Musings

Legolas was gone for a while, and Gimli struggled to keep riding; Frances' skills were not up to par with the elf's soothing presence.

Dwarf and lady walked in silence for a while. It gave her time to think. Fearing that the elf would be cross with her seized her heart; it affected her so much. Why did he hold such weight? Why would his opinion be so important when others did not matter? True, Aragorn's point of view also did. He was, to her, some kind of father figure. A guide in this world. And yet, his opinion mattered less than Legolas. What, when, and how had all those changes happened?

Somewhere in her heart dwelt feelings that she could not acknowledge. Frances was, by principle, pledged to another. She had made sure that the company knew about Charlie, speaking of him from time to time, thinking of him when her mind was free to wander. Frowning, the young lady realised that her boyfriend was slowly but surely disappearing from her musings. The war in middle earth, impending death, Balrog, monsters and magic were too heavy in the balance. In the unlikely event that she survived and got back, Frances would have to consider the meaning of this. Was she unfaithful to have surrendered her heart to middle earth?

Live the moment.

If she had learnt one lesson as to now, it was that every second, every instant of one's existence meant something. Each moment should be lived like the last and could not be avoided. Those missions showed her that some events had no place in her timeline, they still made her what she was. If she got back home, she would be a different woman. Older, wiser, stronger as well.

Taught in the way of elves, touched by the grace of Lothlorien, imprinted by Elrond's family, awed by Glorfindel's presence, fearful for the Rohirrim and yet marvelling at their resilience. Each step in middle earth took her away from the young lady she had been beforehand. She felt those changes in her heart. They were profound, scarred into her being. In less than a year, she had grown so much. Like a butterfly after so much time spend as a chrysalis.

Would Charlie even recognise her? Would he still love her as she was? And did she still love him?

A baby's wail caused her to jump. Beside her, Gimli rode on, grumbling about the mood of elves and women. Around them, families pushed carts, children cried in exhaustion, faces fell as time passed. Many features were winkled from the effort.

At last, the two companions could not take it anymore. Gimli dismounted and left the horse for some other to use. A woman burdened by a little girl thanked him profusely as she tried to install her elderly mother on top of the mount. But the horse was too tall, and the woman too exhausted to manage on her own. She set the child on the ground; the little girl wailing while clinging to her skirts. Losing his patience, Gimli offered his help. Strong like he was, he could have thrown the elderly woman on the stallion without blinking. Intercepting the fearful look of the old lady, Frances intervened before the dwarf broke the poor grandmother into pieces.

— "Do no trouble yourself Gimli, I will help."

— "Ah!" he scoffed. "You probably weigh no more than her."

Frances laughed. She would not let that one go and challenged him.

— "Do you doubt the strength of my arm, friend?"

— "No, but let me see how you intend to lift that lady on the horse back."

She could have invoked his height, of course, but she was not much taller than he was, and most Rohirrim dwarfed her as well. Frances would not lower herself to blame Gimli for his short stature. As the discussion went on aside the war horse, Frances realised they were falling behind. Neither the woman not her mother dared interfering into the argument, too humbled by the company to utter a word. The child was still sniffing in her skirts, but her wails had stopped, replaced by a curious stare. At last, Frances suggested:

— "You could always kneel on the ground and we could use your back for the lady to step one. Like a footboard."

Gimli was about to roar in anger when the old lady was lifted in the air and settled on top of the stallion. Frances caught a glimpse of long hair, and the horse was off.

— "Come," said Legolas, "we cannot fall behind".

— "Damned elves," grumbled Gimli, setting off as well.

As the woman thanked her saviour profusely, the elf gazed at her. The Rohirric lady coiled a bit, unused to being stared at by an elf. No matter what kindness he showed, Legolas failed to realise how intimidating his very existence was. An elf in human lands. A legend that until yesterday, existed only from the tales of old. Frances smiled. Fortunately, no one knew of his title.

At the moment though, the elf bypassed the scared look on the mother's face, concentrating on her tired features. The haggard eyes spoke of too little sleep and sheer exhaustion. The elf prince opened his arms, offering to take her child with him. For a moment, Frances' breath caught in her chest. Elves were so distant, so secretive with their feelings that she could not fathom seeing them with children. And yet, Legolas' features were soft and encouraging, his light as comforting as ever.

But the girl would not hear of it, refusing vehemently to quit her mother's chest. The elf was probably too foreign for her to accept. And then, she did something totally surprising. The four years old lifted her arms to Frances, her green eyes shining with hope. The woman smiled but scolded her child for being too presumptuous. Yet the girl would not be undeterred.

— "I want the magician."

Frances' arms lifted on their own accord, not bothering to ask her brain about it. Hence the look of surprise on her face as she received the child against her chest.

— "All right. But I am no magician."

— "No magician? Princess? You travel with elf, dwarf, and a Lord. So you princess."

Sending a desperate look to Legolas, Frances was surprised to find a genuine smile upon his lips. She tightened her hold lest she dropped the child. Her back protested. It was a wonder her mother had been able to go all this way without failing. The woman gave her an apologetic look.

— "It would be easier if she climbs on your back, if I may suggest."

The elf nodded and, without awaiting for Frances' answer, reached for her bow strapped around her shoulder. In a swift movement, he had removed both weapon and quiver. His scent lingered behind him, surrounding Frances for a moment. Then he bent towards the girl and settled her on Frances' back, her frail limbs crossing over the lady's chest. As he did so, his voice came to the child's ears, soft and full of mirth.

— "Magician princess. You are an excellent judge of character, young one."

— "Hey, I am five already!", responded the girl. "And you?"

Frances started at the boldness of the child. Would Legolas answer such an intimate question? After many months of travels in his company, she still had no idea how long the elf had roamed the lands of middle earth. And she was eager to learn. But his eyes were not fixed on the child. His impenetrable gaze was instead set on Frances, as if to warn her. For a moment, she just stopped breathing under his scrutiny.

— "I am much, much older than you are," said he.

The child would not back down.

— "You cannot be, you look much younger than mama."

Frances snickered at that, but Legolas started walking, gesturing them to follow to catch up with the rest of the group. A gentle smile graced his lips as he progressed, his feet light as feathers while his companions imprinted the grass with their walking boots.

He knew Frances' left eyebrow would be quirked in this funny expression of hers, the sign that she wanted some explanations. He also knew the weight of her gaze whenever she was looking for answers. Stronger than a daughter of man in her manners, yet confusing with her wisdom. But still young, even by men's standards.

But Frances said nothing, probably too winded by the added weight of the girl. Somehow, the child fit well on her back, or so he thought. He did not turn too often, catching a few images that he committed to his memory when she wasn't looking. With her stray hair framing her face, the occasional curl brushing her reddened cheeks and her lively expression, Frances was lovely indeed. In his hands, her bow and quiver travelled comfortably until the girl had enough of being carried and asked to walk on her own. Then, the elf returned the items.

— "Your heart is immense."

Then he took off, and she didn't catch a glimpse of him until well after the camp was settled, and most of all, after the infamous stew the Eowyn had cooked.

Frances happened upon the pair, finding Eowyn's tunned look when she realised, at last, that Aragorn had fought alongside her grandfather such a long time ago. Truth be told, learning that one's flirt is eighty-seven age can unsettle some minds. But Frances was satisfied. With this information, the white lady of Rohan would probably understand that Aragorn was out of her league. His destiny was so much greater than this. A legend by his blood only, Isildur's heir, a captain ranger by merit, and a leader impervious to the ring. No one but Arwen could ever be strong enough to sit by his side.

The others were nowhere in sight, and Frances settled in her bedroll near the fire. The ranger stood watch, lost in his own musings. There was probably much on his mind; since he didn't feel inclined to talk, Frances didn't pry. She was exhausted, and her back ached. Such a sweet little girl, and still such soreness in her muscles! Granted, she was now a decent warrior. But by no means she was ready to be a mother. That was too tough a job ! Better behead some orcs than take care of a little one!