The gift of protection

Less than an hour later, or so she thought, having no watch to indicate the time, Frances made her way to the caves. Goodbyes had been swift, the elf and the dwarf being quite busy with the preparations of the Hornburg's defence. Yet she had seen relief in the eldar's blue eyes. She left knowing that the three of them would watch over each other. Even if Gimli seemed invincible with his sturdy stature, the elf was the deadliest of the two. Blades twirling, fast blows, precise hits and agile as a cat. Surely the enemy could be deceived by his slender built. But Legolas Greenleaf, prince of the Woodland realm, was the most incredible warrior she had ever met.

How could he maintain this gentle composure while being so deadly? She could not fathom. It was probably beyond the grasp of any human to be able to reconcile those two opposite natures. Frances would herself oscillate between hardness and kindness, but not to this extent. Each time her blade had connected with an orc, she had winced in sympathy at killing a living being. And she was not as sensitive as Legolas about plants, trees and animal life. How he must long for peace! To witness evil being drained from the land he was born, to see the darkness of Dol Guldur leaving its forest! He had spoken of it once, the pain still raw in his eyes. Many years had passed since Greenwood had been called Greenwood the Great. But Legolas remembered it. He had told her so in the depth of Moria, regret filling his entire countenance.

When Frances reached the caves, she was surprised at their vastness. Had this impending battle not dampened her spirits, she would have marvelled at their sheer size. Everywhere, the spikes of calcite sparkled in the torches' light, the pillars crawling to the top, connecting with stalactites. The glittering caves bore their name well. They were utterly magnificent. The young lady walked on to find a free spot, passing Eowyn on the way. She did not even bother answering her interrogation properly, only humming something as the white lady of Rohan asked if she had been ordered to lay low. It was no use calling her wrath by telling her the choice was hers. She knew Eowyn had not been shown the same courtesy, and would find her cowardly.

People were terrified. Yet, mothers sung and smiled at their youngest children. Blond heads, hair astray, clung to them fiercely. Their eyes wide with angst, some stared at her with some kind of recognition. Frances smiled, head held high, pushing her anguish back into the depth of her belly. The children needed reassurance, and so did their mothers and grandmothers whose husbands and sons were, at the very same moment, probably taking their positions on the fortifications. How many of them would survive to leave the next day? To take their children and wives in their arms and kiss them?

Frances found an empty spot and sat down. For a long time she stayed there, a stranger among strangers, wishing with all her might that she could do something for them. No one dared approaching her. She was after all, the companion to a future King, a dwarf lord and an elven prince. She recognised some faces, people she had seen on the road. Most nodded to her before turning their eyes on the ground. She made them uneasy. And so she kept to herself. It was no use adding fuel to the fire. Her thoughts wandered to the fellowship, to Frodo and Sam who had left by themselves and shown extraordinary courage. To her companions fighting up there, to Boromir. May he watch over them from the spirit world!

Suddenly, the cries rose in the air. Tears and anguished yells. Frances unsheathed her blade, running to the entry point of the caves. They were quite some distance away, and she cursed herself for walking so far. The young woman leapt on the rocks, her feet light as feathers and she did what she knew best; running light-footed was a second nature.

The cries intensified, yet she could see no struggle. In the end, she realised what was happening. The soldiers of Rohan were collecting more men to fight. The elderly and children were removed from their family, calling for tears and grief. Frances refused to cry, but her chest was close to bursting. Kids passed her, maybe thirteen to fifteen of age, their face set in a resolved frown. They were many, at least sixty or so, and most of them refused to turn back. They feared losing their strength if they saw their mother's tears.

One of them, a redhead with bright eyes, was rooted to the spot. How difficult for the soldiers to push them forward, some were their own sons! Frances sheathed her blade and put a reassuring hand on the kid's shoulder.

"Come", she said. "I'll accompany you to the armoury."

The teenager nodded, somehow regaining some heart. And even though her throat wanted to constrict, she summoned some false cheer.

"They called me the red witch, in Rome. I'll show them!"

Nothing but the truth, after all. Many teenagers watched her, wondering if her presence would make a difference. Some seemed to think so. Good. The redhead boy followed her in silence, and she passed Eowyn with barely a look; what could she say ? If those kids had to fight, so would she. Most of them knew how to wield a blade, yet none of them was as deadly as she. There was no way she could hide when the teenagers were put to use.

Her presence had some effect in their ranks; it made her smile. She was not much older than they were, three to five years at most. But her status intimidated them. The group was walking to the armoury as she heard the sound of a characteristic horn. Hope rising in her chest, she ran through the paved corridors until she reached the fortified gate.

The sight that greeted her would never be forgotten. An impressive company of elven warriors stood there in their shiny armour. Their numbers, although reduced compared to the host marching on them, were nonetheless mesmerizing such was their likeness. The evening light reflected upon their shell plate, the sun rays drowning into the deep blue cape that adorned their backs. Long bows spiked above their heads, all shiny and ready to be drawn. To her delight, Aragorn was greeting none other than Haldir, the march warden of Lorien! His two brothers were on the front line, their jaw set and gaze composed. Ready for battle, ready for war!

In awe, Frances took a tentative step down the stairs. The march warden was greeting Legolas, the characteristic blond hair covering a brownish chest plate. The Greenwood prince's shoulders were made wider by the numerous layers of his armour. While the elves of Lorien wore metal, Legolas preferred leather. Eventually Haldir turned to Frances and bowed. The young lady started; her last encounter with the march warden had been close to catastrophic and she didn't expect him to greet her. Surprised, Legolas lifted his eyes to the stairs and, upon seeing her there, frowned deeply. But Frances had only eyes for Haldir.

Lifting a finger to his brother, the march warden said:

"Lady Frances. My lady Galadriel wished to offer you this. May you put it to good use ere dawn."

Oropher stepped forward. In his hands laid a very large bag made of elven cloth.

"Come forward," Haldir commanded. "My brother will help you."

Frances' eyes met Aragorn, and he nodded, his face impassive. Still, his eyes held a hint of sadness; he understood her decision. The young woman came down, ignoring the burning gaze of the woodland prince. With her limited height, Frances' head almost reached the shoulder of Oropher. He nearly smiled at her and led her to the armoury where he proceeded to unpack the lady's present in silence.

Piece after piece came out of the bundle, and Frances realised that the lady Galadriel had actually gifted her a leather armour. It was, like every single thing she had seen in Lorien, tremendously beautiful. The shoulder pieces were carved with trees and leaves, the plastron doubled with a thin sheet of metal to keep her from harm. There were bracers as well, so delicately decorated that she would have been content to wear them every day.

Oropher did not speak. Nor Westron, nor Sindarin as he adjusted the straps around her frame. Now was not the time to indulge into small talk. So Frances let him work, mouthing her thanks as he proceeded. And then, as the elf shuffled around her tights to place the last leather plates, the scent of pinewood surrounded her. Her eyes went up, encountering the blue pools she could never get used to. Without a word, Legolas adjusted some more straps, pulling the bindings tighter around her waist. His hands working swifty, soft yet purposefully, he said something to Oropher in Sindarin. She couldn't catch much of it, the words music to her hears.

The Lorien elf nodded in response and contemplated his work with a satisfied gaze. At his side, Legolas' eyes were roaming over her body, his mannerism cold as he inspected the armour. And then, Oropher bowed and left before she could thank him. Frances shivered. If Legolas' gaze had not been so intense, so unnerving, she would have whooped with joy. In her leather armour, she felt safe; no more exposed to blades and blows. The weight was very tolerable compared to a chainmail; it would allow her to be swift on her feet and quick in her swordplay. This was the perfect protection for someone like her.

The weight of Legolas' gaze became almost unbearable and she huffed, fed up with this silent treatment.

"Should you have something to say, my lord Prince, I will be grateful for you to do so now for I would like to join the others."

The title made him cringe; Frances was never one for formalities in private, and she had stopped calling him thus on the path to Khazad-dum. The distance it created was only rivalled by the coldness of her tone.

"Surely you do not intend to fight?"

No, I'm playing dress-up !

Rolling her eyes, she bit her cheek. So, this was the reason for his aloofness! Was it anger or worry? His wary countenance made it hard to tell. Did he think her too clumsy to fight by their side? Too fragile to withstand it? The young lady sighed. Even if he did, he wasn't exactly wrong; she was ill suited for such a battle. Could she make him understand why she had got back on her word?

Raising her head slowly, Frances plunged her eyes into his. For a moment, only a slight instant, she forgot everything she wanted to say. His blue orbs were so deep in turmoil, clouds of grey passing before them, so vivid that she felt like drowning into the ocean of his emotions. Would she understand him better if she could plunge deeper under the surface? Would she experience the unique way of thinking of the eldar?

"Never will I be able to live with myself if I don't"

Her voice was low with a slight quiver to it. Her eyes dropped to the polished tiles. Frances feared his judgement, and above all else, his anger. Yet it was no anger he gave her back, but anguish.

"But surely you can see that you won't live at all if you do!"

His knuckles were white with the strain, his fists closed off, trembling even. He could not lose her. Not to those stinky Uruks, not run through with a dark blade. Couldn't she see that her life was more than that? Too worthy to be wasted in a doomed fight? Would she resent him for stating his fears, launching anger at him, anger that he feared as much as she did? But there was no belligerence in her voice as she answered.

"I have seen children ripped from their mother's arms, old men from their grandchildren's side. I cannot hide. I value my life Legolas, and wouldn't waste it away for the world. But I am no coward. If those people, much less able than I am, must fight, then so will I."

And then Frances walked away for him. She had to put some distance from his doubts else she might turn back to the caves. Her progress was easy despite the armour and she relished in the fantastic feeling of the leather covering her frail body. The lady Galadriel had known this all along, and her queenly present might very well save her life. Frances mouthed a prayer to the lady of the woods, hoping that she would hear it. Behind her, an elf swore to the Valar that he would not let her out of his sight, should he pay her life with his.