After several hours of tough riding, the company eventually made it to Edoras. The sun was low; its orange glow enlightened the city, reflecting on the golden hall of Meduseld and setting its roof on fire. Frances sighed, unable to marvel at the sight such was her exhaustion. The healing process was taking its toll on her, and the fever was receding slowly, leaving her sweaty and aching.

Her sore muscles did nothing to help the condition, and the deep pain coming from her leg was tiresome. During hours she had been trying to find a way to lessen the ache, but the dull sensation that came from the constant moving of the ride was torture. It was also the first time she travelled by herself and, needless to say, that she wasn't very proficient in the art of riding.

Frances grit her teeth. Had she been home, this whole ordeal would have been much simpler. A ride in the back of a car with her leg propelled in front of her would have done the trick. And the distance would have been covered in less than an hour. An hour! When it had been a full day of struggle on this blasted beast. Not that her mount didn't make any effort to make her comfortable, bless the Rohirrims' horses. But still, she was tired of it. Tired of moving no faster than an ant on those immense plains, tired of being incapacitated like this.

She was, by all means now, a cripple. Perhaps it would not be permanent. Surgery and a few physio sessions could probably do the trick once she made it home. Perhaps, even, that the reconstruction of her body through the blue portal that took her hom would be enough to set things right. But for now, her inability was enough to feed her frustration. One moment of inattention! One single little moment, and there she was. She couldn't even walk on her own save this blasted cane! Like an elderly woman! It was the first time that she suffered such a crippling injury. And the inefficiency of her body made her mad. She that, last week, was able to climb an impossible cliff under heavy rain, could not even bend to fasten her shoelaces. Not that she had some, mind you!

As the company entered the city, one of her body guards set her down and she smiled her thanks. To be honest, she could not remember his name, nor any of the guys that had been watching over her during the long and painful process of coming back to the capital. She had no memory of names, and had met more people than ever in those last few days. Most of them were blond, and she recognised them by their features mainly, knowing which ones were nice or grumpy.

However, whichever their characters, all of them had shown a great deal of kindness, and she suspected that her friends had been distributing threats in case of mistreatment. It had taken all of Mithrandir's will power to persuade Legolas to accompany them to Isengard and leave her in Helm's deep in the care of healers, so she guessed that the elf and his friend had left a few instructions.

"You have my thanks," Frances said as the guy unloaded her pack.

"You are welcome my lady," he answered with a nod.

My lady. Right. Daughter of a communist and a socialist teacher, grand daughter of factory workers. My lady. She snorted.

Her guide spared her a curious glance before he handed her two wooden sticks; they would help her walk.

"Would you care to enlighten me?", she eventually asked.

The soldier frowned; what was that all about? Ensuring the welfare of a woman was one thing, but he was altogether out of his league with all the new people that had shown her recently. Elves, kings, dwarves, and now her.

"I will if I can."

"Who did you get your instructions from?"

The well-disciplined Rohirrim gave her his most convincing blank look.

"I do not know of what you speak my lady."

"Come on," she cried, tapping the ground with one of her sticks.

Her breath was short because of the effort of climbing the hill, but she pressed her case:

"There have been at least three different people taking care of me and not leaving me out of sight, I'm sure you know who asked you to watch over me."

The solider eyes her suspiciously and she addressed him a levelled stare. Eventually, he relented.

"I took my orders from the lady of Rohan herself, my lady."

There. Would she drop the issue now, out of respect for the white lady?

"And?"

Damn. Wasn't she stubborn! And she knew. He was sure of it. Better to relent then.

"We might have had words with the elf…"

"Aha," exclaimed Frances with a smirk.

I knew it, she smiled to herself. She thanked her guard, and hobbled to the hall only to be greeted by a maid.

"There is a room prepared for you, my lady. I will ask for a bath to be drawn directly."

"Oh. Thank you. But a bucket of hot water will suffice. Do not trouble anyone with the bathtub."

Taking in her filthy clothes and face, the maid couldn't help but grimace. Still, she didn't contradict her guest.

"As you wish, my lady."

Frances sighed. She was dying for a hot bath, but her injured leg couldn't be immersed in water until the stitches were removed. Even with the massive dose of antibiotics she was taking, the infection was hardly kept at bay. Limping behind the maid, she was shown to a small but tidy room. On the bed lay a dark woollen dress, its neck cut square and embroidered with golden thread. Frances frowned at the daring décolletage, but the maid produced a vaporous white scarf destined to cover her shoulders and secured with a pin to hide her collarbone. Far from the luxuries and silky fabrics of the elves, this dress was still an impressive show of Rohirrim craft.

"Who do I have to thank for this lovely outfit?"

"The lady of Rohan wishes for you to look your best to honour the fallen warrior of Helm's deep."

"I will make sure to thank her profusely."

The maid bowed, and left to return a few minutes afterwards with a bucket of hot water, which she set on the washstand.

"Will you require my help to undress and wash my lady?"

Frances' head energetically shook from left to right. If there was something that she could not get used to, it was being naked in front of other people. The maid's blue eyes widened slightly, and Frances stood straighter, her voice colder than expected.

"That will not be necessary, Thank you."

The young maid, spooked by her reaction, simply bowed and left with the assurance to be called whenever Frances would be ready to dress. When the last ray of light disappeared through the door, she eventually collapsed on the bed. She could slip into the sheets and give way to her exhaustion, or join the party that was getting loud enough to prevent her from sleeping.

Word had reached her ears that Merry and Pippin had been found, both of them safe and sound. She was glad, very glad that they had returned. But her body refused to move. A wave of homesickness hit her like a train at full speed, and before long, tears were streaming down her face. For once, she truly missed home. Maybe she could stay in her room, relishing in the comfort of a bed beneath her battered body? Then, she wouldn't have to play the part and smile when she wanted to weep.

It came crashing down all at once. The lack of running water, the faces of her parents, her brothers and friends back at home, waiting for her return. She missed all of it, down to the smell of damp earth in her garden whenever a storm raged, to her vacations on the beach at her grandparent's house. The burn of the summer sun on her face while salt dried on her tanned skin, the feel of the rocks under her bare feet when she searched for crabs. Chocolate and ice cream, water melon and garden tomatoes.

Hell, she could eat a good burger at the moment, even if she tended to flee McDonald's like the plague. She missed the sunlight in her childhood bedroom in the late afternoon, when its rays reflected upon the soft green and white paper. She missed her drawings, and mosaic works. Her cousin and her imagination to tell stories. She even missed cars and technology. The only item she had with her was her mp3 player and a set of batteries to keep it running.

Frances nearly turned it on, staring at the machine for a while before putting it down. If she did so, she feared she would never emerge from that room again. She would be lost in souvenirs, and lost to middle earth.

And Charlie? Where was Charlie in this whole mess? His smile, his nervous laugh, his embrace came alive before her eyes. She had liked him, from the very beginning, as she shared their usual missions Interpol. And now that he was back to the States... It had been a long time since their last embrace. Frances sighed; her heart heavy. Middle earth had changed her, she could feel it. As time passed, and the fellowship's travels became dire, Frances had grown. Grown like a child transforming into an adult. And somehow, she felt like she was outgrowing this relationship as well.

She loved Charlie, very much. But did she love him enough to make a life with him? Did she trust him to be a partner in hardship? He surely was not as level-headed as any of her companions. Could their couple possibly survive her eventful life?

Time to man up! Ignoring the stinging pain that spread around her upper leg and her sore hips, the redhead lifted herself up and walked to the bowl of water… lukewarm, at best. Frances shuddered, washing herself thoroughly. The process was difficult at best, but she eventually managed to remove the grime and dust out of her skin.

Then she passed on the linen shirt and the velvety dress over her head. Tightening the ribbons, Frances was happy to be able to do it by herself without calling the maid. After such a long wait, the girl must have wandered off to the party. The young lady fastened the belt around her waist and contemplated her reflection in a stained mirror. The heavy fabric could not match elven silk but it was soft enough and flowed on her hips with grace.

Dark blue was a nice shade for her to wear, even if the last days of fever had robbed the colours from face. Unbraiding her hair, Frances slid a few claps in it so as to keep it away, and then she realised how long it had grown in the past few months. On the road, it was always braided. The fierce colour contrasted so much with the dark velvet that she considered tying it back again to avoid attention. But she felt no danger here in Rohan, and therefore let it flow freely around her small frame. The tips of fire brushed her back below the waist. This would have to do.

Late was the hour when Frances passed the doors of the great hall. A ceremony was happening and she hid in the back. She also wanted to pay her tribute to the dead of Rohan, bitterly regretting the massacre that had taken so many lives. As Theoden spoke of loss and courage, the young woman scanned the crowd for familiar figures. At the front was sitting Aragorn, and a bit further she spotted Gandalf in his bright robes. When people stood up and presented their pint in honour of the fallen, Frances closed her eyes, attempting to chase away the memories of the dead bodies scattered on the cold ground, that same image that plagued her dreams. Then people started to move around, and the sound of instruments indicated that the party had begun. Without waiting for anybody to acknowledge her, Frances crossed the huge room, sneaking through soldiers and nobles.

As she slid through the crowd, weird stares were sent her way; she dismissed it as curious glances due to her status in the fellowship. In truth, men were quite dumbfounded by her limping figure, and most of all by the burning colour of her hair. Oblivious to this unwanted attention, Frances was looking for her friends, and eventually spotted Gandalf's white cloak towering against a pillar. Laugher filled the air, and as she came closer Frances saw the two hobbits thrashing down a table with their dragon dance. A cloud of drunken men surrounded them and clapped in rhythm and Gandalf… Gandalf actually laughed. The sigh of the wizard smiling was quite enough to lighten her mood. The wizard spotted her and addressed her a gentle smile. Surprisingly, he did not greet her formally; instead pulling at her arm and hugging her. The almost fatherly gesture startled her, but soon the young woman could relax, and she watched the two hobbits dance and yell as she rested her battered body against her much bigger companion.

As a soft hand gently brushed her back; she knew at once that Aragorn had returned. After so much time travelling with him, she could actually feel his presence like she had learnt to recognise the twins. The ranger appeared beside her, his smile genuine. A second later she was pulled into his strong embrace, and collided with the red sleeves of his tunic for an instant before he released her.

"It is good to see you again mellon nin"

"Likewise" she answered, a light grin spreading on her features.

It seemed like he was going to add something, but loud applause started from the hobbits table, and the trio joined in with a good heart. Then Pippin lifted his eyes to them, and his face lightened in an instant.

"Frances!" he shouted, bouncing down the table, kicking out a few pints on the way.

Merry heard his companion and followed his cousin. Pippin came crashing into Frances with arms wide open.

"Pippin, No!" Cried out Aragorn.

Bracing herself for the impact, the young woman got hit full force by a speeding hobbit that shook her off balance. Fortunately, the ranger was behind her in the blink of an eye, and instead of letting her stumble back he gently kept her steady. Pippin's hug was most heartfelt and she joined him.

"Pippin, mind her leg injury" ground Aragorn behind her.

The hobbit's face fell as he stumbled backwards.

"Oh, Frances, my apologies. I am so sorry, I forgot!"

"Only you can forget such a thing!"

Merry, a little more responsible, embraced the young woman with more caution. Behind her, she could still feel Aragorn's warm hands on her waist. Either he didn't trust the hobbit to rein his enthusiasm, either he was afraid that she could collapse on the spot. Frances bent around, her face holding a silent question. The ranger's grey eyes were worried as he took in her pale face, still he smiled at her.

"I am well Aragorn. Tired from the ride, but as much alive as usual."

The ranger released her from his hold, keeping her hand into his for an instant.

"We have thanked the Valar for the blessing they bestowed upon our fellowship to not let us lose another member."

Well, that was a very swift way of saying that he had been worried to death. Frances frowned. Aragorn was a good healer. He probably knew, when he left, that the fever should have claimed her. As the two hobbits were bouncing around her, trying to explain all that had occurred to them, she mouthed to the ranger.

"We will speak about my recovery."

Aragorn nodded slightly before Frances was ushered away by two excited hobbits. The trio sat down together, a pint on the table for each, to relate their adventures. It didn't last long for a few moments later, they were distracted by Rohirrims asking for more songs. Two sets of pleading eyes turned to Frances in questioning. As she stood, Frances gave each of them a hug, and told them:

"You'll tell me everything tomorrow. For now, I shall probably rest while you entertain those warriors."

"Really? We could stay and make sure you are all right," asked Pippin guiltily.

Frances smiled.

"I do not need a babysitter."

"But your leg…"

"Go!" she cried, shooing them away with her hand.

As the two hobbits disappeared quickly, glancing one last time at their female friend, Frances couldn't help but grin.

Then she took off to another table where a spot of white-blond hair had shown not so long ago. She needed to scold Legolas for scaring good Rohirrim soldiers, but most of all she just wanted to let him and Gimli know that she was back. As she wandered to a circle of men gathered around the table, Eomer's familiar figure came into sight. Behind him stood Legolas, drinking gracefully into an oversized pint. In front of him sat Gimli. Turning her attention back to the King's nephew, she made her way next to him, and his face changed slightly.

"My lady," he said with a bow.

"My lord," she responded, trying her best to bend over without sending sharp stings of pain into her lower body.

"I heard you had been injured in the battle. How fare you?"

"Alive. That is more than I could hope for."

Frances smiled at Eomer and he arched an elegant eyebrow. The King's nephew did not understand so much how the lady came to be injured. The little company of dwarves, hobbits and elf never ceased to amaze him; they treated her like an equal. The only thing he knew was that Eowyn was upset to be refused the same courtesy.

Frances pointed to the table, her face curious.

"Would you happen to know what those two are up to? The crowd gathering around them seems enthusiastic."

"Oh…"

Eomer frowned in embarrassment. The women of Rohan knew of their men's tendency to indulge in drinking, but what would possibly the lady Frances think about it? He certainly did not want to be the cause of a diplomatic crisis. Gulping once, he tried to tiptoe around the subject.

"Well, you see the dwarf decided to defy the elf once more."

"So did they strike a bargain?" she enquired, standing on her toes so as to spot the table better.

"Lord Gimli did bet that he would beat the elf."

There were no words to explain how uncomfortable he was to tell a young woman of her status about drinking games. After all, she was travelling with one future king, two princes and a respected wizard so what else could she be but a princess ?

"Drinking games?", she questioned.

"Well, yes…" Eomer admitted, rather sheepish.

"Wow, I never thought Gimli would manage to drag Legolas into such a thing."

Relief flooded Eomer at her reaction. Obviously, she must have witnessed drinking games before, for she did not seem spooked about it. The ghost of a smile gracing her rosy lips even suggested that she was amused. Thus, Eomer explained the situation further.

"Well, to be honest, I do not believe that the elf realised what it was about, but he is faring quite well if you ask my opinion…"

Lifting up an eyebrow at the king's nephew, she took the arm he graciously offered so that they could fend the crowd without difficulties. Frances grabbed her stick, on the other hand, and followed Eomer's lead. The man was steady, and well respected among his men; people parted to give them some space.

It was then that Frances saw the scene in its pathetic splendour: Gimli sat at the table, a line of empty pints lying in front of him. His head was nearly buried into the next one, his frizzy hair the only thing escaping the metallic goblet. Disgusting noises rose from the pint as he drank. In front of him stood a very stoic elf, not a strand of hair aside, his posture as graceful as ever. His faintly glowing skin had attracted much attention, but not as much as the family of pints lying before him in a straight line.

Frances' eyebrows shot up; the amount of beer he had swallowed was impressive, but his unmoving silhouette indicated that alcohol had no effect on it whatsoever. How could any being, human or elf, drink so much liquid? Even that amount of water would have been too much.

Suddenly Frances understood why all the cheering. In the country of the mark it was probably an exploit unheard of. Legolas seemed as sober as ever. Eventually, as Gimli muttered unintelligible things in his pint, the elf suddenly reacted.

"I think I feel something," he said strangely while staring at his finger tips.

Everybody's gaze turned in disbelief, wondering how he could stand after drinking so much alcohol. But the prince was totally oblivious of his surroundings, lost in his new experience:

"A slight tingling in my fingers, it's affecting me," he concluded.

Frances had to refrain herself from laughing her head off, but when the dwarf sank backwards roars of amusement filled up the room. Looking too innocent for his own well-being, Legolas said softly, a smile at the corner of his lips.

"I guess I won."

Loud clapping and cheering answered this statement and Frances couldn't help but detail her companion from head to toe. His luminosity was like a sweet humming calling to her soul, and the blue tunic he wore accentuated his refined form. The Rohirrim were still cheering loudly, but even in their drunken bliss they did not dare clapping the elf in the back, conscious of the invisible barrier that held between them.

So Legolas stood alone, a bit confused by the loud exclamations that were sent his way, and he looked for a familiar figure to escape from the crowd. Eomer's face greeted his sight, and clinging to his arm was somebody he did not think he would ever see again… As her hazel eyes met his, the prince's heart jumped into his chest. And then he realised she had caught him in a drinking game.

Frances couldn't help but smile. She, mere mortal, had surprised Legolas, prince of Greenwood, in an awkward position. And his reaction indicated that it mattered to him. However, the elf regained his composure quickly and a smile blossomed on his lips in response to hers. He took the few steps that separated them in a heartbeat.

His eyes studied her, intense, roaming her face, watching her posture. Noticing the dark circles under her eyes, probably, or mourning the loss of colour upon her cheeks. Frances felt awful, but under his watchful gaze, she almost felt… worthy. At some point, he even unconsciously lifted up a hand to run his fingers through her wavy strands. Frances' breath hitched.

For one sweet moment, she really believed he was going to dig his graceful fingers in her hair. Even if that thought disturbed her, a part of her was looking forward to the contact. When his hand dropped and his beautiful eyebrows furrowed, Frances' eyes pleaded for him to come closer. His blue gaze enchanted her. Barely acknowledging Eomer, who was still owning her other arm, Legolas bowed.

"I am thrilled to see you again my lady."

He kept his concerns silent by fear of sounding rude. Frances arched an eyebrow at the title. Forgetting that she was speaking to a prince in front of a crowd of Kings, the words left her mouth.

"How many times will I have to tell you that I'm not … oh never mind?"

Legolas kept his bearing, his eyes twinkling with mischief albeit her turned to the King's nephew.

"Hail Eomer, this beer you make in Rohan is tasteful."

"I am glad you liked it. Now, if you will excuse me, I think it is time I joined my men anew."

Whatever was happening between those two, Eomer felt way out of his depth. Better to leave.

"I thank you for the company, Marshall of Rohan," Frances said with a smile.

"The pleasure is mine my lady."

Eomer released the young woman's arm and bowed to them, quickly disappearing in the crowd. And there stayed the elf and Frances, the two of them closer than ever.

"Would you wish some fresh air?"

Frances scrunched her nose in an adorable mimic. Surely she could smell the foul air as much as he.

"That would certainly be enjoyable."

Legolas took her hand and settled it in the crook of his arm, as was the custom. There, he had anchored her to him, and it felt great. Slowly, they made a few laborious steps.

"How is your leg?"

"Aching," she answered, feeling the need to be honest for once.

"Is walking painful?"

"Less than riding. The trip has been hard on the stitches; I have to say that I am quite afraid of the results…"

Legolas froze, his brow furrowed in concern.

"We will have to ask Estel to tend to your wound."

"Yes. I certainly will. Once party is over."

For once, Frances had not dismissed the idea for help. For once, she had not said, 'it doesn't matter' or 'don't worry about it. The elven prince immersed his gaze into hers, looking for the suffering that always left marks, no matter how stout a warrior could be. And there they were; the tight lines around her mouth, the stiffness of her posture and the cloud of pain in her eyes. Legolas could not bring himself to let her suffer and endanger her life further by reopening the wound.

"Shall we move?" asked Frances, wondering what he had in mind.

"Yes," he murmured.

As two arms encircled her waist, the young woman let out a muffled cry.

"What do you think you're doing !"

"Leading you out without suffering from your scars"

His voice was amused, yet they held a tad of uneasiness.

"Mmmph"

However disturbing this was, Frances had to admit that they were moving much faster. His arms were warm and strong, encasing her body into a world of safety. And she longed for it, especially after those moments spent alone in Helm's deep. For a while over there, she had thought she was contemplating the stones of her tomb. Yet, she had made it, and was now moving with ease in the arms of an elven prince. Glaring at the people who dared mock her while passing their drunken figures, Frances found herself on the platform of the golden hall in no time.

"How do you feel?" asked Legolas while pulling her down with great care.

"I…"

She didn't know how she felt. Frustrated maybe, not to be able to walk by herself. Tired, pissed at her inability. Her voice came out sharper than she intended to as she pointed her stick to the Golden hall.

"Do you know what people are going to say now? That was a show they're not likely to forget."

Frances could not understand why she felt so angry, especially since her body now craved for his reassuring presence. The pain had been blinding for quite some time, and it was still very difficult to bear. Perhaps the exhaustion from the trip had shortened her patience, but it did not explain why she would lash at the poor elf so violently.

"I … I didn't think… I'm sorry," the elf stuttered while staring down, realising the truth in those words.

Stunned by her sudden anger, Legolas could not prevent from slapping himself mentally. By trying to help her, he feared he had somehow compromised the maiden. She was a pure heart, and bound to another man at home. If his foolish actions brought dishonour on her, he would not forgive himself. However, somewhere in the back of his mind he had enjoyed carrying her, but he would not admit it. Her hair had been sweet across his cheek, and her small frame had leant into him and welcomed his warmth.

As a prince, Legolas had not been accustomed to such contacts, most of the time receding in his thoughts or fighting for his life. This was new, and he craved for those moments when they would touch. The pang of guilt always reminded him that she was somebody else's betrothed, but in adversity they had become close friends and he would not deny it. He could, however, not deny either that such contact between a male and a female was not appropriate. Had his father witnessed it, he would have given him quite a lashing!

As Frances gazed into his eyes, her anger faded away. There had been no afterthoughts in his actions other than help her. She should not scold him for this. In truth, she was angry against herself for being so weak, and confused for liking his touch so much. Dismissing the guilt, Frances turned to the elf once more.

"Please forgive me, Legolas. You do not deserve that my frustration be taken on you in this manner."

"No, it is I who should have thought better. I fear the damage to your reputation."

And the guy … elf had the nerve to apologise! God, how guilty she felt for treating him so badly! What right did she have to yell at a prince! At this prince in particular! Frances sighed, defeated by her own insecurities.

"Never mind, it doesn't matter."

"It does not?" he asked, unsure of what to say.

Frances dismissed the tension with a gesture of her hand, washing the guilt and anger away.

"No, it doesn't. Your intentions spoke for themselves. I am glad you saved me from the pain of stumbling through this room full of drunks, mellon nin"

Surprised by this change of spirit, Legolas could nearly feel the dark thoughts rushing away from her, chased by this simple gesture. It would always amaze him how she could completely black out some feelings by deciding it. It was somehow a mystery to him to feel how fast she was changing, submitting her emotions to her will, bending them to what she wanted. A quick chuckle escaper her lips as she let her arms rest over the wall.

"I cannot imagine what the people of Greenwood would say, a mere woman scolding their beloved prince. I'd probably locked away in a dungeon and made to apologise on all fours."

This, left him speechless. Never before had he heard a second born call his kingdom Greenwood. And it brought him more joy than anything else in the world. As if, only by stating its former name, his home could be restored to its former glory. As if the darkness could be chased away in the lifetime of a man. His pensive eyes rested on her for a while, the elf unaware that Frances started fidgeting under his stare.

"I'm sorry if this must have sounded rude. I have heard that King Thranduil can be quite implacable in his dealings with…"

The young lady cringed. How to reconcile with a friend better than insulting his father? The hole she was digging was getting deeper by the minute. Eventually, she decided to shut her mouth entirely. Now wasn't the time to mention the tales that Gimli had shared with her during the first leg of their journey. Needless to say, that King Thranduil wasn't the nicest character of the story, neither was his son. But Legolas, heir to the throne of Greenwood the Great, didn't look upset at all. His features set in awe, his gaze lost upon her form, the elf seemed to have left in a world far, far away. Her silence, though, called him back to earth. Well, to middle earth.

"Never could you be mistaken for a mere woman, Frances."

That was it. No scolding, no sadness, no resentment. What did he mean by saying this? She didn't linger on the thought for her mind was setting upon a new goal. Maybe the time had come to fulfil her promise. Fear leaked through, droplet by droplets, wondering how her friend would take the news. Would he be upset that she had not said a word until then? Would he feel betrayed? Maybe he could give her counsel on her situation.

For months now, day after day, she had wondered on the relevance of revealing her true identity to her companions. Dwarf, men and hobbit alike. Aragorn had not been able to relieve her doubts about it. This news had been a little difficult to grasp for him, despite his age and the fact that he had grown up amongst living legends. And even if the ranger knew about the Keeper of time, and that she came from another world, he didn't know much about her real home. The twins had asked plenty of details. But the ranger not so much, being usual his taciturn self. Her face had probably crumpled, for the elf looked at her in concern.

"What ails you, Frances? Do you want me to walk you back to your room to rest?"

The young woman turned to him, her gaze boring deep into his.

"Although my body will need it at some point, I would rather stay there for a while. There is a promise that needs fulfilment."

It was a question more than a statement. And Legolas was more than ready for it. Not a moment had passed without a thousand interrogations plaguing his mind since he had left her in Helm's deep. Some of them about the strange pills she had swallowed, and many more.

"If you feel up to it, I would dearly love to hear your story."

He didn't pry, didn't ask questions to give her full liberty about where she wanted to start and how much she felt comfortable to tell. There was nothing more opened that his hear, his heart and his mind at the moment.

And he was glad, for the tale that Frances counted him was one he could never have imagined. If he had not known her, he would have thought her insane. Yet, nothing but the truth had ever escaped her mouth. So he didn't doubt, his eyes getting wider as she recounted her arrival on Weathertop and her first encounter with Lord Elrond. It made an awful lot of sense, and explained much. The reason why her betrothed did not travel with her.

And also why she spoke so strangely. Her overwordly views and education as well as the wonder in her eyes each time her gaze lingered on middle earth's landscape. Her strange accent, even in the common tongue when Estel had none. Her enquiries, sometimes absolutely out of place for a young woman, as if she had been born and bred in a bubble.

The elf had not realised his hands had seized the wooden railing, trying to hold on to reality. Every element was met with a thousand questions of his own, their numbers so great that they swam in his mind in disarray. Yet, he was silent. Eventually, Frances's pace started to decrease as she searched for words. For a moment, Legolas considered to unleash all his queries upon her. But he could see the exhaustion on her face.

Aside from her wound, he realised that confiding all her secrets had taken quite an emotional toll. He could understand it, along with the bouts of homesickness that could be detected in her posture as she spoke of home. Frances was a lady from another world. She belonged to another place. Hers. Away from middle earth.

So, the prince of Greenwood turned his curiosity down and offered his arm.

"You need to rest, Frances, lest you fall asleep on the ground."

The redhead eyed him suspiciously.

"Are you angry with me, for keeping this secret all this time?"

Legolas shook his head, his hand extended still. No, he was not angry. Confused, and a little sad as well, for a reason he could not pinpoint. Fortunately, elves did not sleep much. He could use the main part of the night to think about it if need be. He would talk to Aragorn.

"Nay, my lady. Yet, your story is not an easy one to grasp, nor to tell. I will need some time to adjust to this knowledge."

Frances nodded, her features falling a bit as she leaned on his arm. Her hands trembled from the strain, clinging to him like a refugee to a lifebelt. Perhaps it would have been easier if her confession had been met with anger.

Perhaps not.

But still, she had been afraid of his reaction, and now she didn't even know how he had taken the news. When he left her on her doorstep, she realised that her origins had triggered something in his mind. And it revived what had been vanquished a few months ago.

Distance.