They reached Dunharrow on the morn, climbing the steep path under the greyish light of the new day. Frances was exhausted, and as soon as the lady Eowyn had found a tent for her, she collapsed in a cot. The afternoon was upon her before she lifted her eyelids, but she rose far better rested. Washing herself from head to toe, she hesitated between a bun and braid. Eventually, she decided against both and left her hair tumbling down her back; today was supposed to be battle free.

The young woman found the Dunedain encampment beside her tent. Soon enough, the twins had ordered her on the cot again to work on her wound. And be it magic or not, her leg regained much mobility thanks to their care. The gash was less painful, no more displaying the angry red around the scar. Walking still strained her thigh, but she could bend her knee a little bit further without tearing up skin and muscle. Once satisfied with their work, the twins left in haste to spend time with their kin. Of Aragorn they had not seen much. Dumbfounded, Frances watched them go, her eyebrows raised up on her forehead.

After several months of absence, she was surprised to find the bond between the three of them unscathed. Nor war, nor death had affected their relationship. They were, though, more overbearing and protective that they used to be in Rivendell. Had the wound reminded them that she was a mortal? Frances didn't know. She had no time to dwell on those thoughts. Her stomach was growling in the most unladylike fashion and she grabbed her cloak to go hunting for food.

Outside laid an incredible number of tents, and more hearths than she had ever laid eyes upon. The Rohirrim gathered around them, talking, sharpening swords, drinking and playing games. Frances was at loss. It was the first time that she walked through an army. And even if most people in this world tended to be civilised, or at least afraid to lay a hand on a high-ranked lady, she knew not to wander among soldiers about to fight the latest battle of their lives. Overwhelmed, she stood still, her cloak entirely closed around her frail body. She cursed herself for letting her hair loose. Its fiery strands stood out like a sore thumb among the golden heads of Rohan. Already, many eyes rested on her.

Frances' gaze roamed over the encampment. Higher on the hill towered the royal tent. Eowyn would probably be there, and able to guide her to a piece of food. Making up her mind, Frances seized her walking stick and started to climb the nasty path that led to the royal quarters. The stiff leg made the hike uneasy. Despite her new-found mobility, the rocky slope was tough given that she couldn't bend her knee so much. Swearing in French after sending a few pebbles tumbling down the path, Frances was surprised to hear an amused voice behind her.

"Is your mother language always so musical?"

The young lady turned around, blushing profusely. A few steps below stood the elf. Not Elladan nor Elrohir. No. Her elf. The twins were so very different than him, and their sister altogether. That Arwen would be called the Evenstar made sense; she was as beautiful as sunset, all dark shades and lovely colours. Like a blanket settling in on the rocky hills of Imladris, Arwen brought the solace of a restful night. The twins, though, represented something darker. They were the night. Full of shadows, yet beautiful. Deadlier than a cliff under the dim light of the stars, yet as hypnotising than the void beyond the edge. This void calling to the restless hiker to come closer, and take the deep plunge into the abyss.

But not Legolas. Bright and untamed Legolas. As brilliant as a day at the beach, all sunshine and light, his smile so radiant that it warmed her from within. Like the sun reflecting on sand and water, his moods seemed to reflect on her as well. It was so easy to get sunburnt such was his presence. He was as powerful as a star, as deadly as its flares. Yet gentle, allowing all life to grow in this planet and beyond. How could she not succumb to his presence?

A tentative smile graced Legolas' lips, he did not dare laugh openly at her expense. Frances did not know whether to be proud of him to tease her so, or annoyed at his smugness.

"Err. No. French usually sounds much better. To my defence, the people that carved this path did not think of crippled ladies."

The elf's smile fell at once.

"My apologies for my lack of consideration. My first intent was to offer some help, if I may?"

"You may. I am in dire need of some sustenance. Would help mean food by any chance?"

The elf's face lightened.

"Let us get back to camp. Gimli has roasted a set of birds recently, and there should be some left."

Legolas climbed the few steps that separated them and offered his arm. Frances cocked her head aside, feeling a tad more mischievous.

"So then, your mind was blown by the beautiful poetry that flew out my mouth?"

"Kind of…"

This time, Frances laughed openly. Seizing the elf's arm for support, she couldn't help but exclaim:

"You, master elf, are starting to use my expressions. What will your father say when you get back to his halls speaking like a wench?"

Legolas stilled, his head turning north with a thoughtful expression.

"If I ever return … and if the halls of my home still stand. Then I will be glad to have this conversation with him."

Frances frowned, taken aback by the worry that marred his beautiful face.

"Has something happened to your kindred? Have you some news of Greenwood?"

"Nay. Not since Gandalf left. But I fear that war will come to my people all the same."

Truth be told, she had quite forgotten about the forest of Greenwood in her attempts to stay alive. Still, Legolas's home was in danger, and she could not fathom how he must feel to have abandoned it in this hour of need. Did he regret being involved with the fellowship instead of joining his father, his people in the north? She knew that Boromir would have stopped at nothing to get back to Minas Tirith. Before his death, he was intent on returning to Gondor. Did Legolas feel the same?

"I am sorry, mellon nin. I had not realised that they would face such danger."

Frances's voice seemed to shake Legolas out of his daze. Leading her downwards with caution, the elf refused to let worry gnaw at him. If he did, he risked losing his mind over it. Not that he felt overly sane with Frances by his side.

"Come, let us not linger on events that we have no control over. My father is a skilled tactician and warrior; he can protect our borders better than anyone else"

Her hand on his arm warmed his skin, and her presence brought him some solace. She, who would joke in the direst of hours, seemed to take the hint.

"All right. Anything you would like to know?"

"I would rather hear about your mother language, and what those colourful words meant, if you please."

Frances bit her lip, wondering if she should die from embarrassment, or tease the elf about it. The latter won the contest… by very little.

"This, my dear Legolas, is out of the question. And you will not pry it from me, under no circumstances."

"You seem to forgive how persistent we, first born, can be."

The young woman raised her eyes to find his, the corner of her lips lifting in amusement.

"First born or not, I will not surrender."

"I am afraid I must insist. I am feeling very curious now that I have heard them uttered so beautifully."

"Over my dead body…"

The elf's shocked face caused Frances to snicker. Despite her amusement, she couldn't help but notice that his grip had tightened slightly.

"It is an expression from my world. It means 'no way'. There are many more equivalents to this, but I couldn't possibly quote them without turning beetle red."

"What a strange way to communicate"

Frances features turned pensive.

"Yes. You have to understand that my world is a lot less formal than middle earth. Our so-called evolution has buried politeness and conventions for something we thought to be closer to being truthful. It could have worked, really. But I fear that it has taken us a long way from civilisation."

Legolas nodded, his head trying to wrap around the sheer amount of information that seemed to be locked inside Frances. Eventually, though, she sighed.

"The truth is, I can have a foul mouth when in pain."

"Believe me, you are not the only one."

The young lady shot him a curious glance.

"Do elves even swear?"

"Aye. We do. But not in the way you are used to. We'd rather call to Elbereth's light or Manwe's breath."

"Right. The equivalent to 'Oh my God'. Or 'Par la barbe de Saint Antoine' Much more polite, even if my grandmother always wanted to cuff our ears for saying so. My father used to say 'Bon Dieu', which means 'Good God'. But even that she could not accept. Swearing in the name of God always got us a dressing down."

Sweet grandmother. She had died but a week prior to Frances being called to middle earth. How she missed her already! The campsite was in sight now, and Gimli hailed them as soon as they came into view. Roasted meat was dumped on her lap unceremoniously topping a slice of brown bread. Famished as she was, she made a quick job of cleaning the bird bones. Then, the juicy bread disappeared. Frances felt self-conscious, eating so hungrily in front of the elf. Fortunately, she had kept a handkerchief from her room in Edoras, and she wiped her hands and mouth thoroughly.

"Your hunger had not been sated."

It was a statement, not a question. And damn him for being right. How did he even know? Frances' eyes stubbornly focused on the ground; she dared not look into the blue pools of the elf. There! She had made quite a spectacle of herself, eating like a street urchin.

"Lass? Pointy ears seems to have a point."

At last, Frances lifted her eyes to meet the dwarf's.

"No offence Gimli. Your roast was marvellous, and it left me wanting for some more."

The dwarf scoffed, setting his huge hand on his knee.

"Can't blame you there, there's hardly any meat on those birdies. I'll go and find Merry at the royal tent. I'll be sure to find something interesting."

"I'll accompany you then" she said.

"No! Don't you bother? It is my pleasure."

Who knew the dwarf could be so gallant? But she couldn't have him running around for her sake.

"Gimli, it doesn't feel right…"

"Let him go, my lady. The climb is very steep, and you need to rest" came Legolas smooth voice.

Again with the formality. Frances's interrogative frown reached a pair of eyes as blue as the sky, and a quick nod directed to the rangers on the other side of the fire taught her everything she needed to know. In front of those people, he would call her as such, to mark the rank. A sly smile formed on his lips as he turned to Gimli.

"And it will prove that the hospitality of the dwarves is proven right!"

Gimli laughed at that, welcoming the quip with a slap on the elf's back. There was a time when the two warriors would have fought about this, retorting snide remarks and trading low blows. But now, their antagonism was reduced at exchanging good-hearted jokes on their respective people. How far they'd come, all of them, to cement such a beautiful bond in the fellowship.

As Gimli's heavy steps retreated, a voice called Frances back to the campfire. A voice that she'd rather not hear again. Too bad the man couldn't keep silent.

"Do you not cook, Lady Frances?"

Irksome, this one, she thought. Had he not seen her injury? Or was it just a way to make her mad? The young lady turned to the badly behaved ranger, and straightened her spine.

"Only when I have my induction stove" she answered.

The ranger's dark eyebrows rose to his forehead.

"Will you always answer my questions with riddles?"

"I have to admit that I enjoy it immensely."

Ah. He was stunned now. And angered as well. She could see the tension of his jaw, and the sparks his grey eyes sent in her direction. They were nothing like Aragorn's; where his showed wisdom, Halbarad's only reflected the harshness of his character. Around them, several of his men, all dark-haired, were listening to the conversation. One of them, a lad, was trying to stifle a laugh.

"So, if you do no cook. Maybe you can mend shirts?"

Frances stiffened, remembering the last shirt she had mended for Boromir. Her ire grew then, and she snapped harshly.

"Unless you went them to turn Frankenstein."

"If that means no, then what talents do you bring to this company?"

Halbarad was no fool, so he refrained from veiling an insult as to the use of a woman in a soldiers' camp. Especially when she seemed to be in the good graces of most of the men around him. Elf and dwarves included. A few paces from here, the blond prince was ready to bite his head off, his jaw tense. Still, the woman was infuriating. How could they stand keeping such a liability among them?

"Wow, you sure know how to talk to women."

Her icy tone was laced with anger.

"Do not mistake my meaning. You are wounded, and in no position to fight nor to cover great distances. We will accompany our lord Aragorn to war, and it is no place for a girl. Especially a wounded one."

Girl. He had called her a girl. Frances was fuming. He could see it from her clenched fist and the hard look on her face. Yet, Legolas did not dare defend her. In his own way, Halbarad was right. Only death awaited her. Couldn't she see it too? No, of course, she was too stubborn to relent. And he knew what was coming. Frances would lash out, her words unforgiving, before draping herself in her dignity. She could be, sometimes, so immature. The elf let his gaze drop to his knees; his hands were trembling. Why was he so angry with her?

"My decisions are my own." Eventually came her stern reply. "So get a wife; she'll quench your thirst for domination."

Suddenly, Halbard was standing, a dangerous gleam shining in his eyes. Frances refrained from shifting further away from him. She did not want to show him how frightening he could be through his rage.

"I have a family. And it is to protect them that I fight!"

Frances's face softened, and the elf saw a pang of regret in her gaze.

"All right, it's no use getting all emotional. Aragorn will decide, and we will follow."

The ranger's eyes darted behind her. Aragorn, chieftain of the Dunedain, was exiting his tent and coming their way.

"Let us settle the matter at that."

As he sat back, a mischievous gleam shone in the lady's eyes.

"And no, I'm not mending your shirt. You don't have to look pretty and stuffed up to meet a bunch or orcs."

A few snickers greeted the last sentence, some of them coming from behind Frances. Elrohir and Elladan, especially, had been having quite some fun witnessing the exchange.

"Aye, sweet lady. Sometimes I forget how you sting."

The twins plopped down around her, and soon conversation took over.

The prince of Greenwood, though, was eerily silent. His heart had delivered a warning; the need to preserve himself. This argument, fuelled with anger and pride, had shown a dangerous gleam of Frances. She could hurt, and pretty badly if she so wished. And no matter how hard he had tried to ignore his feelings, the elf was well aware of his infatuation with her. It could go no further. He could not bind himself to a mortal, no matter how incredible.

Frances was dangerous. To him, to his heart and his survival. And she had proven, a few times already, that she did not obey to anyone. Not even to stay safe. If she died … well, the Valar knew what he would do. His kingdom awaited his return, his father longed to see him, and his people… Well, he could not lose himself like this.

Aragorn had joined them around the campfire, and lifted Frances from the log she had occupied until then. They were speaking quietly.

Legolas sighed. Distance would provide him with a little perspective, and the freedom his mind needed to set himself right.

A quick look at Aragorn's weary face shocked him. The ranger looked exhausted. His keen eyes glided then to the young lady by his side. For a short while, her hazel eyes found his. In a silent plea, she told him how worried she was for Aragorn, and her intentions to help him. Then, her gaze came back to the ranger's. Loyal to the core and beyond. Legolas knew that she would do everything within her power for him.

Damn her! They had such a connection than a quick look was all it took for her to share her feelings. And for him to understand. So distance it would be. Legolas jumped on his feet and left the camp.

Frances didn't grant him more than a quick look. Still, she couldn't help but notice how troubled the elf seemed to be. He too, probably condemned the way she had talked to Halbarad. Following Aragorn into his tent, she expected to be hotly scolded. Her surprise was great when the ranger all but sagged on his cot.

"Aragorn!" she cried. "Are you ill?"

"Nay, Frances. But there is much we must discuss, and I am weary to the bone."

"I should get you some tea…"

The young lady was ready to depart, but Aragorn laid a hand on her arm before she could escape.

"The twins brought me some. Let us share it."

He pointed to a little table where a bowl rested. Frances retrieved it, and watched as he slowly drank the hot liquid. Then, he handed it back to her.

"Drink. It will do you some good. You look like you need it."

"Ah. Manners. I have missed that."

Her snarky tone did no escape the ranger, but he let it pass. Frances plunged her nose in the cup, smelling the soothing aroma of herbs before drinking a little. The liquid warmed her from inside. Aragorn patted the place beside him, and asked her to sit.

"Although I am aware that Halbarad has not been very diplomatic, he made a fair point. Do you wish to go on with us?"

There we are, thought Frances, her heartrate increasing. Pink was already flooding her cheeks.

"I am sorry for letting my anger get the better of me. But what he said hurt me deeply."

"Halbarad has known many hardships. He will hardly be swayed in his vision of the world. Yet, he has been a good friend to me for many years. Were his questions so unwarranted?"

"No!" cried Frances, standing up in haste and nearly falling down in the process. "No, and that is the problem. You very well know that I am useless to you in such a state! I might as well have you killed in the next battle!"

"Frances. We have talked about it in Edoras. Wounded or not, you are our companion"

"But Merry will stay with the King, won't he? I am now the weakest of our company."

If she had been able to, Frances would have paced into the tent. But with her stiff leg, she could only stand awkwardly.

"But not the less resourceful."

"Tell me, Aragorn. If it was entirely up to you, what would you decide? About me?"

"There are many doubts in my mind at the moment, but the answer to this is clearer than a mountain's stream. It is not my wish to leave you behind"

Frances' voice failed for a moment, and she drank a bit of the herbal tea before answering.

"Really?"

"I only wanted to ask you if you wished to remain here."

"No way. I swore on oath to this company. I'm staying with you."

Aragorn actually fidgeted in his cot. The worry lines ran deeper than what she remembered, and the dark circles under his eyes showed that he was utterly spent. The ranger let his hands rest on his knees as he bent forward.

"Even if it means walking the paths of the dead?"

"Even if it means leaping from a cliff. All right, been there, done that, it wasn't fun."

At this, the ranger had the grace to smile. Still, his face was set in a grim expression.

"So, what's the path about?"

Aragorn exhaled slowly, his eyes boring into Frances' gaze in research of her soul. He was not disappointed to find her resolve firm. Eventually, the young lady sat beside him. She felt better levelled with him rather than standing above him.

"Will you tell me about it?"

"You might have come across it while you were researching the library…"

Since she had no memory of this tale, Aragorn proceeded to inform her on the message passed on by the twins. Elrond and Arwen alike had said thus; should he be in much haste, he should not fear to take the path of the dead. Wondering why both would be conveying such news, he had consulted the Palantir. As this, Frances started.

"Are you nuts? This is why you look utterly spent! That thing has drained all the energy from you."

Had he been in better shape, the ranger might have been affronted. But overall, the young woman was not totally wrong.

"Yes, but I gained the knowledge that I was seeking. Gondor is about to be attacked by the corsairs of Umbar, to the far south of the Anduin. If we cannot prevent this attack, Minas Tirith will be besieged from both north and south. It will be ruined."

"So this path, it is a shorter road? Could we make it in time?"

"Yes. We may. If the dead let us pass."

Aragorn expected Frances to shudder, or shriek in terror, or swoon altogether. Even the Rohirrim started trembling when Dimbolt was mentioned. Little did he know that in her past musing with Mulder and Scully, she had met her share of entities and ghosts. So instead, she pried for some information.

"The dead, I can deal with. It's the living that worry me. Tell me about them all."

Her brown eyes were resolved. If he went that way, then so would she. For sure, she was not going to like it. But hey, what were friends for?

Half an hour later, Frances was trying to wrap her head around the concept of the accursed army. In truth, she felt bad for them. Waiting three thousand years under a mountain because they had broken an oath once. Damn. Isildur must have been quite angry … and not very forgiving. Still, she could understand his rage. How any of his men had died because of their betrayal. A few reinforcements were sometimes all it took to turn the tide of a battle.

And now, the time had come when they could, with their little number, do so again. Aragorn wielded the blade of Isildur. Anduril, flame of the west, has been reforged from the fragments of Narsil. If one man could survive to take this path, he was the one. Still, it was a risky move. But no riskier than charging into battle with no reinforcements.

Frances had to refrain from shuddering. All this talk of cursed souls and lifeless mountains had made her blood chill. Or was it dusk slowly overtaking the camp? She could not tell. Still, she knew that her night would probably not be restful. Aragorn's eyes were on her, never leaving her face, and he saw the fear in her expression, the sagging of her shoulders. So, it was with great surprise that she told him.

"All right, when do we leave?"

His eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"Will you come still?"

"Sure. I won't like it, but I will come. I've seen my lot of ghosts in the past…"

"You have ?"

His exclamation was strong enough to call the other rangers to attention. Fortunately, none dared intruding in their chieftain's tent.

"Yes. Ghost and other things. Yucky things. Anyway… Departure?"

Her relaxed demeanor puzzled him just as much as her strange manner of speech. Still, it felt good to feel her confidence in this. If the Keeper of Time had affronted ghosts before, it bode well for them all.

"I will depart tomorrow at dawn with the Grey Company. Hopefully, Legolas and Gimli will follow."

"Like you could prevent them from doing so…"

Aragorn's lips quirked upright. It was the closest to a smile that his weary mind could allow.

"I'm in. And please, don't leave me behind. I have trouble waking at dawn, send Elladan to shake me up if you must. Not Elrohir please, he might as well throw a bucket of icy water on my sleeping roll."

"Yes. For sure he would be capable of doing this. Thank you, Frances. It means a lot that you would stay by our side."

The young lady blinked; she couldn't help but notice how tired Aragorn looked. And there was something else gnawing at him. Self-doubt probably. As the Keeper of Time prophesied to fulfil whatever she was supposed to do, she felt compelled to stick with the remainder of the fellowship. And as a friend to Aragorn, there was no hesitation to have. Little did she know that her support, her undying faith in his actions allowed him to hold on.

His name, Estel, weighted sometimes too heavy for his shoulders. People looked up to him to keep their hopes high. But there were not many to maintain his own morale. Aragorn was, in the end, but a man. A strong, stubborn and determined man with a long lifespan and mighty ascendants. But a man nonetheless. This impending doom felt so close to crushing them all under his paw; still Frances believed in him. She and Arwen who had sent a banner woven from her hands.

"I have something to show you", he said, helping her stand up.

"Another bit of bad news?"

Aragorn smiled. A few moments later, Frances contemplated the magnificent work of the lady Arwen. On a dark blue cloth, she had woven the white tree, the symbol of Gondor. Upon it rested a crown of gold and mithril thread, shining even if the feeble light of the tent. Seven stars floated above it, the gems embedded in the fabric symbolising the return of the King.

"Arwen wove it in secret, and sent it through her brothers."

His grey eyes were shining from unshed tears, his love for Arwen so brilliantly answered.

"There now, I told you so. Instead of travelling to the grey havens, she was working on your banner, thinking about you."

"Yes. You told me so, and gave me hope when I had none."

The young lady allowed her fingers to trace the lines representing the white tree of Gondor, her thoughts joining Arwen in her solitude.

"And from what I see, there is nothing stronger than your love. Her work is of overwhelming beauty."

"I will never cease to be amazed by her talent. What comes out of her hands is stunning, yet ever more so to me because of what it represents."

Frances smiled, a tear trying to escape her eye as she contemplated Arwen's work. What token could ever be more moving than this one? In this banner was displayed everything that Aragorn stood for. The return of the king, of the white tree, and the stars in the sky.

Love in its purest form.