Frances drifted through the battle field in a haze, her limbs coated in sugar as she stumbled through the mist. Bodies littered the floor, their numbers so great that no strand of grass could be seen under their lifeless forms. For ages, the young lady strode on, hoping to escape the maze of ghosts and dying soldiers. But she was trapped on the battlefield, pursued by shadows and volutes of fog alike. Eyes heavy, feet dragging on the ground, she followed an orange glow that shone in the distance. A fire! It was a fire !

With renewed hope, Frances tried to hasten her pace, but her legs would not follow. No matter how hard she tried, she was rooted to the spot, unable to escape. And then the mist cleared out, and suddenly she was facing the great fire, closer than she imagined. How badly she wished for the fog to come back ! Such a horrid sight !

Frances wanted to close her eyes, but even then, the monster of fire was in her mind. A pitch black oval form surrounded by flames so dark, angry. She had seen it before, blaring flames of darkness; The Balrog. But instead of a monster of flame, she now faced evil itself. The great eye was Sauron the defiler. He reeked of darkness, his malice so grand that it oozed from its burning form. Her skin burnt, consumed by his anger. A horrible voice filled the air, a voice so dark that it seemed that the earth itself was speaking from within.

"There is no hope, Keeper of Time. Very soon, there will be nothing to save."

A hand dragged her foot and Frances snapped out of her trance. Erbaran 's bright eyes stared back at her, his mouth distorted in a cry of agony.

"Save me…" he repeated as he sank in a pool of blood.

The young woman tried to seize his wrist and pulled hard. His skin was slick with blood, and no matter how firm her grasp, the ranger was sliding away from her. He screamed then, and was sucked away in the horrible blaze, leaving red marks on her fingers. His clear eyes held her as the great eye devoured him alive, terrified.

Frances screamed, helpless.

In his stead stood Halbarad, proud and tall, eyes ablaze.

"You arrogant fool! You distracted him, you delayed us and dragged your useless form on the battlefield. My son died because of you. You should burn as the witch you are !"

A deep booming laugh greeted Halbarad.

"And so she will," said the voice beyond the grave.

Dread filled Frances as the flames engulfed her, tearing at her flesh. Her hair caught fire instantly, disappearing in mere seconds in a heap of black smoke as her skull burnt. But then, a great light surrounded her, so blinding that her eyes closed. The pain receded, replaced by the softness of a warm breeze upon her skin. The light kept her in its embrace for a while until dawn replaced it. And then it lifted, and Frances, barely awakened, went back to sleep.

Many hours later, the young woman stirred under the covers. Opening one bleary eye, she realised that morning had probably come and gone without her batting an eyelash. The clouds of Mordor had receded temporarily, allowing Minas Tirith the respite of a proper daylight. Confused, she sat in her bed and waited for consciousness to wash over her. Had she dreamt the latest evening, or had she really managed to share her energy with Aragorn?

Shaking her thoughts, Frances sighed. She could not discern the truth from the rest. The exhaustion of the later days had finally taken their toll. But she felt better rested now, especially after sleeping half the day away. Still, her mind was a bit cloudy. Her body though, ached everywhere. Dragging herself out of bed, she found a few slices of bread and cheese on a tray, and wolfed it down. Then, she settled in front of the fire with a cup in hand, sitting in silence.

It felt weird, to be sitting silently in a room fit for royalty. For her accommodation was incredibly well furnished and all matched in colours of deep red and gold. After Helm's deep, their wild chase with ghosts on their tail and sleeping on hard rocks, she should have felt serene in such luxury. But she did not. Erbaran's eyes haunted her. Frances shuddered, and tried to find a little respite from her thoughts by staring into the fire. How many times, as a child, she had lost her gaze into the flames to soothe her mind? Even through the travels of the fellowship, she had found comfort in the dancing flames.

Minas Tirith was surprisingly quiet given the ordeal the city had been through. Yet, she did not want to think about burials and funeral pyres just yet. The reddish embers devouring the logs brought her a great deal of uneasiness. Was it the wood, blackened and crumbling that frightened her so? Standing up too quickly, Frances nearly toppled over. Some of the herbal tea slouched over the fire with a hiss before turning into vapour instantly. Setting the cup down on her tray, Frances caught her cloak and fled the room. She needed to be outside lest she went crazy! Her feet roamed numerous corridors, until at last, she huffed in frustration and asked the guard the direction to the houses of Healing. At least she could visit Merry. The hobbit would, for sure, sheer her up.

Or so she hoped.

Frances passed the citadel's gates in haste, her hood fixed upon her reddish hair to conceal her identity. She felt compelled to hide, especially since Aragorn did not want to claim his inheritance right now. Eventually, she reached the garden of the houses of healing. The young lady paused, her nose smelling the fresh air that she so desperately needed. A bench waited for her. Although the gardens had not been her destination, she indulged in the moment to claim it.

The terrace overlooked the city; so did the darkness of Mordor. How beautiful would the view be once this threat was over! In her mind, she saw Aragorn, hair clean and clad in beautiful garments, a crown upon his head, watching the exact same view from the highest levels of Minas Tirith. His face was serene, his task accomplished. In his grey eyes reflected the darkened mountains, but there was no fire within. The land, at last, was at peace. Happy.

Strangely, the King was sad.

Frances frowned, escaping from her reverie. How she longed to be able to draw to imprint this vision of hope and show it to Aragorn. If only a figment of her mind, it was still a beautiful moment. For now though, the fires of mount doom reflected on the darkest clouds she had ever seen. What a pity for Gondor to face such a desolate land!

Pulling her hood down, Frances breathed deeply, relishing in the freshness of the air. No matter how difficult the last days had been, she was grateful that the Grey Company had travelled in the open. There was nothing like trees and earth to make her feel happy. Except for the sea… Leaving her thoughts wander back to the shores of her childhood, she failed to hear the footsteps that approached her.

"Frances! What a surprise!"

The young lady turned around, a smile gracing her rosy lips.

"Pippin! I'm happy to find you. I've been a little lost without my companions as of late."

"I understand what you mean. We have been travelling so long together that I also have trouble getting used to being on my own again. But come, we must visit Merry and Faramir. I heard the steward was awake."

Having seized Frances' hand, the hobbit was tugging on like a child. The young lady relented. Let it not be said that moroseness had won the day over ! Right before they entered Faramir's room, Pippin turned around as if enlightened by sudden knowledge.

"You remember what Strider said, right?" he whispered.

Frances nodded, her lips pursed. Aragorn had forbidden the healers to give Faramir's the grievous new of Lord Denethor's demise until he was fit enough to resume his studies. It seemed like sound advice, but Frances could not help but feel bad to conceal such a thing. Everyone deserved the truth.

A sudden ray of light caught her in the eye: Pippin had opened the door and smiled at the newly appointed Steward. The young man attempted to greet them cheerfully, and failed miserably. Dark circles still lingered under his eyes, and would not disappear for a long time.

His trials were not so different than her own, except that she had the support of her company instead of being scowled at by her father figure. She knew how low one's self esteem could be when being scolded like a child. Her heart went out to him. How he resembled Boromir, and yet seemed to much younger. There was a freshness in his eyes that the eldest did not have. Some uncertainty also, and a lot of self-doubt. Where Boromir's behaviour was not short of bragging, Faramir's quiet gaze told her the opposite of his character.

"My lord Faramir. I hope you will not mind; I have brought some merry company from our fellowship. This is the lady Frances, from … uh."

Never before had Pippin had to introduce his companion, and he felt now at loss about her origins. Frances did not let the hobbit put his foot in his mouth and curtsied.

"I hope my presence will not hinder your recovery. I am glad to see you awake."

The Steward's features lightened a bit, but his eyes remained sad.

"My lady. Your companion Frodo spoke a little about your company. Yet I had not known that a woman had joined this fearful quest,"

Frances smiled, and lowered herself on a stool to level her gaze with the steward.

"It was not out of spite, I assure you. I have been called crazy a few times, and I admit that some of the saying are true, but even I would not go to that length of madness."

Faramir's grey eyes twinkled a little. Of all the sayings about Lady Frances, he had not expected the woman to be so lively and fiery-spirited.

"I admit that I was curious about you. There are many rumours running around the city as of now…"

"Already? Damn, news run fast."

Pippin, silently watching the exchange, was practically clapping his hands together. He had brought Frances to lighten the mood, and he was beside himself to see Faramir taking the bait.

"Oh, pray tell my lord, what have you heard ?"

The young woman lifted an eyebrow in the hobbit's direction, to which Pippin answered in a huge smile. The camaraderie between them brought some solace to Faramir's sombre mood, and he couldn't help but coat the stories a little to amuse his hobbit friend.

"I have heard she fought valiantly against ten thousand orcs…"

"Remove 'valiantly' and you have it. And they had me…", muttered the young lady.

Faramir stopped an instant until his eyes met her expectant gaze.

"And that she rides with the king and is an elf-friend."

The young lady smiled, thinking about their boisterous arrival on the Pelennor fields with the Corsairs of Umbar. That had been quite an entry!

"All right, nothing too compromising as of now."

"And that she must be a witch or a fairy because she magically helped the King to cure people from the Black Breath."

Frances nodded, appalled. How was she going to explain that when she had no idea what had happened?

"Wait, you can do that?" asked Pippin, his eyes wide.

The young lady sighed. Count on Pippin to never let go an embarrassing subject.

"Er. Not exactly. I'll tell you later."

Then she turned to Faramir.

"Is that all they say about me my lord? Then I find I am very safe from gossiping."

Was that irony he heard in her voice? Was she getting upset about the sayings? Yet, he would not stop until he had said it all.

"And that she is well renown amongst the kingdoms of elves, men and dwarves alike."

Frances snorted. Where did that come from? Before she could try to pry it from the Steward, she noted that his jaw was tense.

"I do not give much attention to gossip. There is one thing, however, I would like to ask of you."

"Shoot."

Faramir's dark eyebrows shot so high that it reached his hairline. Frances hastily corrected her speech before he could choke on her lack of formalism.

"I apologise on behalf of my tongue, it sometimes runs ahead without waiting for my brain to keep up. Please ask away, my lord."

The image shocked him beyond measure. Had he not been so tired, Faramir would have loved to converse further. Still, he wanted something from her, and he wanted it before he had to close his eyes once more.

"Were you here when my brother died?"

Frances blanched, her stomach dropping fast at the memory. Seeing her reaction, Pippin's hand came to rest upon her shoulder. She seized it with more force than was necessary.

"I was."

Tears welled in her eyes, and she let them fall without shame. Faramir instantly regretted his curiosity. The excruciating pain of losing his brother had driven him insane, but he had not through an instant that it would be such a painful memory for the woman whose legends accumulated by the hour in Minas Tirith. Yet, she did not seem angry at him for asking.

"I have waited a long time to meet you after Boromir's death."

Faramir's expression lightened, bringing a little life on his defeated features.

"Has he left a message for me?"

"No. I am sorry. He had not the time. But I wanted to meet you, to tell you he died honourably."

"For sure he did, he saved our lives!" explained Pippin.

His voice cracked a little. Until now, no one had taken the time to details Boromir's death to him. And nor him nor Merry had asked about it, too entranced in the war to do so. Or maybe he just wasn't ready to accept it. Their friendship had been akin to no other.

"After you were taken, the orc that shot Boromir tried to end him with an arrow to his head. But Aragorn was faster, and nearly got killed preventing it. He held Boromir's hand as he died on the battlefield. We laid him to rest in a boat and launched it on the Anduin with his horn, shield and sword."

Faramir's cheeks were damp.

"The hobbit. He told me Boromir died because he tried to take the ring from Frodo. Tell me truthfully Lady Frances, had my brother fallen for this accursed ring ?"

To this, Pippin gasped audibly. Frances closed her eyes for a second, and when she opened them, her gaze was fixated into the Steward's. How could she lie to him? No, she could not.

"It is true he had succumbed, yet he had the courage to confess this himself. This horrid ring attacked all of us, but none as strongly as Boromir. It has used his will to defend his city, to defend you from Mordor."

"And my brother was not strong enough…"

"I might not have been strong enough either, but I was too insignificant for the ring to be of use. I am glad this thing is gone. The air seems clearer, the light brighter since if it was removed from our side. I feel for Frodo, to carry such an evil burden all the way to … there."

"I felt it too," said Pippin. "And you know how it feels like, to have the ring near, don't you, my lord?"

Faramir's pensive face nodded.

"Yes. I have come across it, and it took all my strength to let it go."

Frances observed the young man in awe. He was so different from Boromir, seemingly weaker, but in truth much wiser.

"Then you have a strong will indeed. You have shown a great deal of wisdom in doing so. You did not benefit from Elrond's council, and yet you took the best decision for this world."

"I am still unsure about the outcome of it all. But of this I am sure, had this ring come close to Minas Tirith, my father would be lost."

Pippin suddenly shuffled on his feet, hoping that Faramir would not pursue this line of thinking. Unfortunately, his prayers were purely ignored.

"Lady Frances. Have you heard about my father? No one here will tell me how he fares."

Frances stared into his grey eyes. So full of intelligence. The man had fooled her through and through. Feverish and sickly, she had not expected him to interrogate her about his father. Yet, now that she had been fully honest about his brother's death, he knew her to be truthful. Pippin put a hand on her arm, distracting her for an instant, his eyes pleading.

"We should not have lingered Frances, Merry should be expecting us and we are hindering your rest, my lord. The healer will be on our backs in an instant."

Frances' gaze passed from Pippin to Faramir, her heart unsettled. The Steward looked so dejected that her heart broke. No, this would not do. The man already suspected some bad news. Hiding it was a painful reminder of those doctors that kept the information for fear of their patient's reaction. Faramir was a good, sensible man. She could not, on her honour, keep him in the dark. Especially after he reacted so well to the tales of his brother's death.

"Go on, Pippin. I will join you shortly."

The hobbit frowned, but took his leave nonetheless. At least, he would not be responsible for the next catastrophe. He, for one, was done being scolded by Gandalf. Frances waited for the door to close until she settled back on her stool.

"Please, my lady. You have been sincere before. Do not let me linger in the dark. I know something has happened to my father."

"My lord Faramir. The King had given explicit orders to your healers that you should not be bothered with matters of Gondor until you are recovered. This is why no one will talk to you."

"Will you not tell me then?"

Frances' eyes fell in her lap. She could not stand the defeated look on his face.

"As much as I respect Aragorn as a leader, and a healer, I do not share his opinion on the subject. And speaking of which, I am no subject of his, and might never be. I am of the mind that a man should be the one to decide of the things that affect him. However, you must promise me that you will do everything you can to recover, no matter the outcome of this war, and the news I am about to bring. I could not bear to have sidestepped Aragorn's order after all he went through to bring you back."

Faramir nodded, his throat too dry to speak.

"You must promise, Faramir."

The use of his name, so softly spoken, shook Boromir's brother enough for him to promise. Frances took a great inspiration, hoping he would be strong enough.

"As you have feared, your father died on the siege of the city."

The young man exhaled slowly, his eyes closing from the blow. Without thinking, Frances reached for the man beside her, conveying her deepest sympathy.

"How? How did he die?" came his muffled voice.

"Faramir."

Frances' voice was quivering. She did not want to go that way. His grey eyes bore into hers so intensely that she had to turn her head around.

"Please."

"I was not there at the time. I have heard things, but do not want to tell you falsehoods."

"My lady. Please. What have you heard?"

The young man bent over, his body coming to meet hers. His jaw was set, his heart braced for impact. Frances exhaled slowly.

"I heard that he was overcome by a fit of dementia and killed himself when the gates were breeched."

Faramir fell back on the cushions, his free hand covering his mouth as tears leaked from his eyes. Frances' eyes misted over, her own tears falling down freely. How difficult for Faramir to accept that both his father and his brother had failed in their own way. How ironic that he should be the only one standing after being sent to certain death. The young lady squeezed his hand tightly, and his fingers curled around hers as if she were his lifeline.

"I am sorry to grieve you so. It is a sad ending for a man who kept Minas Tirith safe all those years."

"It is, yes" came Faramir's choked voice.

For a while, both occupants of the room were silent. The Steward fingers still held hers, his grief falling over his cheeks silently. Eventually though, he nodded to her.

"Thank you for sharing the truth Lady Frances."

She smiled sadly.

"I have done so because I judged you strong enough to handle the news. Please do not prove me wrong."

Faramir nodded silently and realised, eyes wide, that his hand still held the lady's. Frances stood up as he released her, and smiled genuinely.

"Those are sad times, but fortunately there are still good men to be saved. Sleep my lord, and rest. The city can only benefit from your tutelage."

"I thank you, my lady."

"Be safe, my lord Faramir," she added as she bowed.

There was much fondness in her voice, a new-found affection for a man who had gone to the depth of hell, yet risen above it all to survive. Faramir was a quiet person she could befriend easily, for she felt a kinship to his predicament. For ages, she as well had held herself in low regards. Until she met the fantastic people that had shaped her into what she was today. The Steward did not allow her to dwell on thoughts of her childhood – a very normal childhood as it was, but not devoid of pain and humiliation – , for he greeted her back with as much warmth as his weary mind could manage.

"Be safe, Lady Frances."

The young woman paused, her hand on the doorknob, her eyes twinkling in mischief.

"You know, I am surrounded by Lords, Kings and Princes. I can hardly be safer than in my present company."

The Steward's lips slightly twitched upwards. An interesting lady indeed.

Frances left silently, joining Pippin at Merry's bedside, and listening to all that had transpired in Rohan while the grey company passed the fated 'Path of the dead'.

"Forgive me for asking, Frances, but how did you quell Faramir's curiosity about his father?"

Frances' eyebrow shot up as she turned to the rusty haired hobbit.

"I told him the truth…"

Pippin's gasp interrupted her, and she gave him a stern look.

"Most of it. There are things that no human being should ever be the recipient of, and the tidings of his father's true madness I kept for myself."

"But Strider?"

Frances' feature closed off, her teeth gritting at the thought.

"I know what Strider said and I will deal with the consequences, but the Lord Faramir deserved the truth about his father's death."

For a moment, she thought that Pippin would find the courage to argue. Until at last, he deflated.

"I am glad you did it. I have come to care deeply for Faramir, and felt bad lying to him."

Frances sighed in relief.

"You're welcome."

Not ten minutes had passed in Merry's room – or so she thought, having no watch to acknowledge time – before Elladan himself came to fetch her. Frances blushed as his grey eyes stared at her. Had he heard the previous conversation? In that case, she was in for a good scolding. Yet, his handsome features betrayed nothing.

"Frances. Aragorn would like you to attend the council we are holding presently."

"Me?"

"You."

The tight-lipped elf let nothing show of his amusement, but the twinkle in his eyes told her otherwise. Incorrigible elf. As she bade farewell to her companions and started walking alongside the twin, she tried to fish for some information.

"Does it make sense to you that I attend such a thing?"

"It might have to do with this 'Keeper of time' nickname."

Frances snorted. Nickname, right. She grabbed the elf's arm to slow him down a little as she struggled to keep up. They were descending the cobbled stones of the city at a greater speed than she could handle, and six levels were a loooong way down.

"Right. You are making fun of me, aren't you?"

This time, the corner of his lips quirked up. For an instant, Frances was lost in the beauty of his features. Most elves were unfairly gorgeous, but the twins had been graced with some rugged charm as well. Still, it could not compare to Legolas' blinding handsomeness.

"Me, fair lady ? I never could."

Frances made a face and stuck her tongue out.

"You certainly are a prankster when Elrohir is not around. But come, lead me to this great council of yours so that I can display my grandeur."

The elf slowed his pace, a frown marring his features.

"I think Aragorn will be most pleased with your grandeur, it would certainly cause him less worry that your recklessness."

"Me, reckless?" she added, her hand flying to her chest in a mocking gesture.

"I think the manner in which you decided to retire yesterday evening was quite unheard of."

Frances frowned, trying to remember the stupidities she might have told the twins before retiring. But her memory was blank. Damn, she had fainted here and there ! How very elegant !

"You mean passing out? I though well-bred ladies did it all the time."

"Not you", the elf deadpanned.

Frances raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Are you implying that I am not a proper lady?"

Elladan's gaze lingered for a second, piercing through her armour with frightening accuracy.

"Absolutely."

That seriousness, paired with the deadpan reply almost cracked her up. The young woman laid a wounded hand upon her chest with grandiloquence.

"Damn. You have shattered all my dreams."

"You are not an idle well-bred lady, Frances. You are tougher, stronger than that. Still, you had us all frightened."

There had been compliments in the midst of those reproaches.

"Er. Thank you, I think. And sorry as well."

The sensation of her energy leaving her body had been as confusing as it had been exhilarating. What an experience! But then, passing out in the middle of the room could have been avoided. A stray thought suddenly hit her square in the face. How she hoped that Legolas had not seen her in such a state! Would she even dare asking ?

"When you say all, who are you talking about exactly ?", she pried, feigning nonchalance.

"Well. Elrohir and I, Aragorn, of course, and the prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth as well."

A sigh of relief escaped her lips, and Frances could not help but jest.

"All right. Way to go to make a good first impression on the man, right?"

Suddenly, Elladan's hands were on her shoulders, his eyes intense as he stared at her face. "Frances. What you have done is an extraordinary feat, a feat that could have killed you."

Killed her ? Really ?

"Sorry. I mean, honestly, I have no idea how it happened. Next time, if there is a next time, I shall endeavour to be more cautious and to learn how to use this. But in the meantime, dire circumstances call for dire measures. You were as exhausted as I was, all of you. We could not let those people die because we needed a nap."

Elladan nodded, and he let her arm rest on his as he started walking again.

"You might be more of a healer that you give yourself credit for."

"If so, I would have cured people instead of giving my life force to the skilled healer of the room."

Elladan's sly look was the only answer as they passed the gates and crossed the encampment to Aragorn's tent. Frances tensed at his side, and one of his warm hands covered her own for support.

Voices filtered from the tent, most of them known to her. Eomer of Rohan, Imrahil of Dol Amroth, the gruff one of Gimli, son of Glóin, and the softest one of Legolas, Prince of Greenwood. And above all of them, oozing authority, the calm and resolute voice of Aragorn, King of Gondor and Arnor, seconded by Gandalf's wise and rumbling comments. A mighty reunion of Kings … and The Keeper of Time.

Wow. This was quite mindblowing.

A heavy silence settled as Elladan pushed the flaps and nearly dragged Frances into the tent. Neither Eomer nor Imrahil knew about the lady's lineage and, despite the familiarity she seemed to share with her company's royalty, were at loss about how to greet her in the midst of this council. The fate of middle earth hung in the balance; the presence of a young woman seemed strange to them.

Fortunately, they were both too well-mannered to remark upon it. A good man never questioned a woman's usefulness, especially when the future King asked for her… and she was escorted by a three thousand years old elf. Elrohir's eyes twinkled merrily, and in a single sentence, he laid the tension to rest.

"Aye, sweet lady, colours have returned to your face."

Frances beamed at the twin, a genuine smile that Legolas would have loved to be the recipient of. A moment later, Gimli was greeting her as well, and she answered cheerfully.

Legolas could not help but daydream of the moment they would set off and travel the land together. A dwarf, an elf and a maiden. A feisty company to unravel the wonders of middle earth. Aragorn's frown was lifted as he took in Frances' features. She looked much better than the day prior.

"I am glad that you could join us," the ranger said, setting aside thanks and reproaches alike.

"Lady Frances."

Both Eomer and Prince Imrahil bows were respectful, as if she were royalty. The young lady blushed before she returned the bow.

"My lords. I am sorry for having caused such worry. You have my most heartfelt apologies. And it seems that I must thank you, Prince Imrahil, for taking care of me last night."

"It was my pleasure, my lady."

The man stood tall, his long whitish hair framing his handsome face. He cut an impressive figure; but even men like him got tired after days of battle. And Pippin had told her that the Prince had all but led the siege before reinforcements arrived. A man after her own heart !

"You honour me, but I am quite mortified that you had to carry me such a long way."

There was a glint of steel in his light blue eyes.

"Think nothing of it, my lady. It was but a small repayment for taking such good care of my swan knights. Had you not given your strength, many of them might be dead by now."

The young lady smiled graciously. In manners as in speech, the Prince reminded her of Boromir in his better days. The twinkle in his gaze as he opened his mouth once more was a dead giveaway of the family trait.

"I fear I must be honest with you, for I did not carry you past the gate of the seventh level."

He paused, for dramatic measure, and was satisfied to see the puzzled expression on the lady's face. Legolas, on the other side, groaned; he knew payback had come for his rash behaviour against the Prince of Dol Amroth, and could do nothing as the man denounced him.

"A wood-elf stole you from my arms with a very deadly determination. I had no other choice but to surrender."

A boisterous laugh – Gimli - startled the company as Frances turned to Legolas, surprise etched on her face, cheeks reddening anew. For an instant, she saw the flicker of annoyance in his impossibly blue eyes. But then, the Prince was back to his charming self, and nodded to her. To his right, Gandalf's arm squeezed Gimli's shoulder to quell his laughing.

A meaningful look was exchanged between the twin sons of Elrond. Aragorn, amused, rolled his eyes. It felt good to think of better things than war and death. Still, the fate of middle earth had to be decided, and once the mood has settled, he set to the task at hand.

Frances was silent as the counsel unfolded, her presence quiet but not subdued as the golden hazel of her gaze flickered from a leader to another. A map lay upon a makeshift table; the perfect support to get a lay of the land. The young woman scooted closer to the future King, her finger tracing the lines their army was supposed to travel. Then… her index stopped at the black gates. They loomed, imposing, overwhelming, upon the land of Ithilien. A fortress of volcanic rock. A geologic impossibility. Who had risen them so high, to enclose the dead land that was Mordor ? A shudder ran up her spine as she caught Aragorn's eyes.

This is our destination.

The King stared into her eyes, as if waiting for her support. The young woman gazed back intensely, her eyebrows set in a frown, until she nodded to him. He knew the land, its people, and fought for Frodo. It was suicide, and she would follow him to the end.

Across the table, Legolas' mind rolled. Never before had he witnessed so obviously the closeness these two shared. They sometimes behaved as if they were kin, supporting each other without fault. Did she have visions of the future that Estel would trust her opinion so much? Or was she, like she had proved to be until then, an anchor for the heir of Gondor?

He understood better now why Frances had downright refused to accept Aragorn's death. She was his most sturdy support on this crazy quest, the voice of reason, the woman who provided a little hope when Estel had none left. How queer, for a maiden so young, to inspire a great man like Aragorn. Perhaps because she understood the plight of being a second born?

With so many powerful friends at his side, he started to realise that Aragorn probably felt lonely. He was the shortest lived of their group, the oldest looking one already – apart from Gandalf. Who better than a mortal with a shorter lifespan and a blatant vulnerability to understand and ponder his decisions? Frances was, somehow, akin to the people he tried to protect.

Human, vulnerable to blade and disease, and short-lived. Not sturdy like a dwarf, nor indestructible like a wizard, nor light-footed and deadly like himself. And carrying all those weaknesses, she still followed. Through fire and death, through fear and coldness, through war and despair, she had not left their side. An extraordinary woman. No wonder she had a prophecy wrapped around her little finger!

Legolas, following roughly the count of men that each of the Kings and Princes should gather, though his heart would burst. How he loved her ! But they marched to their deaths. Seven thousand men only against the full wrath of Sauron !

And for sure, Prince Imrahil was scoffing now.

"Surely this is the greatest jest in all the history of Gondor: that we should ride with seven thousands, scarce as many as the vanguard of its army in the days of its power, to assail the mountains and the impenetrable gate of the Black Land! So might a child threaten a mail-clad knight with a bow of string and green willow !" (direct quote from the Return of the King.)

A moment later, he agreed to follow. Eomer nodded his own assent, and Legolas' respect only grew for the race of men. How could someone even hope to outlive this battle ? They would set forth to the Black Gate on the day after tomorrow. He felt his jaw tense but kept his posture relaxed for the sake of the others.

Yet, he couldn't help but steal a glance at Frances. The young lady stood, cane in hand, as proudly as an oak. She had not voiced any concern, but her face said it all. Her courage, once more, fed his admiration. He knew that nightmares plagued her dreams, he had witnessed it firsthand the previous night. War had left a scar on her soul, a deeper scar that the one that marred the skin of her thigh.

A sweet memory played in his mind, one he would cherish forever but could not share with anyone. In the little hours of the night, Legolas had climbed through the window. He meant to offer comfort, and make sure that she would want for nothing. But her steady breath and sweet scent had lulled his sense of danger. Climbing beside her upon the enormous bed, Legolas had rested his back upon the headboard and allowed a restorative meditation to overtake him.

Whimpers had awakened him; he's hesitated to reach out, until his hand had decided to lay upon her shoulder. A featherlike touch; her features had softened at once. For once, he had been at leisure to contemplate the silvery light of the moon over her lovely face. His long fingers had stroked her hair once, or maybe twice. A low hum of contentment, a purr almost, had escaped her lips. Seated beside her, his legs barely touching her arms through the coverlet, Legolas had fallen into elven slumber and taken his rest. Dawn had greeted him in all its glory. Before anyone could detect his presence, he had jumped into the trees below her window, and disappeared in the streets.

Frances' keen eyes were searching his, and he could not prevent from gazing at her. Did she know how delicate her features had been shaped, how intense her gaze when she wanted to? Yet, he could not acknowledge his feelings for her. Legolas sadly smiled, and dropped his head.

In two days' time, he would ride to meet his death. In a week, there would be nothing left of him to offer. He could not surrender control to his feelings, it would be too unfair for her. Better to leave now, before his feelings got the better of him, lest he binds himself to a maiden and leave her behind. The only memory of their relationship resting in the kiss they had shared, and the impervious emotions of his dying heart.

Once their war plans were complete, Legolas left swiftly, avoiding Frances' gaze. He needed some time to meditate, or to contemplate the stray gulls that sailed back up the Anduin. Better to dwell upon the sea longing that upon the ache within his chest, for the memory of their kiss still danced in his heart.