Frances' breathing came in short pants, dread slowly claiming her as the Nazgûl appeared on the battlefield. Hidden below the elvish cloak, she did not dare moving to take a peek outside. Still, the all too familiar icy sensation warned her that the ringwraith were close enough. Too close for her own taste. Despair followed quickly as her mind spiralled in dark places.

Crouched in the crow's nest, Frances waited with shaking limbs. From the strain or from the fear, she didn't know. The overwhelming noises of battle filled her ears, giving her imagination far too much to work with. Truth be told, the young woman was terrified. Terrified to be found and devoured alive, terrified to lose her friends, terrified to die at the hands of those horrible and disgusting beasts from Mordor.

But beyond all, she dreaded that Legolas would meet his end. He had promised to come back, should he die in the process. Would the elf ask Mandos to be reincarnated should he die on the fields of Pelennor? Would he be granted such a wish, like the mighty Balrog slayer – Glorfindel - from Imladris? Frances highly doubted it. And this, more than any other preoccupation, had her struggling to stay put instead of rushing into the battle. Anything rather than discovering, once freed from her hiding place, the pale face of her beloved prince set in death!

Her right hand clutched the handle of her sword far too tightly, knuckles dead white. Any movement of the ship, any variation in the breeze called to her to draw the weapon and hack at anything that could come her way. Her chest constricted, frozen in dread, as her breathing became shallower. This was it! It was the end! Soon enough, one of those fell beasts would find her and … ugh!

Better to jump down and commit suicide than to let them have her. Never before had she felt so utterly powerless, so insignificant in the face of fate. Never? In her daze, Frances concentrated on keeping despair at bay. Once before, she had been subjected to this incredible despair creeping through her heart. Damned Nazgûls! They probably were the cause of her horrible musings!

So, trembling at the bottom of the lookout, Frances tried to gather her brightest memories. Praying to the Valar to release her from the ringwraith's hold, she fought tooth and nail every sombre thought that called her to the dark. Soon enough, happy moments flooded her mind. Friends and family smiled at her, warming her to the core as she contemplated the merry days she had spent with them. Playing, laughing, being idiots and cuddling. She saw her brothers wrestling in the grass as she giggled, her father diving through a wave and being swept over, his head emerging thirty feet away. She saw her grandparents, building sand castles in the sunshine and picking cherries in their lovely garden. The deep voice of her grandfather singing flamenco.

And friends … not that she had much. The best of them, her cousin Cécile, had brought so much joy in her life. She remembered how they both struggled with their tennis racket, sending balls flying everywhere. They were so many, those hilarious and merry moments of her existence, so many that they filled her with renewed hope and a wave of warmness.

Then, her mind lingered on Charlie, sweet Charlie. In her vision, he was kissing her cheek, saying goodbye with a cheeky smile. No disappointment in his gentle eyes, only a kind-hearted adieu. Suddenly, everything went blank. Before her, a fluctuating halo greeted her joyfully. A hand caressed her cheek, Legolas' hand, as his smiling face appeared. Bright blue eyes, an ocean of love, and she drowned into them.

In his arms, an elfling gazed back at her, his eyes a lovely shade of green. And when he smiled, the whole world seemed to lighten up. His long blond hair was flying around him, making him laugh as he opened his arms in her direction. The sound of his giggles was like music to her hears. It drowned away the cries of the dying men, and the roar from the battlefield. The next second, the elfing was curled on her chest, eyes closed, sleeping.

A loud screech startled the young woman, and she opened her eyes. Had she zoned out or just turned crazy with fear? The agonising cry was so strong, so horrendous that Frances cringed. It felt like nails on a chalkboard, or the horrible noise of a TGV[1] slamming on the brakes. None of them rather agreeable. But she knew that sound, one of a Nazgûl. Yet, she wasn't afraid anymore. Well, not so much. Had her memories warmed her enough to prevent her from jumping down the lookout?

Some kind of implosion came from the battlefield. She felt it in her bones, although she could not locate it. Frances snuck a peek over the railing of her hiding spot before crawling once more, trying to process the scene she had witnessed. The Pelennor fields were a wasteland littered with corpses now, yet some pockets of resistance were still fighting. Frances thought she had seen many horses, a good sign that a relevant portion of Rohirrim lived on. The noises receded slowly, too slowly as the battle dragged on. All senses tuned to discern the faintest of familiar voices, Frances waited, her nerves frying as her limbs started to feel numb.

Then came the lightest of trembling on the mast. Before she could stand up, her cloak was yanked away. The young lady cried out, startled to find a familiar face.

"You can come out of hiding, sweet lady. The battle is over."

Although he attempted to smile, Elrohir's grey eyes were weary. His face, smeared with orc's blood, harboured a nasty bruise on the upper cheek. As Frances lifted a trembling hand, his fingers stopped her before she could touch him.

"That's your princeling's fault. He distracted me."

Frances did not deny the title, nor the possessive form Elrohir had used.

"How so?"

The Peredhil's brows were set in a frown.

"He cheated on an Orc's count."

Suddenly, Frances was laughing. And God, how good it felt. The twin's eyes sparkled a little, before he turned serious again.

"Let me help you down."

As the elf supported her on the rigging, he recounted the battle as accurately as he could.

"Many men I have seen fall at the hands of the enemy. Yet I am proud to have fought by their side. There are valiant warriors among them."

Frances stopped dead in her tracks, suspended to the cord. She dared not ask the question that ravaged her mind.

"How many?"

"Too many. But do not fear, Aragorn yet lives…"

Her chest heaved in relief.

" … and we have lost none of your fellowship. The Prince and the dwarf are as healthy as can be after such a rough encounter."

"Elladan?"

"He is well. Do not fret, sweet lady."

And, losing his patience, the elf swept her onto his back and descended the last portion in an instant.

Elladan stood at the bottom of the ship, waiting for his brother. Frances did not hug him, although the temptation was strong; they were covered in gore and blood, and Elladan's lips were set in a firm line. She knew this expression far too well. He was beyond angry from his encounter with the forces of darkness. Frances sighed. Would the twin ever heal from his cold-blooded rage, from the guilt that ate him alive?

"Let us go," he said, barely acknowledging her. "There are many in need of assistance."

And off they went, into the battle field and beyond the sea of cadavers, looking for soldiers who needed a healer's touch, whether to surive or die in peace. Frances followed, hopping behind the twins, her eyes searching for a flash of blond hair. But he was nowhere to be seen, and the Pelennor fields were spread out on miles, all of them littered with bodies. Around her laid the dead and the dying, the cadavers entwined with smelly corpses of orcs and other disgusting creatures.

Some bore ghastly wounds, some had their eyes still open, staring at her in death, their faces pale. Frances' heart clenched, her gaze misty. Who would honour the fallen, disentangle them from the beasts and offer them a proper burial? How could they reach the homes of their ancestors if they lay here, in death, amongst the foulness of Mordor?

Step after step, Frances went on, following the twins. The worst, though, was the men that still drew breath. Soon enough, both Elladan and Elrohir had stopped to help the wounded, Frances lagging behind them. They hopped from soldier to soldier. Rohirrim, Gondorian or Dunedain. They were all mixed up in the face of death, all so pale, or covered in black blood. Sometimes, they held onto life desperately.

Far away, an anguished yell resonated. Frances turned around; a blur of blond hair was flinging himself to the ground, his armour of the Rohirrim. She did not recognize him, but he would not be the only one to witness the death of a loved one today, nor the last. Still, she felt compelled to join the man, whomever he was, to lend some support if she could. Rohirrim were proud warriors, not prone to cry or give in to despair. The loss must have been a deep one. Who was the fallen, a son to a father? Or the other way around?

Frances passed Orcs, horses and wargs alike, her feet carrying her on their own, her mind submerged and no longer in control. The stench was unbearable, so horrible that she had to breathe through her nose. And then, she saw a movement. A few feet from her, a beast had turned around on its back. Those blasted creatures! Anger seized her, and she drew her blade, the familiar weight feeling right in her hand. One moment later, the elvish weapon sliced mercilessly through its throat. Others followed, some attempting to crawl away, but the young lady would not have it. She took her anger on the wounded of Mordor, effectively ending their agony, making sure that they would not rise and cause more harm.

The destruction, the families broken, the despair. They were responsible for it. And so, one by one, she hunted down all the orcs that still drew breath, and sent them to their death in one swift movement.

The Keeper of time turned into an executioner.

The blade, her faithful companion, seemed to sing through her arm. As she killed another, her eyes encountered a familiar face. Set in death, Halbarad's features were more peaceful than she had even seen. Frances froze; she couldn't look away from the Dunedain. Guilt washed over her, guilt about the words that had been exchanged between them. And sadness as well, for the family he had talked about, and orphaned family now that would wait for his return forever.

A choked voice dragged her from her musings, and Frances turned around. Her eyes widened in grief, and she fell to her knees, tears spilling over at the sight. Beside Halbarad was the young Dunedain that had asked her about her home. His face, so pale, contrasted with the crimson river running from his chest wound. There was nothing that could be done. She didn't even know his name. The young man reached out, his hand covered in blood, begging for her to take it. And she did, crawling over to encase his icy fingers in hers.

"He died to protect me," he whispered. "To no avail."

Frances nodded, her throat so tight that she could not utter a sound. Her hand squeezed the Dunedain's in sympathy. His voice was weak, his words slurred, interrupted by shallow breaths. Each of them sent a new wave of crimson down his stomach.

"I am glad you are safe, my lady. It was a tough battle. My last. But I am proud."

"As you should be."

His handsome features darkened, and he started trembling.

"My father. Halbarad. He was not a bad person. He only wanted to protect us all."

Frances' eyes widened, comprehension dawning over her. As shame seized her, her face fell. She understood now, the distrust of the man towards her. What she would give to erase what she had told him! What could she say in her defence ? That she was a spoiled brat with great friends to protect her when she messed up with people in charge ? The young Dunedain's eyes were searching hers, begging for an answer. Frances exhaled slowly, and smiled.

"I am sure he was a good man. I will honour him, he will be properly buried, I promise it."

"Your heart is immense, my lady. Can you …?"

At this, the ranger choked, coughing blood. When he recovered, his whole body was shaking furiously, and he seized Frances' arm tightly. She wished, so badly, that she could do something to help him. Anything. But she was powerless. Useless once more. His blood soaked her tunic where she touched him, the fountain of his life leaking on his chest. Its wetness passed through the fabric, pooling on her skin below the linen shirt. The warmness contrasted so much with the icy fingers that held hers. And there was so much of it, almost a river to her eyes!

"I wish to rest beside him."

Frances summoned her courage to show him her best resolve.

"You will, I will make sure of it."

Then, the soldier seemed to settle on the ground, life flowing slowly out of him as his blood spread upon the spring grass of the Pelennor. When his voice rose again in this vision of hell, it was barely a whisper. Crawling next to him, painting herself in his blood, Frances bent so close that his breath tickled her neck.

"I could have been a good husband, I only wish…"

But the rest did not come.

It never would.

His eyes fixed upon her face, the young Dunedain exhaled one last time. Frances' feelings eventually broke through her resolve to be strong. She sat awkwardly and started sobbing like a baby, her heart wrenching cries raising in the foul air of the battlefield. Gathering her legs against her, she left her hand in his, eyes lost in thought, tears streaming down her face. It was so unfair, to see those families ripped apart by such madness! The destruction made her sick, its absurdity carving words deep in her heart.

The executioner, defeated.

Roaming the upturned fields of Pelennor, Legolas and Gimli were looking for survivors. Whenever he found one, Legolas called to the healers and fellow soldiers. Some could be moved up the houses of healing while others needed immediate attention. Behind him, Gimli was chasing down the surviving Orcs, effectively killing them.

Once or twice, his knife had put a soldier out of his misery. No matter how gruff the warrior, his eyes misted over when answering the plea of the dying. It was no easy feat to end someone's life, even when they were begging you to do so. For long the soil would remember the blood, life sweeping through the dirt of the once grassy land.

Legolas felt sick, sicker than he had ever felt. Brows furrowed in thought, eyes roaming the battlefield, senses alert to any noise or whimper, he kept those sensations at bay. After centuries of life, this battle was certainly not his first. He could not remember being so emotionally drained after the battle of five armies, a mere seventy years before. Yet, many of his kin had died that day, crushed under the sheer numbers of the Necromancer.

The horrors of war were nothing new to him; even if he had never been indifferent, he was, by now, a seasoned warrior. The elf wondered at the sense of urgency that had accompanied him throughough the fight. Had the Nazgûl affected him that much before ? Nay. He was not prone to despair, or to dread. It simply was not in his nature. Despite the war, the endless skirmishes on the border of his kingdom, and the death of his beloved mother, Legolas had never lost his joy.

It was then that it hit him. Frances! Of course. It was not the first time that her emotions permeated through their bond. She must have been terrified! He would have to apologise for not keeping his promise; he had seen Elrond's son climbing the lookout to get her out of her hiding spot. Himself had been too far away at the time, but he had taken a breath of relief to know that was safe with the twins. Further down, he could see her silhouette following the two dark-haired lords. Maybe…

"Hey lad. I think this one can be saved, but I can't find anyone to help."

Gimli's shout started him, and he spared a glance to a soldier holding his leg. The deep gash was extensive, yet not life threatening if the blood flow was interrupted. Around them, warriors and healers alike seemed busy. The man was partly conscious, mumbling something under his breath. A delicate carved swan was upon his breastplate, darkened by orc blood.

Legolas knelt beside the wounded his eyes searching for help around them, yet finding none. Then, he tore a piece of his tunic, below the leather armour where the fabric would be clean enough, and bandaged the leg tightly. The man cried out, his fingers clawing at the wound such was the pain.

"Gimli! Grab his hands."

The elf's order was carried out swiftly. Then, as there were no stretchers to be spared, Legolas gathered the solider in his arms and took off to the city gates with his burden. His muscles ached from the fight, and the strain from the latest days. It was something he did not experience often, and his heart went out to all the humans who suffered such inconveniences daily. They were truly blessed by the Valar; to find the strength to carry one in a world so hostile to them. As he reached the city gates, Legolas' heart constricted in his chest. A wave of anguish washed over him, a wave so mighty that it threatened to bring him to his knees.

His teeth gritted; he left the man at the gates in the care of Gondorians. His mind was rubbed raw by the pain, the power of despair so strong that he had to pause to rein his thoughts into submission. Frances was distressed, and it was the only consistent though that could make it through the haze of his Feä! How could she sustain such a wave of emotions? And most importantly, what happened to her to create such pain?

Worried to the core, his eyes searched the field frantically. On the side, tents were being erected for their company. He knew that Aragorn would refuse to set a foot into the city as long as the steward was alive. Frances should have been there, but she was nowhere in sight. His eyes turned away, scanning the battlefield once more.

There! A familiar face called his attention. Elladan, or was it Elrohir? The dark-haired elf was kneeling beside a wounded. Legolas took off, his long legs carrying him swiftly upon the field until he was close enough to interrogate the twin.

"Where is Frances?" all politeness absent from his tone.

Elrohir lifted his gaze for a mere instant, eyeing the prince suspiciously. The rawness of his question and the grinding of his teeth taught him everything he needed to know. Shameful to have abandoned the young lady to his brother, he pointed a direction with his chin.

"She was behind Elladan. Over there"

Legolas nodded his thanks, his eyes spotting the elven lord he was seeking. His own worry started to build as he couldn't see the familiar reddish hair around the Peredhil, a sensation that was boring a hole in the pit of his stomach. The waves of anguish still assaulted him, stronger than ever, and he struggled to keep them at bay as his long strides covered the distance. Twice, he missed a step such was the power of her distress!

Halfway through, he eventually spotted the person he was looking for. She was crouched, her hair escaped from the braids as her hands covered her face. The elven Prince missed a heartbeat when he caught sight of the blood marring her tunic. Accelerating, leaping over dead orc and fallen comrades, he flew more than he ran in her direction.

"Frances!" he yelled.

The redhead lifted her head imperceptibly, wiping her eyes with the side of her untainted sleeve. The closer he came, the more aghast he felt at her appearance. Eyes swollen red, soaked through in blood, her face paler than death, gaze unfocused. How long before she fell, dying, on the soiled ground?

Legolas stared as he ran, looking for a wound. Never had he been so impatient to close the gap between them. Eventually though, the young lady recognised him. She struggled to her feet, intend on standing up, but her legs wouldn't support her. Fortunately, he was nearly there. As the elf leapt forward, Frances all but launched herself in his arms, tackling him. Falling to his knees, he held her with all his might as she started sobbing. Her hands could have choked him such was the strength of her embrace, and the waves of grief and despair tore him apart.

As she cried, Legolas felt her shaking against him. The elf somehow managed to gather his wits and frantically roamed his hands over her body, checking for wounds. When he found none, Legolas deflated, exhaling a breath of relief. His heart soared from her closeness, pure joy flowing inside him to see her unharmed. Tightening his hold, Legolas kissed her reddish head relentlessly, a flow of elvish prayers pouring out of him, thanking the Valar and dear Eru for her life.

Tears found their way into his eyes, and he let them fall, overwhelmed by the pool of sensation that assaulted his spirit. Some of hers, some of his, and all of them too powerful to be ignored. Despite the horrors of war, the field of dead surrounding him and the loss of so many, Legolas felt very much alive. And his heart sang from the desperate contact, his chest heaving, drinking in the cool air of the evening. Her slender frame, gathered against him, brought him more solace than anything in the world.

For a long time, Frances sobbed upon his breastplate, unaware of the surroundings, chasing the sadness away. Despite the hardness of the leather on her cheek, she melted into the elf's embrace. His arms, so strong around her, kept her conscious. A strand of his golden hair caressed her face, its softness strangely soothing. And after a while, she felt the tiny kisses he was bestowing upon her head.

Ironically, the reddish strands were probably the only part of her body not covered in blood. At last, Frances exhaled, releasing one shuddering breath that spoke of her weariness. Her eyes were heavy, and she would wish for nothing more than to fall asleep against the warmness of her elvish Prince. But she had made a promise, and intended to keep it. Lifting her head up, aware of the poor state of her face, she gazed into his eyes. The held such sorrow that tears welled up once more.

"Thank you, Legolas, for coming to me when I needed it most."

His face bent down to hers, worry lines marring his fair features, dirt and blood smeared across his cheekbone. Frances lifted her hand, gathering the sleeve of her tunic, to gently wipe the filth away. Her fingers lingered on the chiselled cheekbone, her bare skin replacing the cloth. Legolas closed his eyes for a moment, relishing in the softness of her touch. And then, his gaze met hers, and he frowned.

"I wish to apologise, Frances, for breaking my promise to you."

The young lady gazed at him in wonder, neck craned upwards to see him properly.

"I should have been there to help you down the rigging. I would have protected you from this."

"You are here now. The promise is fulfilled. And…"

Her lower lip wobbled, and the elf wanted nothing more than to kiss her senseless here and there. If only to wipe the grief away. As she choked on her words, the young lady gestured to the corpse lying at her feet.

"I promised… I promised that he would rest with his father and be properly buried."

Tears were spilling again from her eyes, and she buried her face in his chest once more. Legolas bent over her shoulder, recognition dawning on his face. Halbarad laid there, alongside his eldest son. The pool of blood, almost dried now, enlightened him on the situation. He understood now the distress of his beloved. She must have stayed by his side as he died.

"Come, Frances. You cannot stay on the battle field. You need rest. I will ensure that Halbarad and his son are properly buried, should I dig a grave myself. It will be a comfort to Aragorn to know what happened to his kin."

"I cannot thank you enough, Legolas, to share my burden so."

The elf gazed at Frances, his heart swelling with pride at her generosity.

"My sweet, sweet Frances. I wish I could have come sooner to spare you this grief. But I am sure that your presence helped the lad as he passed."

"I don't know. Maybe. It is always sad to die alone. But I am glad you are here. It is almost magical; I so sorely needed you and you came to me."

Her voice was low, the fatigue hitting her full force. Legolas contemplated her words. Now was not the moment to explain how he had felt her emotions, and how she might have shared his without realising. There would be better times suited for this. On a whim, the elf picked her up, gathering her slender frame in his strong arms. She did not protest, her hazel eyes boring into his. Her lips, a well-defined plump of soft pink, were slightly parted in surprise.

Before he carried her away, Legolas could not resist tasting them. Bending down, he captured the tentative lips in a chaste kiss, pouring his love and admiration for her in the softness of their touch. He did not expect the contact to fuel him with such renewed vigor. His whole being was asking for more but he resisted, pulling away before he could surrender to the heat of passion. Frances was too exhausted to take that step and make a decision. Now was not the time not the place to contemplate their relationship. As her eyes fluttered open, still dazed by their kiss, he smiled.

"Rest, Meleth. I will take you to the tents."

She was beautiful, even in her grief. It didn't matter if her hair was in disarray, her eyes puffy or her clothes so bloodstained that it was fit to be burnt. The expression on her face, full of love and compassion, was his undoing. Frances lived through every hardship with so much dedication. Now that he could feel her through their bonding Feä, he wondered how she managed to be so strong if she plunged into every second of her existence so fully.

Truth be told, Legolas yearned for this liveliness. He had always been a little different from his kin. Old enough so that men would seem children in his eyes, yet researching something more meaningful. And Frances could teach him. Of course, he would find her reactions immature at times, her spirit a little too rough on the edges.

By Eru, she was only nineteen years old! Hardly the age of reason to an elfling. And still, he saw wisdom in her attitude. Her refusal to let things be, to fight tooth and nail for what she believed. It was something that his people seemed to have forgotten. Would his beloved forest still be called Greenwood the Great had they been more prone to defend it?

The elven prince reluctantly left Frances into one of the tents, warning the few swan guards from Dol Amroth that should harm befall her, they would face his wrath. There was so much to be done before the sun disappeared fully behind the white mountains. The young lady had fallen into slumber in his arms, and she startled when he laid her down.

"Do not worry. I will be back when the field had been cleared. I will now take care of Halbarad and his son."

Frances, sitting on a straw mattress, only nodded. She did not trust her voice, desperate to keep him to herself, so she refrained from responding. Legolas was, at the moment, the only anchor that prevented her from falling apart. But the world needed him just as much, as would Aragorn and Gimli. And the dead as well.

Legolas deposited a tender kiss in her hair and disappeared from the tent, regret filling his heart. For he felt her distress as clear as if she had begged him to stay. Yet, he was grateful for her silence; he wasn't sure he would have gone if she had done so. Thanking her strength of mind, he dove once more in the dreadful aftermath of the battle.

Frances didn't move for a long while until someone called for her.

"Lady Frances?"

It was a woman's voice. Standing on wobbly legs, she lifted the flap of the tent to find a maid, her hands holding a basin of hot water. The young gondorian, hair jet black and lovely face, set the bowl down with a horrified look at her attire. Then, she deposited on the mattress a tunic of fresh linen, and a heavy dress. Bowing, the maid literally scuttered away from the camp.

Frances picked up the garment, running her fingers on the deep burgundy velvet, careful not to stain it. It was richly woven, the cut more elaborate than the dresses from Rohan. The young woman hummed her appreciation, silently thanking whoever had chosen it for her thoughtful gift. It was rather cold, despite the time of year.

For now, spring had failed to settle on Minas Tirith. Courtesy of the hideous clouds from Mordor! Frances washed herself as best as she could, considering that her long hair could use the whole basin of water on its own. Then, she discarded her linen tunic and breeches. There was no hope to save it given the amount of blood that had soaked through. Her stomach and arms were coated in the young Dunedain's blood, and she scrubbed it thoroughly, guilt gnawing at her as she washed away the only testimony of the ranger's life. When her ablutions were finished, she stared into the basin. Its water was red.

May the ancestors of those valiant fighters welcome them with the praise they deserved!

[1] Truthfull. Come to France and hear the dreadful sound of a TGV stopping in the station.