Eowyn was quite a puzzle. While the lady of Rohan walked alongside Aragorn, calling his attention, Frances could not help but notice how beautiful she looked in a simple woollen dress. Daughter of Kings, Theoden had named her; very fitting. As elegant as she was cold, Eowyn evolved like a queen on the grassy hills of Rohan. Her people looked up to her; she had, after all, stood true through the King's sour days. And yet, beloved and admired as she was, she could not steer Aragorn's heart. No one ever could, for his affections were already engaged.

Of course, the Ranger was being kind and polite, yet his reserve hid his emotions well for Arwen. As they talked, making fun of Gimli who struggled with his horse, Frances could not help but feel angry. As high born as Eowyn was in her own realm, she could never measure up to Arwen, the Evenstar of the fair folk. Of what she seek, glory and battles, Frances feared that only the second one could be found. Rohan was fleeing before their enemies, all of its people to be encased in a fortress to keep them safe. How long would it hold? And what would Eowyn gain from Aragorn? Did she expect him to make her his bride? His mistress? His shield-maiden? To stand against the King for her sake?

There were so many things in Eowyn's eyes, so many contradicting desires that Frances could not make sense of them. Longing to be someone else, pride of her noble blood, hatred and frustration about her condition, boldness and, more than all, stubbornness. For the moment, she seemed to have crystallised all of this upon Aragorn. And despite the distance in his words, in his posture, she continued, undeterred, to seek his presence. Frances trailed behind, her blood boiling for Arwen, but silent. It was not her place to tell a daughter of Kings to get off her friend. The ranger was more than capable of handling this himself. And for the sake of diplomacy, she'd better shut her big mouth. No doubt that the lady Eowyn could be one to hold a grudge.

Frances walked away from the couple, huffing her disapproval, and earning a curious stare from Aragorn as she passed him. The man had definitely ears everywhere. Frances didn't want to stand in his way, answering his quiet interrogation with a smile of her own.

— "I will join Gimli and Legolas at the front," she said, pointing to the strange interracial couple in front of them.

Aragorn graced her with a bow of his own. Ever polite. He probably did not realise how kingly he behaved. Even in battle, his manners did not stray from the noble blood that flowed through his veins. Quite like Eowyn's attitude, and yet so different. Aragorn was a king in spirit and body. If she had to chose, one day, to answer to someone, he would the one she was proud to call her King. For the moment though, they were treading through high grass and barren hills like a set of beggars.

Frances increased her stride to gain some ground. She could hear Gimli's voice as he sat awkwardly atop his steed. Legolas walked beside him, his hands never leaving the animal. Sometimes, the elf talked a few words to the horse in his tongue, probably to reassure him that all was well despite the heavy and uneasy weight on his back. No sooner had she come a dozen feet from them that Legolas' eyes fell upon her. The young lady refrained from cursing. It was bad enough that Aragorn could hear her breathing in frustration, there was no need to add up supernatural senses to the situation.

At least, Gimli would not heed her presence until she sat on top of him. And if he was snoring, she could actually steal all of his equipment without him stirring. And probably cut his beard too.

As it was, Legolas' blue orbs were staring at her. She stared back for a moment, lost in their depths, until the elf realised his impropriety and turned to Gimli. Frances lifted one of her eyebrows, wondering what thoughts were plaguing him. It was unlike Legolas to behave so unfocused. At last, Frances came alongside Gimli, choosing the other flank of the horse to leave the elf in peace. The dwarf greeted her noisily.

— "Aye lass, it is good to see you. What news from Aragorn?"

— "I fear he may be trapped in a unwanted courtship," she answered sourly.

Gimli turned around brusquely, scoffing. But the horse would not have it, and the dwarf had to fight not to be toppled over as it tried to rear.

— "Oooh, ooh," came the elf's soothing voice.

Steadying the mount in a few moves, Legolas lectured Gimli on his abruptness. Somehow in the process, the elf managed to switch sides. Frances smiled. That was sneaky, even for him. Still, his face was too solemn to be mistaken at the moment.

— "You disapprove" were his only words.

For a while, Frances said nothing, stunned silent by his perceptiveness and subtility. Yet, Aragorn's relationship with Arwen was a discreet one. No matter how close the fellowship had been, she doubted that Gimli had knowledge of it, hence Legolas' veiled words. It was no secret, but intimate enough not to discuss it in public.

Frances reflected on her acquaintance with Arwen. They had known each other for a short time only, even from a man's lifespan. Less than the fleeting life of a moth to an eldar. In a century, or a thousand years, would Arwen remember her? How difficult for Frances to apprehend time, the way the elf handled it. How would she remember Aragorn, a millenia from here ? What kind of memory would he be ?

Frances shuddered; she was starting to understand life in Arwen's perspective. The elf had spoken about her father's reluctance to allow Aragorn into her life. At first, she had had trouble to understand. But now, she started to fathom the immense dilemma both Arwen and Elrond faced. And what of her brothers ? How would Elladan and Elrohir react to her choice ? Surely they could understand. To live in eternity a plain existence, or to accept death and embrace passion. Such was the price to pay for Arwen to choose a mortal life, to choose to follow her heart. A choice only bestowed upon Elrond and his siblings.

However short their time together had been, the affection Frances felt for the elleth held no boundaries. Arwen was, in every way, the Evenstar of her people. Kind, generous and loving were only three of her attributes among the million qualities she possessed. The elleth gave so much, with no consideration to status or appearance, to everyone around her. She shone as much from within as from the outside.

The white lady of Rohan could be as fair and noble as a queen, she would never come close to equal Arwen's soul. Aragorn himself was humbled by her love. So humbled that Frances knew, in her heart, that he felt like he did not deserve it. How mistaken he was!

Legolas' eyes were on her again, and Frances realised that she had not answered his question.

— "It is not my place to disapprove."

His face changed, a trace of disappointment marring his lovely feature before he composed himself. The young lady nearly frowned at that, but the elf gave her the reins.

— "If you do not mind, I would like to scout the area. Would it be too much to ask you to care for Gimli while I am away?'

A wave of dread suddenly filled Frances. Taking care of Gimli? Atop a horse? She stared at the cord in her hand, then yanked her head back to the elf. But he was gone. Turning around, she saw his retreating form walking away, or rather, flying to another mount. He climbed gracefully on the brown stallion, and took off without looking back. Shocked by his abrupt departure, Frances frowned.

— "Are ye all right lass?" came Gimli's rumbling voice aside her.

— "I think so. Just tired I guess,"

— "The pointy ears seemed as much. Couldn't get a proper conversation out of him. Strange, he tends to be merrier."

Frances' breath caught in her throat. What could have happened to Legolas to have him behave so? And that look. Had she mistaken it for anger rather than disappointment? What had she done to displease him?

— "Mmm. I guess we're all lost here."

Yes. From the fellowship to this mad dash across the plains, Frances felt like they had lost all purpose.

Legolas was gone for a while, and Gimli struggled to keep riding; Frances' sills were not up to par with the elf's soothing presence.

Dwarf and lady walked in silence for a while. It gave her time to think. Fearing that the elf would be cross with her seized her heart; it affected her so much. Why did he hold such weight? Why would his opinion be so important when others did not matter? True, Aragorn's point of view also did. He was, to her, some kind of father figure. A guide in this world. And yet, his opinion mattered less than Legolas. What, when, and how had all those changes happened?

Somewhere in her heart dwelt feelings that she could not acknowledge. Frances was, by principle, pledged to another. She had made sure that the company knew about Charlie, speaking of him from time to time, thinking of him when her mind was free to wander. Frowning, the young lady realised that her boyfriend was slowly but surely disappearing from her musings. The war in middle earth, impending death, Balrog, monsters and magic were too heavy in the balance. In the unlikely event that she survived and got back, Frances would have to consider the meaning of this. Was she unfaithful to have surrendered her heart to middle earth?

Live the moment.

If she had learnt one lesson as to now, it was that every second, every instant of one's existence meant something. Each moment should be lived like the last and could not be avoided. Those missions showed her that some events had no place in her timeline, they still made her what she was. If she got back home, she would be a different woman. Older, wiser, stronger as well.

Taught in the way of elves, touched by the grace of Lothlorien, imprinted by Elrond's family, awed by Glorfindel's presence, fearful for the Rohirrim and yet marvelling at their resilience. Each step in middle earth took her away from the young lady she had been beforehand. She felt those changes in her heart. They were profound, scarred into her being. In less than a year, she had grown so much. Like a butterfly after so much time spend as a chrysalis.

Would Charlie even recognise her? Would he still love her as she was? And did she still love him?

A baby's wail caused her to jump. Beside her, Gimli rode on, grumbling about the mood of elves and women. Around them, families pushed carts, children cried in exhaustion, faces fell as time passed. Many features were winkled from the effort.

At last, the two companions could not take it anymore. Gimli dismounted and left the horse for some other to use. A woman burdened by a little girl thanked him profusely as she tried to install her elderly mother on top of the mount. But the horse was too tall, and the woman too exhausted to manage on her own. She set the child on the ground; the little girl wailing while clinging to her skirts. Losing his patience, Gimli offered his help. Strong like he was, he could have thrown the elderly woman on the stallion without blinking. Intercepting the fearful look of the old lady, Frances intervened before the dwarf broke the poor grandmother into pieces.

— "Do no trouble yourself Gimli, I will help."

— "Ah!" he scoffed. "You probably weigh no more than her."

Frances laughed. She would not let that one go and challenged him.

— "Do you doubt the strength of my arm, friend?"

— "No, but let me see how you intend to lift that lady on the horse back."

She could have invoked his height, of course, but she was not much taller than he was, and most Rohirrim dwarfed her as well. Frances would not lower herself to blame Gimli for his short stature. As the discussion went on aside the war horse, Frances realised they were falling behind. Neither the woman not her mother dared interfering into the argument, too humbled by the company to utter a word. The child was still sniffing in her skirts, but her wails had stopped, replaced by a curious stare. At last, Frances suggested:

— "You could always kneel on the ground and we could use your back for the lady to step one. Like a footboard."

Gimli was about to roar in anger when the old lady was lifted in the air and settled on top of the stallion. Frances caught a glimpse of long hair, and the horse was off.

— "Come," said Legolas, "we cannot fall behind".

— "Damned elves," grumbled Gimli, setting off as well.

As the woman thanked her saviour profusely, the elf gazed at her. The Rohirric lady coiled a bit, unused to being stared at by an elf. No matter what kindness he showed, Legolas failed to realise how intimidating his very existence was. An elf in human lands. A legend that until yesterday, existed only from the tales of old. Frances smiled. Fortunately, no one knew of his title.

At the moment though, the elf bypassed the scared look on the mother's face, concentrating on her tired features. The haggard eyes spoke of too little sleep and sheer exhaustion. The elf prince opened his arms, offering to take her child with him. For a moment, Frances' breath caught in her chest. Elves were so distant, so secretive with their feelings that she could not fathom seeing them with children. And yet, Legolas' features were soft and encouraging, his light as comforting as ever.

But the girl would not hear of it, refusing vehemently to quit her mother's chest. The elf was probably too foreign for her to accept. And then, she did something totally surprising. The four years old lifted her arms to Frances, her green eyes shining with hope. The woman smiled but scolded her child for being too presumptuous. Yet the girl would not be undeterred.

— "I want the magician."

Frances' arms lifted on their own accord, not bothering to ask her brain about it. Hence the look of surprise on her face as she received the child against her chest.

— "All right. But I am no magician."

— "No magician? Princess? You travel with elf, dwarf, and a Lord. So you princess."

Sending a desperate look to Legolas, Frances was surprised to find a genuine smile upon his lips. She tightened her hold lest she dropped the child. Her back protested. It was a wonder her mother had been able to go all this way without failing. The woman gave her an apologetic look.

— "It would be easier if she climbs on your back, if I may suggest."

The elf nodded and, without awaiting for Frances' answer, reached for her bow strapped around her shoulder. In a swift movement, he had removed both weapon and quiver. His scent lingered behind him, surrounding Frances for a moment. Then he bent towards the girl and settled her on Frances' back, her frail limbs crossing over the lady's chest. As he did so, his voice came to the child's ears, soft and full of mirth.

— "Magician princess. You are an excellent judge of character, young one."

— "Hey, I am five already!", responded the girl. "And you?"

Frances started at the boldness of the child. Would Legolas answer such an intimate question? After many months of travels in his company, she still had no idea how long the elf had roamed the lands of middle earth. And she was eager to learn. But his eyes were not fixed on the child. His impenetrable gaze was instead set on Frances, as if to warn her. For a moment, she just stopped breathing under his scrutiny.

— "I am much, much older than you are," said he.

The child would not back down.

— "You cannot be, you look much younger than mama."

Frances snickered at that, but Legolas started walking, gesturing them to follow to catch up with the rest of the group. A gentle smile graced his lips as he progressed, his feet light as feathers while his companions imprinted the grass with their walking boots.

He knew Frances' left eyebrow would be quirked in this funny expression of hers, the sign that she wanted some explanations. He also knew the weight of her gaze whenever she was looking for answers. Stronger than a daughter of man in her manners, yet confusing with her wisdom. But still young, even by men's standards.

But Frances said nothing, probably too winded by the added weight of the girl. Somehow, the child fit well on her back, or so he thought. He did not turn too often, catching a few images that he committed to his memory when she wasn't looking. With her stray hair framing her face, the occasional curl brushing her reddened cheeks and her lively expression, Frances was lovely indeed. In his hands, her bow and quiver travelled comfortably until the girl had enough of being carried and asked to walk on her own. Then, the elf returned the items.

— "Your heart is immense."

Then he took off, and she didn't catch a glimpse of him until well after the camp was settled.