Frantic preparations gave Frances some time to consider her options. She could either go to the caves with the women or stand and fight with her friends. Both choices frightened her. Were she to hide and survive, would she lose what remained of the fellowship in this hopeless battle? Around her, wives held their beloved husband; it put into perspective her own attachment to Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas. From the original company only three remained by her side. The loss of Boromir, still heavy on her soul, would leave a scar. As a result, an even stronger bond had formed between the survivors.

Aragorn, for his gentle presence and kindness, had nearly adopted her. Gimli, with his gruff exterior, treated her like a companion. And Legolas … with his intense blue gaze and enchanting glow… Her fingers flexed where, but an hour ago, his hand had touched them so softly. Frances shook her head; she didn't know why her attachment to the elf was so strong, but he was the one she feared losing the most. Yet she could not interrogate her feelings. The turmoil was too overwhelming to handle, especially when she faced this difficult decision.

Lost in her thoughts, Frances separated from her group. Her steps led her to a set of stairs that she started climbing, higher and higher on the walls until she reached the very top. There, she dominated the fortifications as well as the plains of Rohan. Walking on the deserted square, she came upon a smaller wall that overlooked the valley. There she sat, wondering why her feet had brought her here. Did she hope to gain perspective over the situation?

Her survival instinct screamed to hide and flee. What would her parents do if she died here? They would never find her body and believe she had disappeared, elaborating all sorts of scenarii where, raped or starved, she would have suffered before dying. They might even wait for her return for the rest of their lives. How cruel to them! A few tears escaped her eyes at the souvenir of her loving parents and brothers.

She needed to find a way to leave a message in her cupboard in case she didn't make it next time. The necklace always sent her back at the exact same time that she left. Thus, all those months spent in whatever mission were non-existent. It made her older than she was on earth. She kept a thorough count of the days in those alternate dimensions to keep a tab on her age. It was, also, a reminder of all of those she had lost on the way: the dead as well as the ones she would never see again.

Her thoughts spiralled downwards from there. Even is she did fight and survived alongside her friends, there would come a day when she would leave. The fleeting nature of this strange magic embedded in the necklace was the cause for so much heartache! Maybe she needed to learn not to be sad. Maybe she had to accept that even after she left, the people she had come to love were safe and happy, that even without being by their side they would have a good life. Now though, with the impending doom, she couldn't help but feel deeply connected to the fellowship. How would she handle their loss, getting back to this absurd life of studying, after walking through battle and death?

Gandalf's words had never been truer.

I have not passed through fire and death to brandy crooked words with a serving man.

Adjusting to studies, with teachers who sometimes fed their own ego by crushing their students, was going to be difficult.

But she couldn't leave said life behind. Parents, friends, even her cousin were counting on her to come back. Yet, in the short span she had been here, she felt a strong connection to middle earth. Well, of course, the absence of running water and infrastructure was annoying. Still, she had adapted fairly quickly to the ancient manner of speaking, the food and the habits. Everything was slower done here. The air was so pure, unlike at home where all was polluted by the presence of their kind. It would come, eventually. Or not.

Men in middle earth had a different consciousness of what they owed to the planet. They respected it instead of spending time arguing about an imaginary God. None of them had questioned her faith, everyone believing their own way without feeling the urge to fight with the others. As if they didn't need to prove their beliefs, as if they knew who watched over them. For the first time, Frances considered the option to stay in middle earth.

Yet, she had a mission to accomplish, and a life to live on earth. This necklace, with this blue rock embedded in its silvery frame, had come to her for a reason. This was her mission, for as long as she wished it, until she could pass it onto another. And she was not ready to relinquish it. Not yet. She had many more feats to accomplish before the time came, she felt it in her guts. Giving it away would just be an act of surrender, the acceptance of her failure as the Keeper of Time.

This was where Aragorn found her, feet dangling over the side of the fort as she contemplated the plains before her eyes. Plains that would be, in a few hours, swarming with Uruks haï. The reddish strands escaped the braid secured at the back of her head, as if dancing in the wind. The times ahead were dark, he knew it. Yet, this simple vision gave him hope. She was a human, a lesser human in the scales of middle earth with such a short life span. Yet she fought with them with as much rage as a ranger. As dire as the situation was, he found solace in her dedication. Still, he would not encourage her to stay by their side. He knew how ghastly a real battle could be, and this one held the promise of a tremendous massacre.

Frances had held her own admirably in the depth of Moria, and through the battle of Amon Hen. Yet, nothing could prepare her for a full scall battle.

His footsteps were light, but she turned around before he could greet her. Golden eyes met grey, the strain of the choice clear in her disturbed gaze.

- "Aragorn."

- "Lady Frances."

The young lady quirked an eyebrow, amused by the formality. After fishing him out of the water and supporting him back to Helm's deep, they were past the point of pleasantries. The ranger corrected his slip with a bow.

- "My friend."

The answer was quick to come, yet raising many questions.

- "Much better, Ô, Lord of mine."

Aragorn chuckled; only Frances could make fun of him in such a blatant manner. Sometimes, she reverted to her strange speech. Short sentences and cynical retorts that threw the others for a loop. The ranger was happy that she would use that with him though; the easy banter meant she feared him no more. Still, there was wonder in his eyes at the title she so seldom used.

- "Am I?"

- "Yes. Definitely, and you will always be."

Her face was set, her gaze resolved. Aragorn reached the wall she was perched upon, and bent his upper body over the edge. His grey eyes got lost in the plains of Rohan, and he was silent for a while. Frances let him be, relishing in his closeness. Although he didn't realise it, the heir of Isildur had a soothing aura. He always pondered and thought before acting, and that ability to put things in perspective would make him a great king. Or so she believed… If they made it. Eventually, the ranger seemed to draw a conclusion for he turned to her.

- "How so? You are from another world. Do you not have someone to whom you owe allegiance in the land you hail from?"

A crooked smile graced her lips, one he recognised as a bitter one.

- "Ah, well. In my world, there are no supreme chiefs anymore. There are many to whom I owe some respect, and some who have authority upon me. But none that may have a right on my life. We do not have kings anymore, for they were too corrupted to take care of their people. Hence, I will not bow to anyone, for I trust no one to direct me and my people."

Aragorn nodded, his mind considering her words, and the desperation in them.

- "How cruel it must be, to know that a leader would not consider his peers with kindness, that no one would make any sacrifice to keep them safe. Yet here too, it has happened … in the time of Numenor, corruption also killed too many."

The fall of Numenor. It was a tale she had read in the library, with difficulty at first, until the twins translated it to her. She could relate to that, having studied the French Revolution as well. Somehow, power always found a way to bring down the line of rulers. Corruption by evil. The obvious proof of it was Saruman's treason, whatever his reasons. Of course, they made no mention of the King of Rohan who had been mislead by his counsellor and driven to madness. How could they, now that they stood alongside King Theodén and protected his people?

- "You are right, I have no allegiance to swear to anyone. And yet, I trust you to be a benevolent ruler. With Arwen by your side, love and wisdom at your door, and the strength of your character, I will follow you to the end. Not as my King, but as my Lord. The one I chose."

A sudden gush of wind brushed some strands from her face, and Frances felt surprisingly powerful. In a fleeting moment she saw him; tall and proud, with a silvery crown upon his head, people cheering in the highest level of a great city of men. She breathed in slowly, filling her chest with hope and power, with the joy of Gondor.

- "Heed my words, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I will bow to you once you are king."

Those simple words were spoken with so much conviction that Aragorn started. Warmth spread in his heart where anguish had once been. In Arwen's absence, Frances' trust meant the world to him. And her words, the sayings of the Keeper of Time, gave him hope again. The young lady saw her companion's face lighten, and she kept hers cheerful and open.

Doubt was crawling back and she pushed it away. If she was wrong, they might all be dead by morning. But a part of her knew that Aragorn was made to be king. Was it her intuition or her deepest wish? Many times in the past, she had had hints of what was to come. Unfortunately, she didn't know how to sort those intuitions yet. Still, it was no use setting those doubts on the table. Now was not the time to despair.

- "Thank you. Your trust means a lot to me."

- "It is well-earned Aragorn."

The ranger nodded before asking:

- "Will you go to the caves with the women? To protect them should we fail?"

Frances laughed out loud this time, surprising him with her mirth.

- "I am no Eowyn! You do not need to lure me into the caves with a promise to be a hero. I do not seek fame and glory in battle. I only wish to protect what remains of the fellowship and do my part in this battle."

Aragorn stilled, his breathing harder than usual. The choice was hers, and hers only. He had no right to push her, other that give counsel.

- 'so you will fight?"

Frances's eyes turned back to the plains, a frown marring her features. Then, she seemed to make a decision and looked at him.

- "Nay Aragorn. I have thought this over for a while. I do not find my fighting skills acute enough to risk it. Would I really make a difference compared to the warriors or Rohan? What if they try to protect me and die in the process? Would my presence be a distraction? Even if I am reluctant to leave all of you, would you think less of me should I stay in the caves?"

The ranger released his breath slowly. Trust Frances to take a wise decision. After his altercation with the lady Eowyn, and her plea to let her fight, he had expected his young companion to react the same way. Hearing that she acknowledged her limitations was a pleasant surprise. She sold herself short though. After this month in Lothlorien, she had become quite fierce. If the strength of her arm lacked power, the swiftness of her moves was more and more efficient. Still, the Uruks were immensely powerful. He was far too happy to have Frances relent her will to fight side to argue.

- "No Frances. None of them would think less of you for being wise."

Frances' feature brightened, and she smiled.

- "Come Aragorn. Let me wish good luck to our companions. Then I will join the others in the caves."

Less than an hour later, or so she thought, having no watch to indicate the time, Frances made her way to the caves. Goodbyes had been swift, the elf and the dwarf being quite busy with the preparations of the Hornburg's defence. Yet she had seen relief in the eldar's blue eyes. She left knowing that the three of them would watch over each other. Even if Gimli seemed invincible with his sturdy stature, the elf was the deadliest of the two. Blades twirling, fast blows, precise hits and agile as a cat. Surely the enemy could be deceived by his slender built. But Legolas Greenleaf, prince of the Woodland realm, was the most incredible warrior she had ever met.

How could he maintain this gentle composure while being so deadly? She could not fathom. It was probably beyond the grasp of any human to be able to reconcile those two opposite natures. Frances would herself oscillate between hardness and kindness, but not to this extent. Each time her blade had connected with an orc, she had winced in sympathy at killing a living being. And she was not as sensitive as Legolas about plants, trees and animal life. How he must long for peace! To witness evil being drained from the land he was born, to see the darkness of Dol Guldur leaving its forest! He had spoken of it once, the pain still raw in his eyes. Many years had passed since Greenwood had been called Greenwood the Great. But Legolas remembered it. He had told her so in the depth of Moria, regret filling his entire countenance.

When Frances reached the caves, she was surprised at their vastness. Had this impending battle not dampened her spirits, she would have marvelled at their sheer size. Everywhere, the spikes of calcite sparkled in the torches' light, the pillars crawling to the top, connecting with stalactites. The glittering caves bore their name well. They were utterly magnificent. The young lady walked on to find a free spot, passing Eowyn on the way. She did not even bother answering her interrogation properly, only humming something as the white lady of Rohan asked if she had been ordered to lay low. It was no use calling her wrath by telling her the choice was hers. She knew Eowyn had not been shown the same courtesy, and would find her cowardly.

People were terrified. Yet, mothers sung and smiled at their youngest children. Blond heads, hair astray, clung to them fiercely. Their eyes wide with angst, some stared at her with some kind of recognition. Frances smiled, head held high, pushing her anguish back into the depth of her belly. The children needed reassurance, and so did their mothers and grandmothers whose husbands and sons were, at the very same moment, probably taking their positions on the fortifications. How many of them would survive to leave the next day? To take their children and wives in their arms and kiss them?

Frances found an empty spot and sat down. For a long time she stayed there, a stranger among strangers, wishing with all her might that she could do something for them. No one dared approaching her. She was after all, the companion to a future King, a dwarf lord and an elven prince. She recognised some faces, people she had seen on the road. Most nodded to her before turning their eyes on the ground. She made them uneasy. And so she kept to herself. It was no use adding fuel to the fire. Her thoughts wandered to the fellowship, to Frodo and Sam who had left by themselves and shown extraordinary courage. To her companions fighting up there, to Boromir. May he watch over them from the spirit world!

Suddenly, the cries rose in the air. Tears and anguished yells. Frances unsheathed her blade, running to the entry point of the caves. They were quite some distance away, and she cursed herself for walking so far. The young woman leapt on the rocks, her feet light as feathers and she did what she knew best; running light-footed was a second nature.

The cries intensified, yet she could see no struggle. In the end, she realised what was happening. The soldiers of Rohan were collecting more men to fight. The elderly and children were removed from their family, calling for tears and grief. Frances refused to cry, but her chest was close to bursting. Kids passed her, maybe thirteen to fifteen of age, their face set in a resolved frown. They were many, at least sixty or so, and most of them refused to turn back. They feared losing their strength if they saw their mother's tears.

One of them, a redhead with bright eyes, was rooted to the spot. How difficult for the soldiers to push them forward, some were their own sons! Frances sheathed her blade and put a reassuring hand on the kid's shoulder.

- "Come", she said. "I'll accompany you to the armoury."

The teenager nodded, somehow regaining some heart. And even though her throat wanted to constrict, she summoned some false cheer.

"They called me the red witch, in Rome. I'll show them!"

Nothing but the truth, after all. Many teenagers watched her, wondering if her presence would make a difference. Some seemed to think so. Good. The redhead boy followed her in silence, and she passed Eowyn with barely a look; what could she say ? If those kids had to fight, so would she. Most of them knew how to wield a blade, yet none of them was as deadly as she. There was no way she could hide when the teenagers were put to use.

Her presence had some effect in their ranks; it made her smile. She was not much older than they were, three to five years at most. But her status intimidated them. The group was walking to the armoury as she heard the sound of a characteristic horn. Hope rising in her chest, she ran through the paved corridors until she reached the fortified gate.

The sight that greeted her would never be forgotten. An impressive company of elven warriors stood there in their shiny armour. Their numbers, although reduced compared to the host marching on them, were nonetheless mesmerizing such was their likeness. The evening light reflected upon their shell plate, the sun rays drowning into the deep blue cape that adorned their backs. Long bows spiked above their heads, all shiny and ready to be drawn. To her delight, Aragorn was greeting none other than Haldir, the march warden of Lorien! His two brothers were on the front line, their jaw set and gaze composed. Ready for battle, ready for war!

In awe, Frances took a tentative step down the stairs. The march warden was greeting Legolas, the characteristic blond hair covering a brownish chest plate. The Greenwood prince's shoulders were made wider by the numerous layers of his armour. While the elves of Lorien wore metal, Legolas preferred leather. Eventually Haldir turned to Frances and bowed. The young lady started; her last encounter with the march warden had been close to catastrophic and she didn't expect him to greet her. Surprised, Legolas lifted his eyes to the stairs and, upon seeing her there, frowned deeply. But Frances had only eyes for Haldir.

Lifting a finger to his brother, the march warden said:

- "Lady Frances. My lady Galadriel wished to offer you this. May you put it to good use ere dawn."

Oropher stepped forward. In his hands laid a very large bag made of elven cloth.

- "Come forward," Haldir commanded. "My brother will help you."

Frances' eyes met Aragorn, and he nodded, his face impassive. Still, his eyes held a hint of sadness; he understood her decision. The young woman came down, ignoring the burning gaze of the woodland prince. With her limited height, Frances' head almost reached the shoulder of Oropher. He nearly smiled at her and led her to the armoury where he proceeded to unpack the lady's present in silence.

Piece after piece came out of the bundle, and Frances realised that the lady Galadriel had actually gifted her a leather armour. It was, like every single thing she had seen in Lorien, tremendously beautiful. The shoulder pieces were carved with trees and leaves, the plastron doubled with a thin sheet of metal to keep her from harm. There were bracers as well, so delicately decorated that she would have been content to wear them every day.

Oropher did not speak. Nor Westron, nor Sindarin as he adjusted the straps around her frame. Now was not the time to indulge into small talk. So Frances let him work, mouthing her thanks as he proceeded. And then, as the elf shuffled around her tights to place the last leather plates, the scent of pinewood surrounded her. Her eyes went up, encountering the blue pools she could never get used to. Without a word, Legolas adjusted some more straps, pulling the bindings tighter around her waist. His hands working swifty, soft yet purposefully, he said something to Oropher in Sindarin. She couldn't catch much of it, the words music to her hears.

The Lorien elf nodded in response and contemplated his work with a satisfied gaze. At his side, Legolas' eyes were roaming over her body, his mannerism cold as he inspected the armour. And then, Oropher bowed and left before she could thank him. Frances shivered. If Legolas' gaze had not been so intense, so unnerving, she would have whooped with joy. In her leather armour, she felt safe; no more exposed to blades and blows. The weight was very tolerable compared to a chainmail; it would allow her to be swift on her feet and quick in her swordplay. This was the perfect protection for someone like her.

The weight of Legolas' gaze became almost unbearable and she huffed, fed up with this silent treatment.

- 'should you have something to say, my lord Prince, I will be grateful for you to do so now for I would like to join the others."

The title made him cringe; Frances was never one for formalities in private, and she had stopped calling him thus on the path to Khazad-dum. The distance it created was only rivalled by the coldness of her tone.

- 'surely you do not intend to fight?"

- No, I'm playing dress-up !

Rolling her eyes, she bit her cheek. So, this was the reason for his aloofness! Was it anger or worry? His wary countenance made it hard to tell. Did he think her too clumsy to fight by their side? Too fragile to withstand it? The young lady sighed. Even if he did, he wasn't exactly wrong; she was ill suited for such a battle. Could she make him understand why she had got back on her word?

Raising her head slowly, Frances plunged her eyes into his. For a moment, only a slight instant, she forgot everything she wanted to say. His blue orbs were so deep in turmoil, clouds of grey passing before them, so vivid that she felt like drowning into the ocean of his emotions. Would she understand him better if she could plunge deeper under the surface? Would she experience the unique way of thinking of the eldar?

- "Never will I be able to live with myself if I don't"

Her voice was low with a slight quiver to it. Her eyes dropped to the polished tiles. Frances feared his judgement, and above all else, his anger. Yet it was no anger he gave her back, but anguish.

- "But surely you can see that you won't live at all if you do!"

His knuckles were white with the strain, his fists closed off, trembling even. He could not lose her. Not to those stinky Huruks, not run through with a dark blade. Couldn't she see that her life was more than that? Too worthy to be wasted in a doomed fight? Would she resent him for stating his fears, launching anger at him, anger that he feared as much as she did? But there was no belligerence in her voice as she answered.

- "I have seen children ripped from their mother's arms, old men from their grandchildren's side. I cannot hide. I value my life Legolas, and wouldn't waste it away for the world. But I am no coward. If those people, much less able than I am, must fight, then so will I."

And then Frances walked away for him. She had to put some distance from his doubts else she might turn back to the caves. Her progress was easy despite the armour and she relished in the fantastic feeling of the leather covering her frail body. The lady Galadriel had known this all along, and her queenly present might very well save her life. Frances mouthed a prayer to the lady of the woods, hoping that she would hear it. Behind her, an elf swore to the Valar that he would not let her out of his sight, should he pay her life with his.