58 The tale of the Keeper of Time

For one sweet moment, she really believed he was going to dig his graceful fingers in her hair. Even if that thought disturbed her, a part of her was looking forward to the contact. When his hand dropped and his beautiful eyebrows furrowed, Frances' eyes pleaded for him to come closer. His blue gaze enchanted her. Barely acknowledging Eomer, who was still owning her other arm, Legolas bowed.

"I am thrilled to see you again my lady."

He kept his concerns silent by fear of sounding rude. Frances arched an eyebrow at the title. Forgetting that she was speaking to a prince in front of a crowd of Kings, the words left her mouth.

"How many times will I have to tell you that I'm not … or never mind?"

Legolas, kept his bearing. Eyes twinkling, he addressed the King's nephew with grace.

"Hail Eomer, this beer you make in Rohan is tasteful."

"I am glad you liked it. Now, if you will excuse me, I think it is time I joined my men anew."

Whatever was happening between those two, Eomer felt way out of his depth. Better to leave.

"I thank you for the company, Marshall of Rohan," Frances said with a smile.

"The pleasure is mine my lady."

Eomer released the young woman's arm and bowed to them, quickly disappearing in the crowd. And there stayed the elf and Frances, the two of them closer than ever.

"Would you wish some fresh air?"

Frances scrunched her nose in an adorable mimic. Surely she could smell the foul air as much as he.

"That would certainly be enjoyable."

Legolas took her hand and settled it in the crook of his arm, as was the custom. There, he had anchored her to him, and it felt great. Slowly, they made a few laborious steps.

"How is your leg?"

"Aching," she answered, feeling the need to be honest for once.

"Is walking painful?"

"Less than riding. The trip has been hard on the stitches; I have to say that I am quite afraid of the results…"

Legolas froze, his brow furrowed in concern.

"We will have to ask Estel to tend to your wound."

"Yes. I certainly will. Once party is over."

For once, Frances had not dismissed the idea for help. For once, she had not said, 'it doesn't matter' or 'don't worry about it. The elven prince immersed his gaze into hers, looking for the suffering that always left marks, no matter how stout a warrior could be. And there they were; the tight lines around her mouth, the stiffness of her posture and the cloud of pain in her eyes. Legolas could not bring himself to let her suffer and endanger her life further by reopening the wound.

"Shall we move?" asked Frances, wondering what he had in mind.

"Yes," he murmured.

As two arms encircled her waist, the young woman let out a muffled cry.

"What do you think you're doing !"

"Leading you out without suffering from your scars"

His voice was amused, yet they held a tad of uneasiness.

"Mmmph"

However disturbing this was, Frances had to admit that they were moving much faster. His arms were warm and strong, encasing her body into a world of safety. And she longed for it, especially after those moments spent alone in Helm's deep. For a while over there, she had thought she was contemplating the stones of her tomb. Yet, she had made it, and was now moving with ease in the arms of an elven prince. Glaring at the people who dared mock her while passing their drunken figures, Frances found herself on the platform of the golden hall in no time.

"How do you feel?" asked Legolas while pulling her down with great care.

"I…"

She didn't know how she felt. Frustrated maybe, not to be able to walk by herself. Tired, pissed at her inability. Her voice came out sharper than she intended to as she pointed her stick to the Golden hall.

"Do you know what people are going to say now? That was a show they're not likely to forget."

Frances could not understand why she felt so angry, especially since her body now craved for his reassuring presence. The pain had been blinding for quite some time, and it was still very difficult to bear. Perhaps the exhaustion from the trip had shortened her patience, but it did not explain why she would lash at the poor elf so violently.

"I … I didn't think… I'm sorry," the elf stuttered while staring down, realising the truth in those words.

Stunned by her sudden anger, Legolas could not prevent from slapping himself mentally. By trying to help her, he feared he had somehow compromised the maiden. She was a pure heart, and bound to another man at home. If his foolish actions brought dishonour on her, he would not forgive himself. However, somewhere in the back of his mind he had enjoyed carrying her, but he would not admit it. Her hair had been sweet across his cheek, and her small frame had leant into him and welcomed his warmth.

As a prince, Legolas had not been accustomed to such contacts, most of the time receding in his thoughts or fighting for his life. This was new, and he craved for those moments when they would touch. The pang of guilt always reminded him that she was somebody else's betrothed, but in adversity they had become close friends and he would not deny it. He could, however, not deny either that such contact between a male and a female was not appropriate. Had his father witnessed it, he would have given him quite a lashing!

As Frances gazed into his eyes, her anger faded away. There had been no afterthoughts in his actions other than help her. She should not scold him for this. In truth, she was angry against herself for being so weak, and confused for liking his touch so much. Dismissing the guilt, Frances turned to the elf once more.

"Please forgive me, Legolas. You do not deserve that my frustration be taken on you in this manner."

"No, it is I who should have thought better. I fear the damage to your reputation."

And the guy … elf had the nerve to apologise! God, how guilty she felt for treating him so badly! What right did she have to yell at a prince! At this prince in particular! Frances sighed, defeated by her own insecurities.

"Never mind, it doesn't matter."

"It does not?" he asked, unsure of what to say.

Frances dismissed the tension with a gesture of her hand, washing the guilt and anger away.

"No, it doesn't. Your intentions spoke for themselves. I am glad you saved me from the pain of stumbling through this room full of drunks, mellon nin"

Surprised by this change of spirit, Legolas could nearly feel the dark thoughts rushing away from her, chased by this simple gesture. It would always amaze him how she could completely black out some feelings by deciding it. It was somehow a mystery to him to feel how fast she was changing, submitting her emotions to her will, bending them to what she wanted. A quick chuckle escaper her lips as she let her arms rest over the wall.

"I cannot imagine what the people of Greenwood would say, a mere woman scolding their beloved prince. I'd probably locked away in a dungeon and made to apologise on all fours."

This, left him speechless. Never before had he heard a second born call his kingdom Greenwood. And it brought him more joy than anything else in the world. As if, only by stating its former name, his home could be restored to its former glory. As if the darkness could be chased away in the lifetime of a man. His pensive eyes rested on her for a while, the elf unaware that Frances started fidgeting under his stare.

"I'm sorry if this must have sounded rude. I have heard that King Thranduil can be quite implacable in his dealings with…"

The young lady cringed. How to reconcile with a friend better than insulting his father? The hole she was digging was getting deeper by the minute. Eventually, she decided to shut her mouth entirely. Now wasn't the time to mention the tales that Gimli had shared with her during the first leg of their journey. Needless to say, that King Thranduil wasn't the nicest character of the story, neither was his son. But Legolas, heir to the throne of Greenwood the Great, didn't look upset at all. His features set in awe, his gaze lost upon her form, the elf seemed to have left in a world far, far away. Her silence, though, called him back to earth. Well, to middle earth.

"Never could you be mistaken for a mere woman, Frances."

That was it. No scolding, no sadness, no resentment. What did he mean by saying this? She didn't linger on the thought for her mind was setting upon a new goal. Maybe the time had come to fulfil her promise. Fear leaked through, droplet by droplets, wondering how her friend would take the news. Would he be upset that she had not said a word until then? Would he feel betrayed? Maybe he could give her counsel on her situation.

For months now, day after day, she had wondered on the relevance of revealing her true identity to her companions. Dwarf, men and hobbit alike. Aragorn had not been able to relieve her doubts about it. This news had been a little difficult to grasp for him, despite his age and the fact that he had grown up amongst living legends. And even if the ranger knew about the Keeper of time, and that she came from another world, he didn't know much about her real home. The twins had asked plenty of details. But the ranger not so much, being usual his taciturn self. Her face had probably crumpled, for the elf looked at her in concern.

"What ails you, Frances? Do you want me to walk you back to your room to rest?"

The young woman turned to him, her gaze boring deep into his.

"Although my body will need it at some point, I would rather stay there for a while. There is a promise that needs fulfilment."

It was a question more than a statement. And Legolas was more than ready for it. Not a moment had passed without a thousand interrogations plaguing his mind since he had left her in Helm's deep. Some of them about the strange pills she had swallowed, and many more.

"If you feel up to it, I would dearly love to hear your story."

He didn't pry, didn't ask questions to give her full liberty about where she wanted to start and how much she felt comfortable to tell. There was nothing more opened that his hear, his heart and his mind at the moment.

And he was glad, for the tale that Frances counted him was one he could never have imagined. If he had not known her, he would have thought her insane. Yet, nothing but the truth had ever escaped her mouth. So he didn't doubt, his eyes getting wider as she recounted her arrival on Weathertop and her first encounter with Lord Elrond. It made an awful lot of sense, and explained much. The reason why her betrothed did not travel with her.

And also why she spoke so strangely. Her overwordly views and education as well as the wonder in her eyes each time her gaze lingered on middle earth's landscape. Her strange accent, even in the common tongue when Estel had none. Her enquiries, sometimes absolutely out of place for a young woman, as if she had been born and bred in a bubble.

The elf had not realised his hands had seized the wooden railing, trying to hold on to reality. Every element was met with a thousand questions of his own, their numbers so great that they swam in his mind in disarray. Yet, he was silent. Eventually, Frances's pace started to decrease as she searched for words. For a moment, Legolas considered to unleash all his queries upon her. But he could see the exhaustion on her face.

Aside from her wound, he realised that confiding all her secrets had taken quite an emotional toll. He could understand it, along with the bouts of homesickness that could be detected in her posture as she spoke of home. Frances was a lady from another world. She belonged to another place. Hers. Away from middle earth.

So, the prince of Greenwood turned his curiosity down and offered his arm.

"You need to rest, Frances, lest you fall asleep on the ground."

The redhead eyed him suspiciously.

"Are you angry with me, for keeping this secret all this time?"

Legolas shook his head, his hand extended still. No, he was not angry. Confused, and a little sad as well, for a reason he could not pinpoint. Fortunately, elves did not sleep much. He could use the main part of the night to think about it if need be. He would talk to Aragorn.

"Nay, my lady. Yet, your story is not an easy one to grasp, nor to tell. I will need some time to adjust to this knowledge."

Frances nodded, her features falling a bit as she leaned on his arm. Her hands trembled from the strain, clinging to him like a refugee to a lifebelt. Perhaps it would have been easier if her confession had been met with anger.

Perhaps not.

But still, she had been afraid of his reaction, and now she didn't even know how he had taken the news. When he left her on her doorstep, she realised that her origins had triggered something in his mind. And it revived what had been vanquished a few months ago.

Distance.