current suddenly picked up. Boromir and Aragorn started shouting orders to paddle up and set the boats on the bank. But it was too late. The elvish crafts grated on the rocks as they were caught in the flow. Adrenaline shot into Frances's body. In this moment, she realised how frail their raft was and how easily they could be turned over and thrown into the water. She doubted she could drag Gimli to the shore. Fearing the icy touch of the water splashing in the craft, the young lady followed the elf's instructions without fault. In front of them, Aragorn's own little boat came in and out of the view as it tried to negotiate the currents. And then, in the middle of chaos, black arrows whizzed past them.

- 'Yrch,' yelled Legolas as he turned around.

The elf attempted to seize his bow but the current was too strong. It forced him to get back to paddling ere they be drowned. Several arrows plunged into the agitated waters. Setting her fright aside, Frances blessed the current to lead them away. She'd rather end up in the river than face the orcs. A quick look at the passing boat of Boromir told her that nor Merry nor Pippin knew how to swim. Pure terror oozed from them as they clutched the edge of their raft. Frances tried to send them some comfort with a smile, but she doubted it reached its intended destination. The hobbits' eyes were wide with terror.

Finally, the black arrows ceased their assault, and the company went on for a little while before accosting on the western bank. Although most of their clothing was wet, Aragorn couldn't consent on making a fire. Miserable, they huddled together to keep warm. Dread had seized the hobbits at hearing that they would not be able to eat stew, and there was disagreement in the ranks. Frances felt unnerved, and was trying to calm herself while muttering about Pippin's complaining. She could not let the present mood dictate her behaviour. As usual, Frodo sat, flanked by his ever companion Sam Gamgee. The gardener offered comfort and shuffled around Frodo, never asking anything in return. Did the ring bearer realise his presence?

Frances had long ago stopped her attempts at making conversation with Frodo. If he answered politely to any question she might have, he would not share his suffering with any of them. The effort of making conversation seemed to take a toll on him and Frances didn't want to make him uncomfortable. The hobbit was slowly fading from the world of the living, and there was nothing that could be done to prevent it. Or perhaps she should have insisted?

The ring called to her sometimes. He tried to pull all the strings. Compassion, anger, envy and power. All of it. She heard it when she got to sleep. And now, sitting by the company as the day settled, she heard him more than usual. After days of travelling, Frances had found a strange ritual. She concentrated on the elf's glow sitting next to her. His light, so soft and ethereal, appeased her mind until she heard the ring no more. Sometimes she just closed her eyes and tried to reach the soft humming of his life force. The eldar's aura was soothing.

But today even the elf was agitated. As Legolas suddenly stood up, Frances started. His keen eyes were set on the dark sky. The young lady creased her eyes, but saw nothing. The prince lifted his bow, then pulled the string. An arrow flew; a black shape fell with a shrill cry that echoed around the cliffs of the Anduin. Frances shuddered, suddenly frozen to the core. She knew this screech all too well. The coldness of its tone crept into her bones, and soon her whole body was trembling. While Gimli seemed undeterred, the hobbits had stiffened.

- 'It is one of those horrible beasts, isn'it?', asked Pippin.

His eyes were filled with terror. Yet no one refuted his assertion. The Nazgûl had found them. After the orc's attack, this took the battle to a new stage. Away was the pleasant journey down the river. Now more than ever, the company knew to be hunted. The urgency of their situation made no doubt. And yet, what more could they do than go on?

Once more, Boromir an Aragorn were arguing about the route to take. The steward's son wanted to make for Minas Tirith. But to this their leader was opposed. Aragorn had not clearly stated his intentions. But one thing was sure in Frances' mind, he feared to go south to the city of men. Despite the symbol that the white city represented, it was after all his inheritance, Aragorn was reluctant to lead the company to its walls. But Boromir would not be deterred.

- ' … to the Tall Isle I will go, but not further,' said the steward's son. Then I shall return to my home, alone if my help has not earned the reward of any companionship.

His grey eyes turned to Frances, asking her, begging her for some support. Unsure about what to do, the young lady averted her eyes. Shame overtook her for acting so cowardly. Yet, there was so much that was unsaid. She needed to speak with Boromir to understand what she was missing. Why would Aragorn fear to reach for the city? Of course, Boromir's allegiance went to the steward. But she thought that he would have given up this 'no king' nonsense for now. Nor Legolas nor Gimli seemed to be aware of the issue at hand. If they did, none made a comment on the route. Both would follow wherever the ring bearer went.

Fortunately, the conversation drifted to the phase of the moon, lifting some of the tension. Sam had just come to realise that the company had spent a month in Lorién. To this, Legolas tried to explain how time was different in the eyes of the eldar. Frances' thoughts wandered off as she listened to the melodic voice of the woodland prince.

- … the world moves, and it moves both very swift and very slow …'

As Legolas' voice guided her imagination, the young lady tried to fathom how difficult it would be for her to be immortal. In her nearly twenty years of age, she had already started to grasp how things had changed around her. Her home, her parents, the world was moving so fast. Seasons came and went, people died, cities were built and crumbled, wars took place. How could it be to live a century? Five hundred years? A millenia? Even if your family, your friends didn't age, the world would inevitably change. Weather would shift, mountains would crumble, rivers would change their course. How could one's memory handle all of it?

Elves were often melancholic. She started to understand why. To see so much happening as time flowed like a river through their outstretched hands. And yet, they moved with such speed, such efficiency. All this time they had at hand they used to become skilful warriors and magnificent artists. There was so much that Frances couldn't grasp about their way of life. The eldar were a paradox in flesh. A glowing paradox.

Frodo's voice called her out of her disgression. He was speaking about a ring of power. An elven ring. One of those forged by the elves before the great alliance. Frances frowned. She couldn't recall the names of those rings, but knew how important they were to the elven community. Gandalf had used one against the Balrog, and now the ring was lost with its owner in the depth of Moria. A wave of sadness overtook her at the memory. She had not known Gandalf for long but the wizard had grown on her. Alas, his death had left a void in their company, and now Aragorn had to take his place as a leader. And admirably so. He was actually lecturing Frodo about mentioning the ring wielded by Galadriel. Hobbits were definitely not accustomed to hardships.

- 'That should not have been said outside Lórien, not even to me. Speak no more of it.'

Frodo seemed to bite his tongue, but Aragorn smiled at him and then turned to Sam.

- 'But so it is Sam: in that land you lost your count. There time flowed swiftly by us, as for all the Elves. Winter is nearly gone.'

Frances shivered but kept her tongue; she was too tired to be ironic about the biting cold. Speaking of the elven rings was a touchy subject. In Rivendell, no elves had attempted to keep secrets. Her questions had always been answered, sometimes with so many details that she had trouble remembering her initial query. Nor Erestor, nor Arwen or any other elf were lacking regarding the history of middle earth. But here in the wild lands, the knowledge had a different price. With the enemy lurking about, no wonder Aragorn called for discretion and prudence.

There was not much sleep for either of them that night. The morning came with a heavy fog, and on they went on the Anduin's waters. There was no song to accompany them, no conversation to be had. The silence was only broken by the gentle flapping of the paddle into the water. The icy fog enveloped them so tightly that Frances could only make out the forms of Merry and Pippin in front of the hunched warrior that led their boat.

Thanking the lady of the woods once more in her mind, Frances wrapped the elvish cloth around her trembling form. Legolas did not seem to mind the hostile weather, and Gimli. Well. With his stout form, he was more than adapted to anything that the sky could launch at him. Once more, Frances resented her lack of padding. A hundred pounds were definitely not enough to withstand the local weather. Though she wasn't one to be usually cold, Frances had trouble handling wetness. Miserable to the core, the young lady waited anxiously. For what? She didn't even know. The route seemed unsure, orcs were on their trails and Nazgûls lurking in the shadows. She saw no way out.

Aragorn's words came back to her. He always said to never lose hope. His very name meant hope. So she repeated his name as a mantra. 'Estel, Estel, give us hope.'

Maybe the Valar heard her silent prayer, for at this instant the company emerged from the fog. The Anduin's waters were rushing faster than before, sucking the boats further south and out of the silvery droplets of water. As the mist dissolved, they found themselves in a canyon. The steep rises of the hills surrounded them, and the river gave them little chance to stop or turn around. Hence they followed the flow. On the left, the unforgiving mountains of Emyn muil were towering above them. Frances' eyes were looking for an opening. Aragorn had mentioned that they might have to cross them but she saw no path, no trail. It was only sharp ridges and steep falls.

Fortunately, some portion of the blue sky still lingered over them. It lightened her mood. If the soft rays of sunshine didn't reach the bottom of the canyon, it illuminated the summit of the western hills. As Frances' eyes followed the series of ridges, two huge pillars came into view. Framing the river, they were so tall that their head seemed to reach the sky. Frances creased her brow, adjusting to the golden light that graced the top of the pillars. And she gasped. Those were not pillars but two immense statues. Two great men with their hands set in a warning motion to guard the passage.

- 'Behold the Argonath, the Pillars of the kings,' cried Aragorn. 'We shall pass them soon, keep the boats in line, and as far apart as you can'

As the river rushed them forward, Frances could not prevent from staring in awe. The statues were magnificently carved, helm firmly in place, an axe resting in their other hand. There was such majesty, such beauty in them. The sun caressed the back of their heads, as if the kingdom of light reigned beyond the great watchers of old. So caught she was in her admiration that she forgot her restraint and inched towards the elf.

- 'Who are those people?' she asked innocently.

- 'Kings of old, ancestors to Aragorn,' he answered, his head lifted in awe. 'They are Isildur and Anarion, kings or Arnor.'

The elf's eyes were set in a foreign expression. Never had she seen Legolas so moved. Well, apart from the Balrog adventure. As they approached the Argonath, the waters became more treacherous, and Legolas had to struggle to keep the raft at flow. They passed the great pillars with great speed, and yet not fast enough so that Frances could miss that their height was tremendous. In their boats, they were not even reaching the top of one foot.

The company emerged in a wide lake and the waters settled. The sun greeted the weary company with its warmth, and for a moment of grace, none remembered the dire situation they found themselves in. In the southern end, clouds of vapour rose steadily, its droplets diffracted into the golden light. The falls of Rauros waited upon the imprudent traveller, their roar growing stronger as they angled to the western bank of the lake. Legolas pointed a peak towering above the hill.

- 'There stands Amon Hen, the hills of hearing and of sights. In the days of the great Kings, there were high seats upon them to keep watch.'

His eyes were alight with a melancholy, and Frances asked no more. She had heard Aragorn speak of the greatness of Arnor, and of his wish to sit on Amen Hen to seek counsel. She was as anxious as any of them to get any piece of advice that might help them on their quest. So Amon Hen it was.

It was not yet dark when they reached the bank but they settled to make camp. It was time to set on a course.