Frances was exhausted, terrified even. The wargs were so wild, so violent that each hack, each strike threatened to break her sword arm. Claws, teeth, body. Every part of the foul beasts was a weapon. At first, of course, she had landed her arrows in the enemy's flesh, missing some, yet not so many. Unfortunately, most of them had taken the bolt and not strayed from their killing paths, undisturbed by the blood that ran through their flanks. Those creatures were sustained by their lust of destruction, their bestiality hacking bodies like rag dolls.

King Theoden's closest guard already lay on the ground, his face still. A nice man while alive… But she could not linger on this thought. Twice, one of Legolas' arrows had saved her. Needless to say that despite her intense training, Frances wasn't so proficient. She was used to enemies in human form much more than fighting wild beasts. Although her reflexes were quick from years of Interpol training, ker skill with the blade wasn't enough.

Everywhere around her, chaos was spreading. Being on foot exposed Frances more than necessary. When Legolas had reported the attack, she had been too far away from Aragorn's horse. She nearly regretted launching herself in the fight. But here she was.

Too late to turn back.

And she would not, she could not leave her company behind. Yelling a battle cry, she set off again. It would not do to stay put; an unmoving form was too much of a target for the wargs. There were fewer and fewer beasts running around now, and Frances suppressed a grin. Goblins were a much better choice for her skills. Thrown on the ground by the death of their mounts, they opposed quite some resistance. But at this stage, the young woman was more proficient in hand-to-hand combat, especially to injured goblins. She dispatched many, making her way closer to the cliff in her deadly trail.

And then she froze, her blood running cold.

A familiar form was closing in on the cliff's side. His dark long coat as recognisable as the fingerless gloves on his right hand. A stricken wail left her mouth before she even processed the information. Aragorn toppled over the edge, falling to his death!

Stricken, Frances ran, passing the injured rider with hardly a glance, reaching the cliffside in a few very long seconds. Too long, for there was nothing left to see downstream. The river rushed in between the rocks, taking in its wake everything that was thrown into. Frances' tears were falling already, disbelief marring her bloody face. She stayed there, stunned into silence, as the battle field was cleared from the remaining enemies. And then, after what seemed like eternity, Legolas appeared by her side. His hand was clenched on something, his face lost in another world. Wordlessly, the elf opened his hand, his palm facing the sky.

The Evenstar laid there, dirty, and bloodied. Was it Aragorn's blood? Frances did not know. Did it really matter? Legolas' features were set in disbelief. She could feel his anguish, yet would not turn to him. If she did, she was afraid to break down and sink to the floor.

Frances reflected on the irony of life. Not a day ago, she was telling Aragorn how Arwen was watching over him. And now he was dead. It had taken but a second to make him disappear from the history of middle earth. The King that should have reigned on Arnor and Gondor alike, and saved the world from its gloomy doom.

Frances' chest constricted, and she took a deep breath. No, that couldn't be! She refused to believe the ranger gone. Mourning would come later, but she had to see for herself. She owed it to the fellowship, to the world, and to Arwen to find his body and bury him properly. A quick glance around her gave her the information she needed.

Arod was lingering nearby, riderless. Frances' eyes locked on the animal. Her mind was set. As the King decided to leave the dead, shocking Legolas, the young lady walked to the horse purposefully. She knew that the elf would try to stop her, hence the long strides. She did not turn back, hoping to be unnoticed. Was he too shocked to understand that she had no intention to follow them to Helm's deep? But Legolas was no fool. As soon as Frances left his side, he knew that something was amiss. Despite the intensity of his grief, he was still able to feel the absence of her soothing spirit as she walked away.

She was, by any means, as utterly in shock of Aragorn's fall as he was. The ranger and himself had been friends for so long, more than seven years by now. Aragorn was, to him, a human brother. The pain was sharp, excruciating even. Destiny awaited the future King, probably more than the white city expected Boromir. And yet, none of them would return to the kingdom of Gondor. What was to become to the world of men? To the quest? And to him? Would Arwen fade from the grief while Legolas stayed by her side until the end, observing how life left her body through the tears she would endlessly shed?

A dozen yards away from the brooding elf, Frances murmured to Arod to go downstream, looking for Aragorn's body. And then, just as she clicked her tongue to launch the stallion forward, a hand seized her arm. The young lady froze, her eyes meeting the blue gaze she had become familiar with. Legolas stared at her, hurt and betrayal mixed in the most heart-breaking expression. Her throat constricted.

— "My lady, it is a useless quest," he said. "I urge you to stay with us."

— "I cannot," she answered sadly, "I cannot leave him there to die."

Legolas' eyes shone with distress as he whispered.

— "I fear that it is already so. Do not waste your life when there is none to save."

Frances' head shook from left to right. She did not trust her voice. Tears fell from her eyes, trailing on her cheeks a path of liquid purity among the dirt and blood. Legolas' words were lost to her, when the only thing she could think of was to repress the urge to sob from the injustice of it all. She had no insults in store for the Valar. The anger would come later. But she could not abandon her purpose. Her mission ought to be accomplished first. Legolas' hand tugged at her sleeve, demanding that she dismounted. How tempting it was, to launch herself in his arms and shut her mind down as he held her. He would be her anchor in this foreign world.

But something stirred within, urging her to go forth with her plan. A need that couldn't be ignored. Eventually, Frances straightened on the saddle. Her gaze grew steadier as she gently, but purposefully extracted her forearm from the elf's grip.

— "I need to follow my heart," she whispered to him.

Only the keen hearing of the eldar allowed him to hear it. Frances took off at full gallop, much to the elf's dismay. He didn't try to stop her. The pain was rougher now. He had lost not one, but two friends at the same time. Yet the tears would not fall. He was a warrior at heart, and as a warrior he would behave to the end. The defences had to hold until Gandalf's return. He was, with Gimli, the only protector left for those people. Yet, it held little sense now. His heart was rubbed raw.

Frances galloped south, following the stream. Never turning back, she didn't see the look of longing on the elf's features as she disappeared behind the summit of the first hill. The uneven terrain was too difficult to keep Arod galloping. She had to slow her stallion lest he broke a leg and threw her down. She would be of no use to anyone, alive or dead, if she died so stupidly. The wind blew her air around her bloodied face, tears trailing on her cheeks. She was well aware that leaving the only two remaining members of the fellowship felt like betrayal.

She missed them already. But she also felt terrible for Aragorn's fall, Boromir's death, and for so many things that had happened during this quest. Frodo's dangerous trek to Mordor with only Sam to keep him company, Merry and Pippin lost somewhere in Fangorn's forest… There was no ending to this list. And those events, carefully stacked away in a drawer of her memory, were resurfacing all at once. The loss of Aragorn, the true company's leader, called those souvenirs to crash down on her. Before long, Frances was sobbing in despair on the stallion's back.

Fortunately for her, Arod seemed to know where he was going. Impervious to her erratic directions, the horse followed the stream without faltering. Then, as Frances though she would dismount and lie on the ground to expel her grief, a strange light shone in the distance. Lifting her eyes to the sky, she gasped. One of the clouds gathered the brightness of the sun, rays falling down in a particular spot. Frances' red eyes widened in awe. The grey volutes, rolling under the wind, had taken a form she knew well. Arwen's silhouette floated an instant in the sky, her ethereal robes flowing around her from the breeze. And then she was just another cloud, the sun hiding behind it.

Frances' heart soared, urging Arod to go faster without losing the spot from view. The horse was strangely attuned to her mind, obeying without faltering as they came to lower ground. The hills had gradually become smoother, and the river's current was diminishing. It started to meander here and there, taking advantage of the softer terrain. Arod was galloping now, neighing impatiently as they came upon a small beach. Frances' eyes widened at the sight that greeted her.

Aragorn was there, spread on the coarse sand, facing the clouds. Her breath caught. At last, she had found him! Sadness washed over her as she approached. He seemed so alive, like a man enjoying a little bit of rest after a harrowing day. Yet, his body was assaulted by the freshness of the stream. The current swayed his legs from left to right, trying to drag him into oblivion, further down and to the sea to be reunited with Boromir.

The young lady dismounted, her expression grim. And then, Arod made something highly unusual. Instead of enjoying the little bit of greenish weeds that grew on the banks, he walked to Aragorn's body and nuzzled the side of his face.

— "Arod!"

But the horse was undeterred. Horrified, Frances came closer when mere seconds ago she dared not. She wanted his body undamaged, to offer Aragorn a decent burial; the last gift of a friend to another. As she arched against the horse to shoo him away, the ranger's chest heaved. Not so much, only the fraction of an inch. But enough for her to jump out of her skin. The blasted man was alive!

Astonished, Frances' hands trembled as she set her ear on his chest. Her mind refused to believe it. But his heart, beating faintly under the soaked shirt, confirmed otherwise. Aragorn really was alive! Had she not been so concerned, the young lady would have danced with joy. But so dire was the situation that she didn't take much time to think. Pushing the ranger to his side with a grunt, she was pleased to feel his muscles resist to her ministering. No water came out of his lungs; he had miraculously escaped drowning. There was no amount of words to express Frances' relief as she watched his chest raise and fall. It would have been very miserly indeed to find him alive only to lose him to pneumonia because of dry drowning.

Drained, Frances collapsed alongside Aragorn. The coarse sand and rocks were uncomfortable under her bottom, but she couldn't care less. The muscles were already numb from all the riding. Still, her mind was getting hazier than her body. They had come close, very close to losing the leader of their fellowship. She stayed motionless for a while as the idea sunk in, the sun continuing its course over the hills as she kept a hand on Aragorn's unconscious form. He breathed evenly, slowly, like a clock endlessly ticking until its spring broke.

In, and out. Frances concentrated on the slight movement of his chest until eventually the shock started to fade away, clearing her mind for the task at hand. Aragorn was hurt, but not as much as would be expected from a man tumbling down a cliff. The guy was lucky, or very well looked after. The ranger had yet to stir, giving her some time to fish out the first aid kit from her worn-out bag. Poor thing, there was not one spot of cloth unscathed from the terrible treatment it had to endure.

Pushing Aragorn back to his initial position, the young lady roamed her hands on the tall form, assessing if any bones had snapped during his fall. Relief washed over her as the ranger whimpered at her touch. Good or bad sign, she didn't know yet. Consciousness would come soon enough. Frances was no nurse, but she knew the basics of healing. The gash on his shoulder needed tending, and she set on working the bleeding wound the best she could.

Aragorn stirred several times while she cleansed it, awakened by the pain. Frances' eyebrows furrowed as she tried to apply a rough dressing over it. She couldn't bandage it lest she undressed Aragorn, and that was too difficult a task for the moment. They needed to clear the area and get to safety. And the man was so heavy. She could never remove the thousand layers of clothes and put them back without hurting him more, especially with him slouched in the sand.

— "Are you finished yet?", came a drowsy voice.

Frances started, her eyes meeting grey ones. She saw relief wash over the ranger's face as he realised that he was, at least temporary, safe and sound. His body relaxed in the sand, and he blinked.

Aragorn's view was blurry at best, but it didn't prevent him from recognising the young lady tending to his shoulder. And in truth, he had been healed by softer hands, although the inexperience was probably the reason for her trembling motions. The ranger sighed and waited for her to finish the dressing before trying to sit up.

— "Wowowo ! Let's take it slow buddy! You took quite a tumble."

A hand came to his chest, another one struggling to support his back. Aragorn groaned; his body hurt everywhere! Still, he didn't remember much. His feet were cold and wet, the rest not much warmer. Slowly, he started to shiver, the trembling difficult to withstand in his sore muscles. Cradled between Frances' frame and her right arm, the ranger grit his teeth. His promise to Gandalf would be hard to keep if he was frail as a baby. But his head swam, and his muscles didn't answer his commands. Frances draped her cloak around him in an attempt to warm him up, nearly losing her balance in the process.

— "Damn" she finally said, "you're just too heavy to eat normal food! How came you to be so dense?'

His mind still hazy, Aragorn gave her a strange look.

— "Sorry, that came out wrong."

She smiled, trying to call forth what was left of her optimism. Frances was tired, of course, and feeling much the aftermath of the battle. But still, she didn't want to push her luck by complaining. After all, much better to drag a strained ranger than a lifeless body. This quest, at least, had been more successful than the last. Arod, having eaten his fill, came closer. The steed was probably angsty to get back to a familiar place now it had found its rider.

— "Arod led me to you," said Frances.

The ranger's face lit up with gratitude.

— "Hannon le, mellon nin."

And then, he turned to Frances, realising that he had not thanked her at all.

— "And to you as well, I owe you my thanks."

The young lady dismissed his words with a shrug. But still, her eyes shone with contentment.

— "Yeah well, you saved my ass so very often than I owed you one. Do you think you can ride? I could mount with you and support you on the way?"

Aragorn slowly nodded. It would be quite a strain for her to handle his failing body, but there had no better solution at hand. And the lady was tougher than she looked. He would forever be in her debt for saving his life. Fortunately, the horse displayed the extend of his intelligence by kneeling down at his side. Frances' eyes widened. Never had she seen such a clever beast! The Rohirrim definitely had a close relationship with their horses.

Gently, she helped Aragorn on the saddle. He was swaying, and she had to hold him fast when Arod crawled on all fours. But at last, the ranger was installed on the stallion's back, and Frances reflected whether she should mount in front of him or behind. Eventually, she decided to climb behind him; if he lost consciousness, she could prevent him from falling and breaking his neck. After mounting clumsily beside the ranger, a feat she didn't think capable of, they left the bank.

Aragorn pointed her in the right direction since she could not extract the map in her backpack. Despite the situation, Arod walked at a fast a pace. The ranger seemed to doze off against Frances a few times on the way, his weight becoming heavier as they progressed. The young lady gritted her teeth and contracted her postural muscles to refrain from falling. Damn, having such a weight pushing you over the edge while riding was definitely the advanced level of horsemanship! Those muscles would probably be sore for days after using them with such intensity.

Eventually, Aragorn gained more control. After three hours or so of travelling, he was sitting much straighter on the saddle. Weary, but alert, the ranger took the reins back from Frances' hands and led the steed himself. In his mind turned so many things that it was hard to focus. Still, he finally managed to find his train of thought.

— "Let me renew my thanks to you for saving my life. I am in your debt."

Frances' hold tightened around his middle.

— "You're very welcome. I have, after all, only kept a promise I made to Arwen. And…"

The words caught in her throat. Suddenly, her eyes felt watery again. How could she possibly express the reason why she had left the Rohan party? A gentle squeeze on her arm reminded her that, notwhistanding the inability to see her, Aragorn was quite attuned to her sudden stiffness. A tear fell, quickly discarded by her tunic's sleeve.

— "What ails you, if I may be so bold to ask?"

Frances might have laughed from the formality of his tone had the subject not been so serious. Even half dead, the man didn't forget his manners. She knew, for one, that being in pain like his, most swear words would have been out by then. She breathed deeply before answering.

— "I left the rest of the company to retrieve your body. I wanted to give you a decent burial.

— "A very noble task indeed, but not an easy one"

There was a hint of uneasiness in his tone. Talking about one's own burial was probably unsettling. Frances remembered the day he had explained to her how Numernorean kings died across the campfire. It seemed ages ago. Before Caradhras, before the wargs, Moria and Lothlorien. Yet, she had kept this concept close to her heart. She wondered if, by her intervention, she had given him the chance to die by his calling instead of passing away in the icy fingers of the stream.

— "It was the least I could do after all you have done for me, after guiding us so steadily."

A heavy silence fell. Not one to be discarded by pleasantries. A silence so full of meaning that hours could have passed before they expressed all of it. But time was short, or so it seemed as they were reminded by distant "thuds" disturbing their wandering minds. Aragorn gave an affectionate squeeze to the woman's arm before turning his steed to the north, against the wind.

— "What is this noise?" she asked, her voice carried away by the breeze.

— "This is what I intend to discover."

And then, Arod was trotting faster, going uphill to gain some insight. The slope was steep enough for the horse to pant, and when at last it conquered the summit, two horrified gasps greeted him.

— "Holy Mary, mother of God," whispered Frances.

— "By the Valar," answered her companion.

Never before had the young woman called to God; she was non-religious by education. And yet, those were the first words that came to mind, for only a divinity only could save them from Saruman's wrath. An army of ten thousand Uruks marched upon them in plain sight, not even using the cover of darkness. There were no words to be uttered. Aragorn urged Arod to Helm's deep as fast as the stallion could carry them. And while on the run the ranger's jaw was firmly set, he could not help but rely on the support provided by Frances behind him. He would need all his strength ere nightfall.

Soon, the high walls of the fortress appeared. A vast plain lay before them, giving Arod a much easier terrain to progress. Frances didn't see much, shadowed from the view by her companion's tall frame. But the closer they came, the better she distinguished the tremendous walls of Helm's deep.

The Hornburg was an incredible piece of defensive work. Never before had she seen such a wall in her entire life, not even through her queer travels. The more they approached, the higher it seemed to get. All grey rocks, so weathered by rain and wind that it seemed of the same piece from base to top. An insurmountable barrier to defend them. Impressed by its sheer bulk, Frances wondered if the tremendous wall would be sufficient to hold off an army of ten thousand.

Shout preceded them, and they climbed an incredibly long ramp before presenting themselves at the gates. Aragorn passed them without a second thought, dismounting when progress became too hazardous. Kids, men and women alike were rushing past them in a blur, all of them actively engaged in preparing for a siege. They could not be more mislead. There would be no siege, no prisoners. And may the Valar help those who would not die on the spot!

Despite the hiss of pain that escaped Aragorn's lips when tumbling down Arod, his gestures were less stiff, much to Frances' relief. With a little luck, the man would be fit to fight tonight. Not that she would compel him to do so, but she couldn't imagine him staying behind. When the ranger held his hand to help her dismount, Frances gave him a pointed look. For the split of a second, Aragorn actually looked sheepish. His manners had got the better of him. Too bad he was the best healer of their group! Unfortunately for the ranger, Gimli bolted out of nowhere with the firm intend to crash into him.

— "Gimli, noooo" shouted Frances as she jumped down the horse.

Her warning came too late, for the dwarf was already engulfing his friend in a death grip. Aragorn paled, but held fast. And then, he pushed Gimli aside, and started climbing the numerous stairs that led to the command room. Frances was about to follow when her path was obstructed by a very determined dwarf. Gimli seized her arm and walked her away from the stallion.

— "You lass, have quite the character. If we owe you the life of Aragorn, you are a blessed lady indeed. Still, I'll have you know that you have left me to tend a very brooding elf…"

Frances felt a pang of remorse at hearing those news. The idea of harming Legolas in any way was painful to her. Fortunately, it was always easy to lead the dwarf away from her feelings with a bit of humour.

— "Well, we didn't see eye to eye on this topic. So to speak. His eyesight is better than mine, but my intuition said otherwise."

Gimli grumbled something, then he laughed. The girl definitely had a way to say things that he couldn't get used to. And in his joy of finding his companions again, he didn't want to let go. Blissfully ignorant that an army was coming upon them fast, the dwarf was perfectly content with the lady's conversation.

As Frances tried to extricate herself from his grip, the ranger was struggling to climb the last stairs of the fortress. Dizzy from the effort, he acknowledged his body's suffering from the bad treatment inflicted upon it today. So enthralled was he at putting one foot before the other without falling that he missed the blur of blond hair that ran to cross his path.

— "You look terrible," said Legolas with a concerned frown.

Aragorn watched him closely, his lips turned into a drunken smile and he laughed at the elf's understatement. This one would never know how exhaustion felt, but he still appreciated the concern. Before releasing his arm, however, he saw something else passing into his friend's eyes, some deep worry that seemed off place.

— "Did you see Frances? She left to find you …," he asked anxiously.

— "And find me she did," answered solemnly the heir of Gondor. "She brought me back.'

Legolas eyes suddenly twinkled, and he smiled. As he gave Aragorn the necklace of Evenstar, returning back the loving present, the young prince started to wonder why it now felt so natural that Arwen had bestowed her love to a human. He badly wanted to protect Frances from harm. Sometimes, her reckless ways infuriated him, a mighty feat indeed…

Now that her mission was completed, a new kind of respect flowed through him. As stupid as the idea seemed at the beginning, Frances had followed her intuition. What Gimli and himself had interpreted as human weakness – her refusal to accept Aragorn's death - was a lesson of faith that went beyond his ageless wisdom.

What her stubborness taught him today was precious; she was ready to risk anything in hopes that the future might be enlightened. Elves had been recluses, forgoing this way of thinking for thousands of years, and this mentality could well be the reason why forces of good had a chance to win after all. In the end, if himself, Prince of Greenwood, was part of this quest against his father's will and deserted his own people, it was because he still believed in the human race.

While Aragorn pushed the heavy gates of the fortress with all his strength, Legolas got ready to follow, but delayed a few instants to sweep the crowd with his elven sight. His prayers were answered when his keen eyes noticed the bloodied lady making her way up the stairs. She seemed tired, watching her steps to avoid stumbling.

As the redhead eventually reached the summit, she was stopped short by a familiar plastron blocking her path. Huffing, Frances had to lift her face to the elf, not expecting his closeness. Her eyes met his, and she watched, mesmerised, how relied caused his blue eyes to gleam. His features relaxed, flawless as ever and she got caught in the imposing figure. Damn, he really towered over her.

— "Er…", she started, unsure of what to say

— "I owe you an apology, I cannot express how sorry I am for not trusting you."

His whispering words were crawling under Frances' skin. His head bend down to keep the conversation private, actively enclosing her in his personal space. Strangely enough, the young lady didn't feel claustrophobic. Despite his tall frame, despite the close distance between them, she felt at peace. Safe.

Legolas instinctively reached for Frances's arm in order to show his most sincere contrition. The elf prince was unsure about how familiar he could be, elves were not used to direct contact. He and Frances had kept their distances. When she did not flinch nor move back, he knew that she had accepted the silent apology.

— "I should not have doubted you, you have proved more than once that you were trustworthy…"

— "Don't be sorry Legolas," Frances cut in. "It was reasonable to believe what you did and I know that you only had my safety in mind. It does not mean that I agree with you but I do not bear you ill will for doing so"

Legolas' face lightened at the soft words, and Frances heart responded to his expression. She did not like being in bad terms with the elf; his opinion was far too important to her. But she needed to prove a point.

— "However," she teased, "now you know which of us is right when we disagree."

Legolas' expression turned to a half-hearted smile at Frances's mirth, and the young woman chuckled. His lips twitched upright imperceptibly. Then, the elf did something absolutely unprecedented. It was, somehow, quite out of his control. He pulled swiftly at the young lady's arm and engulfed her in a tight hug. It lasted just a second, but its force emptied Frances' lungs. She gasped at the sudden move, her face crushing briefly against his chest.

Realising what he had done, Legolas didn't let the moment last. Would she be angry at his impulsivity? He hoped not, for the contact of her frame against his had been so sweet. As short as the hug had been, the young woman felt like she had been graced with a load of new energy. The imminent battle called itself back to her mind. Unaware of the elf's uneasiness, she just caught his hand into hers and led him to the doors.

— "Come."

As his fingers found themselves encased in her delicate ones, Legolas relished in the foreign contact on his palm. It was, against all odds totally natural. The throne room was bustling with heavy planning; nobody turned to them when they joined the main table and hovered over the map. The contact was broken as fast as it had been initiated when Frances dropped his hand. However, before considering war plans, Legolas couldn't prevent from thinking that his palm felt suddenly cold without Frances' own in his. How odd a feeling for him who did not suffer from the cold! But it was soon put in perspective by war strategies. Yet, it would never be forgotten.