16 The choice

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They were arguing again. Very subtly, of course, but Frances had a keen hearing, and was supposedly fetching her arrows from the tree trunk she'd been practising on. The elf wasn't far away either; Strider had asked him to keep an eye on the young woman ... to be able to argue about the road with Gandalf. Words like "Caradhras", "Redhorn pass", "Gap of Rohan" and "Moria" were flying in the wind, coming her way as she gathered her projectiles. Had she not studied those maps in detail, the young woman wouldn't even be able to identify them. Frances shuddered, remembering how "Moria" was the second name of Khazad-dûm. Darkness, in Sindarin, the empty and pitch black caves of the song of Durin.

Strider and Gandalf seemed to avoid each other when dinner was served; not out of spite, for both men – if the old wizard could ever be considered such – were too wise to indulge in petty behaviour. No. It just seemed that the argument had waned, and no more needed to be said. Frances awaited for the others to settle, pretending to sleep while the hobbit's snores started to grace the fellowship's campsite. Despite the exertion of long walking days, she still found difficulty in slumbering during the daytime. Still, more often than not, exhaustion won the struggle and pulled her into oblivion. Sometimes, Aragorn's voice graced her ears as he hummed under his breath. The lay of Lúthien – his favourite – or any other lore of the Eldar mingled with Dunedain's poetry. She had lost count, as weeks advanced and her muscles became accustomed to the long walking days, of the times she had been lulled to sleep by his voice. Did he do it on purpose? She wondered ... perhaps it was only for himself, and perhaps he sook to bring reassurance over his companions. Either way, Strider was a born leader that managed to soothe her in the most undetermined situation.

She admired him; his strength, his drive, and the heavy weight upon his shoulders when he was, in truth, just a man. Not any man, but a second born still. If Gandalf was their natural leader; he decided on the path and most actions, he was too far away from a human mind for any of them to relate. Two thousand years he had roamed middle earth ... and countless before that in Aman. Or so Lord Elrond had told her. This even beat the ageless elves. Gandalf may look like an old man, but devoid of the trials of the human psyche; he was a Maiar, a servant of the Gods. Doubts, fears, subconscious feelings held no sway over him. A wizard he was, powerful and helpless to strike Sauron, yet no human. He offered little comfort, and even less conversation, always speaking in riddles and careful not to share things that couldn't be grasped by the human mind.

Frances lifted her sore neck from the bedroll; the wizard was nowhere in sight. Neither the elf, who often paired up with Strider when it came to watches. There was a long-lasting friendship there; she would have to ask how long they had known each other. Seeing that the coast was clear, Frances dragged her woollen cape – courtesy or the house of Elrond – around her shoulders and stood. At once, Strider's eyes met hers – nothing went past him – and she gave him a tired smile, tip toeing around the hobbits to reach the boulder he had settled upon. For an awkward moment, she wondered if he would scold her like a misbehaving child; his face gave nothing away as she sat beside him. Bright grey eyes loomed over the camp, taking a sweep at the sleeping forms and way beyond. The sky was gloomy, the day one of those annoying neither raining nor sunny, the light giving very little contrast and mingling everything into shades of grey.

- "Can you not sleep?" he asked.

Frances was glad he was shedding the "my lady" part more often than not now. It was bad enough that Boromir and the prince of Greenwood still couldn't call her by her given name.

- "There is something weighing heavily on my mind. I was hoping you could help."

She kept her voice low, words separated by silences to allow him to keep watch at the same time. Strider's long, dirty strands swayed when he cocked his head aside before nodding his assent. He was a man of few words even not on watch, so she was becoming rather adept at reading his expressions.

- "Did you ... did you decide which road we will take?"

Estel's eyebrows rose slightly, concern flooding his grey eyes. As once, Frances felt self-conscious about overhearing that previous argument.

- "I'm sorry... I remember you arguing about it in Lord Elrond's office so..."

- "You are quite the little spy," he said, amusement dancing in his grey eyes, but tone stern.

The seriousness of his accusation flustered her so much that shame flooded her.

- "I didn't mean to be sneaky," she stuttered. "I just like to know the road. I do hate surprises"

A warm hand landed upon her arm, grounding her instantly. She realised then that being a "little spy" might not be a chastisement.

- "You would be right. Fetch your map, I will show you," he responded, his low baritone soothing her stress away.

The young woman silently hopped to her bedroll, oblivious of the pair of blue eyes that followed her as she gathered the oiled map she had copied in Elrond's library. There was no supposed itinerary written upon it, every part detailed evenly so that the enemy wouldn't be able to understand their aim should they lay hands upon the item. Just a regular map of middle earth. Retreating to Strider's side, she opened it to show where she thought they were.

- "Is that where we are?" she asked.

The ranger moved her finger half an inch to the north.

- "So, where next? Gimli told me the high pass is a no-no."

Estel's eyebrows rose again at the expression, but he said nothing, worry line deeply creased upon his face. In this moment, he looked much older than his usual thirty-five ... yet still much younger than the eighty-seven he was supposed to be. She still had trouble wrapping her head around the notion of the descendants of Numenor; had the twin sons of Elrond not let the can out of the bag, she never would have guessed Aragorn's age.

For the moment, though, she hoped that the ranger's long years roaming middle earth could bring a solution to their predicament. And most of all, she wondered why in the world Gandalf did not agree with his assessment.

- "So? Where to?" she whispered.

- "The gap of Rohan should have been our road, but the white wizard controls the region."

Frances bit her lip; Gandalf had warned them to never utter Saruman's name while out in the open. Neither to speak about the ring. His spies dwelt in forests and hills, animals that could pass unnoticed and would perk as the wizard's name. The betrayal of the white wizard, other than being totally unbelievable, certainly put a damper to their plans. How could a being only second to the Valar be so easily corrupted? A wizard that had led the white council for hundreds of years, turned around by Sauron the deceiver? Questions that might never find an answer.

- "What's left?" she asked, frowning upon the map.

There just wasn't any other option from her point of view, and the young woman kicked herself for not checking it out sooner. What if, by a twist of fate, the fellowship was separated? She couldn't rely on Strider and Gandalf alone ... and Boromir seemed set on going through the Gap of Rohan. Didn't he get that he'd been lucky enough to escape Saruman's clutches because of his insignificance? But now, with the ring hanging from Frodo's neck, they could not count on it.

- "The Redhorn pass, at the feet of Mount Caradhras."

Frances' frown intensified; it was there that Celebrian, the twin's mother, had been taken upon her return from Lothlorien. But she wouldn't mention this, for what made the house of Elrond suffer was bound to bring sadness to the ranger. No, there was no need to dwell on such heartache when the main obstacle was more obvious.

- "How high is it?" she whispered.

The ranger mulled over her question and Frances mentally noted to take an altimeter next time she went on a mission. A precise map, with relief and all couldn't hurt, right?

- "I ... don't know. But the mountain is the highest around."

The young woman nodded, watching as grey eyes roamed camp once more, his attention called by the rustling of leaves further away. In the meantime, Frances muttered to herself, trying to find a probable altitude for her mountain pass. If Caradhras was the equivalent of Mont-Blanc, her highest summit in the Alps, the pass probably was around 3000 metres high. Which meant 2600 metres, more or less, above their current level. Given a drop of 1 degree every 200 metres ... 13 degrees less than in the high plains they were travelling.

- "Given today's temperature, we can expect a solid -7 degrees if the weather is nice, less if not."

- "Minus seven?" Estel whispered, his eyes still strained upon the same spot.

Frances bit her tongue; all those absolute notions were foreign to him and the cartographers of middle earth.

- "Zero is the temperature water freezes, and a hundred where it boils. More or less, so minus seven means freezing our asses"

The ranger lifted an eyebrow in a manner so reminiscent of his foster father that she couldn't contain the smile quirking her lips. Probably reacting to the "more or less" comment, or the "ass" one. If it was the first one, she really didn't want to go into the details of the solid/liquid curve as a function of pressure. Especially not while he kept watch. If it was her use of the "ass" word, well ... he would get over it.

- "Long story," she sighed. "Anyway, we can expect a drop of fifteen degrees, and lots of snow. Do you think..."

At once, Strider was on his feet, his bow drawn. Frances froze, her breath itching, adrenalin rushing through her veins. Should she jump to her bedroll and grab her own bow? Or unsheathe her sword lying next to it? Sheepishly, she realised that she was caught a dozen meters from her weapons. Foolish, foolish woman! Weaponless, she could only wait and see, heart thundering against her ribcage. A sudden fluttering of leaves freed a set of birds who flew away, their grey coat unknown to her. But not to Strider whose shoulders sagged in relief. Yet his bow remained trained until a long tumble of blond hair appeared within the adjacent tree, signalling that all was well. Or so she thought, for Strider stowed his bow away and sat again.

Cheeks ablaze, Frances watched as he resumed his watchful attitude, seemingly nonplussed by the false alarm. Had the man been more irksome, she would have found his calm annoying. But here she was, panting and shaking from the adrenalin, drawing strength and reassurance from him rather than sending her ire his way. Strider was a model; she would aim, each day, at learning skills and being more like him. And it bothered her all the more, given his blatant skill, that he would disagree with Gandalf.

- "I ... what's your choice? Of path, I mean"

Grey eyes turned to her for a moment, doubt swirling in their midst.

- "The pass"

Frances nodded; she doubted they would make it. Mountains could be treacherous, even in summer. Without equipment, how could they possibly survive such a hike in the heart of winter? They would have needed spiked boots, waterproof coats and Gore-Tex. And lots of cords. But Estel couldn't possibly ignore that fact, yet he chose to venture there. Somehow, it seemed a better alternative than the wizard's path in his eyes. Why? What could possibly more dangerous than treading upon a mountain path in the heart of winter with no more than boots or, for the hobbits, bare feet?

- "And Gandalf?"

- "Through the mines of Moria"

A shudder ran through her spine, a great sense of foreboding falling upon her shoulders like a blanket of darkness. Moria. The name itself was fearsome enough to send her heart plummeting into her shoes.

- "Gimli's kin?"

Estel nodded, his face impassive.

- "We haven't heard of Balin since they set off to retake Moria. And..."

He couldn't say it, not when the dwarf snored less than ten feet away from him. Still, he wasn't one to sugar coat and live in hopeful dreams. The loss of his father at such a young age had taught him that reality didn't care about wishes.

- "And?"

- "I fear they have fallen. It is but a feeling, I know. Nothing so rational ... just a hunch"

His voice, ordinary so steady, was now trailing. Frances butted in without subtility, a hint of a smile at the corner of her lips.

- "Says she man whose family is laden with seers."

The irony wasn't lost on him, neither the trust she placed in his gut feeling. Perhaps that his fears weren't so foolish after all. But he wasn't Lord Elrond, neither Arwen.

- "Instinct saved me countless times. Yours, perhaps, as well. And honestly, that name doesn't bode well."

Did she feel it as well? The tightening of his chest whenever he considered walking through the mines of Moria?

- "Gandalf is adamant we can't pass the Redhorn, I feel like I'm dragging him to his doom."

The young woman scrunched her nose as was her wont whenever she thought of something distasteful. Then, her warm chocolate eyes locked with his, serious, their depth sucking at his soul as realisation hit her.

- "Does he think he is walking to his doom?"

Estel eyes widened; he'd been so busy fighting Gandalf to prevent him from setting foot into the mines of Khazad-Dum that he had not considered the wizard might know what awaited them inside. A huff shook his chest.

- "I have no idea. And if he did, he wouldn't tell me."

- "Fair game. There's not much of a choice, then."

The ranger didn't respond, baffled by the expression, but even more by her acceptance. He was starting to understand the reasons why she had been thrown into their world as such a critical time, bringing her outlandish point of view into this quest. She looked fragile, but was anything but. Still... would her inner strength suffice to keep her alive ? He watched the tiny slip of a woman retreat to her bedroll after thanking him profusely. For what? He had no clue.

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