Campfire

"That witch King was wicked. Black like the worst moonless night, and so cold…", Pippin gathered his arms around himself, trying to fend off the mark of those who had – unfortunately – encountered Nazgûls from too close. On a whim, Frances reached for him and rubbed his back. The hobbit started, words stuck in his throat before he eventually relaxed under her touch and smiled. "I nearly peed my pants!"

Prince Imrahil sent the hobbit a disapproving frown over the campfire.

"Master Took, please. Mind your language in presence of ladies."

The hobbit reddened under the fatherly scolding, but Frances only snorted. Knowing that Imrahil was Boromir's uncle made sense for they shared a few mannerisms; those Gondorians and their views…

"All is fair in war and love," she retorted. "I am surrounded by six thousand males, and none of their jokes have shocked me yet, your Highness."

The Prince gave her an appraising look, but didn't push the issue. By his side, Eomer scoffed in his stew.

"You're so alike my sister, sometimes."

Dearest Eowyn; she had to be going crazy in those houses of healing. At least, Estel was pretty confident she would escape the black breath. The parting, though, had left him pretty sour; it must have been difficult. Frances suspected that the white lady still pined after the future King. But, misplaced loved or not, she still was a strength to reckon with.

"Except that she didn't pee her pants," Frances stated. "And attacked a wicked wraith."

Both the Prince of Dol Amroth and the newly appointed King of Rohan sent her a shocked look. She only grinned; they needed to understand that she wasn't following the army like a gull follow the seaman. If she shied away from a little dirty vocabulary, who would believe she could kill orcs? Their skittish manners didn't help anyone here.

Even the twins of Elrond – currently on patrol with Legolas – treated her like a kindred spirit and not like a fragile lady.

"So did you."

Aragorn's quiet voice called for her attention, and Frances lifted an eyebrow.

"Uh?"

"On weather top. You attacked him as well."

Gaping, the young woman realised that that blasted Nazgûl must have been one of the five wraiths she's stumbled upon at the very beginning of her adventure.

"Oh, you're right, Strider. He was there too!"

The young woman shivered, the memory of those five wraiths sending bells of alarms deep in her belly. She missed entirely the stunned look Imrahil send her as Aragorn regained control of the situation.

"You were telling us of the arrival of the Rohirrim, Pippin."

"Oh yes, glorious, weren't we?" Eomer boasted.

Frances nodded; redirecting the hobbit back to his original tale ensured he wouldn't dwell upon weathertop and the events that led Frodo to be stabbed – better to keep his part secret for now.

As Pippin started weaving his story once more, she couldn't help but share an inquisitive look with Estel. His grey irises shone with both wisdom and mischievousness; why had he mentioned, on purpose, her so-called prowess against the ring wraiths?

The question lingered at the back of her mind, but the hobbit's tale soon distracted her. He really was a master at spinning tales, and, this time, there was no need for exaggeration. The battle of the fields of Pelennor would be remembered for centuries … of the people of middle earth survived.

"I wish I could have seen it," Frances sighed. "That charge at Helm's deep was so incredible. Distracted me enough to get stabbed, though."

"Ah yes," Eomer boomed. "It was a merry ride, right, Aragorn?"

The King's lips quirked; tales of war were less gruesome than the actual deed. To say he'd enjoyed trampling Uruks, riding to certain death in a sea of darkness would be lying. But Rohan would sing it differently. Legends and reality didn't always collide.

"It was," Aragorn responded.

"Anyway," Pippin interjected. "Your arrival in Minas Tirith distracted that stupid Witch King. Gandalf was really having some trouble holding him off. I still can't believe the lady Eowyn and Merry had the guts to attack him."

Frances shrugged. "Well, once you face it, there's quite no way around it, right? Fight or flight. And the lady Eowyn is not one to flee."

"Unfortunately not," Eomer sighed dramatically. A few chuckles greeted this statement; better to laugh of the foolhardiness of the lady rather than revisit the dread that had settled in his heart upon finding her.

"Aye. I am glad Merry is there to keep her in check."

Merry… Frances mused. So little, yet so brave. Just like Pippin. Just like those two crazy hobbits who had taken upon themselves to cross the Emyn Muil, and been stubborn enough to climb the looming mountains of the Ephel Duah. The dark mass cast shadows upon the camp; their very presence at Frances' back caused another shiver to run up her spine.

Damn, she missed Legolas. When he was near, she felt invincible. Unattainable. Estel's soothing voice called her back to reality, and she was grateful for his unwavering presence by her side.

"Merry deserves praise," he said.

"And the rest," she quipped. "Even though that arm seemed better he was still very tired."

A short silence settled over the campfire, the crackling of the flames a gentle, regular sound that nearly lulled her to sleep. But it wouldn't do to drool upon Aragorn's shoulder… For a moment, Frances' gaze remained lost in the mesmerising dance of the fire. So many times they'd been deprived of its warmth during the quest; this was a luxury well earned.

The tables were changing. Here, now, they didn't hide anymore. Secrecy had given way to heralds, shouting of King Elessar's arrival. Wizards, elves, men and hobbits proudly marched on, and she was glad to be one of them.

"Why did you not stay in the city, Lady Frances? That leg injury impairs you still."

Frances snapped to attention, finding Eomer's gaze over the fire. His dark brows dipped in a puzzled expression; he didn't understand her choices.

"Would you have stayed, if you'd been in my place?" she asked.

"I am King," he regally stated, pain lingering behind his sparkling eyes. "I cannot afford to be left behind."

Well, there is that.

"Fair game," she shrugged. "But to be honest, I'd rather be front line than wait in Minas Tirith without knowing what's coming at me."

"A woman after my own heart," he responded, respect shining in his eyes.

Frances' eyebrows shot up in surprise. She had not expected praise and understanding, and felt humbled.

"Poor Faramir," Pippin added fondly. "He's the only one that can overlook the defences and he can only guess and wait. And he's not even healed yet."

Frances kept her lips shut on the subject of Faramir. She respected, even admired the man. Especially after hearing everything that had befallen him. But the subject of his health was still a sore point between Estel and herself; better to leave the others handle that particular conversation.

Prince Imrahil perked up at the hobbit's fondness.

"My nephew was always very level-headed. The city is in good hands."

"Doesn't lack courage either," Eomer added, taking a sip of something that smelt strongly of alcohol. "I heard he held Osgiliath with only a handful of rangers."

Pippin winced at the reminder of the suicide mission his father had dropped on his lap with barely a sneer.

"He was always a good strategist," Imrahil confirmed. "Less brash than his brother. Faramir can fight albeit he'd rather not to."

"The best fighters are not those who seek glory," Aragorn quietly said.

There was pain in his voice; the loss of Boromir still haunted him. Frances reached for his sleeve to squeeze his forearm.

"And the best leaders not those that seek power," Imrahil concluded with the wisdom of his years as a ruler. "Gondor is lucky to have you again, Thorongil."

Something passed between the two men, an understanding that looked like absolution for Boromir's death. Then, Estel's lips quirked slightly.

"Ah, so you do remember?"

Fascinated, Frances bristled in her seat.

"How long ago was that?"

The prince decided to humour her, and she found that she liked this amiable Prince very much.

"Forty years or so. I was a young man then, but the tale of that Gondorian captain crushing the corsairs of Umbar reached us. Menestrels still sing about it."

The young woman tried to wrap her head around the concept, sending a sly look to her neighbour and King.

"You were young too, right? What is the life expectancy of a Dunedain?"

"My line has lessened as of late. But two hundred is an accurate estimate."

Three jaws dropped; Imrahil seemed the only one unaffected, since his line also held a greater longevity due to elven blood.

"Wow," Frances breathed, watching intently the laugh lines around Estel's eyes. They were so faint, so discreet for a man of eighty-seven years. "So you're not even halfway through."

She took a moment to draw in the dirt with a stick, posing a simple equation as Eomer interrogated Aragorn about his bloodline – Elrond and Elros, the twins, were discussed at length. After a minute of explanations, though, Pippin eventually burst and interrupted them.

"Watcha doing, Frances?"

"Counting. Wait a second … moment. If I do this right," she drew in the dirt. "You are around thirty-five in standard human years, Aragorn."

Pippin gaped. "Hey! That's Merry's age!"

The genuine exclamation sent a round of laughter around the campfire, and the hobbit slightly reddened before he squinted at the numbers littered at her feet.

"You and your weird science," he grumbled.

The young woman decided to tease the hobbit a tad more, just to lighten the mood. "A geologist performs thorium versus uranium dating for breakfast, Pippin. We are more prone to miss breakfast than to mess up the calculation. This is a simple cross multiplication."

"Oï ! Here she goes again. That's your rock stuff?"

Frances huffed. "Yes, my rock stuff."

Nonplussed by the nonsense that had been spilling from her mouth, Prince Imrahil once more demonstrated his diplomatic abilities by grasping at the only subject that made sense in that whole exchange.

"If rocks is your area of interest, you might enjoy the shores of Dol Amroth."

Frances' eyes shone with envy; their near brush with the sea had been very frustrating.

"Oh, I most certainly will. There is nothing like the Ocean to lift my mood. But tell me about your home."

The Prince obliged. And while he talked of his shores with the obvious love of a ruler, King Eomer excused himself. Shortly after, the scouting party returned. Three elves, a dwarf and a wizard crowded the area.

For a moment, Imrahil's eyes roamed around the campfire. Realisation hit him; six thousand men, led by one lone figure born of both cultures. The free people of middle earth had indeed united under King Elessar's banner, for now sat beside him a hobbit, a dunedain, three elves, a dwarf. The only ordinary human in their midst had legends written in elvish lore stacked in Lord Elrond's library.

Said woman sighed contentedly as she sustained his gaze, leaning into the luminous warmth of the elf prince that settled beside her. This was a sight his ancestor had probably been privy to; love blossoming between elf and human. So scarce were those pairings in middle earth. They truly were living historical times.

"You shall be welcome in Dol Amroth, should your path take you there," he concluded.

The young woman beamed, but it was the elf beside her who responded.

"I shall have to affront the sea for my beloved," his melodic voice stated. And it was a promise.

"Well. After we crush those stupid orcs, right?" she quipped with a half-hearted smile.

For a moment, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth wondered if he would live to host them in his palace upon the cliffs. Somewhere, deep down in the recesses of his heart, he believed it possible.

As it was, it was the last evening where the hearty mood could be sustained, for the very next evening, the Nazgûls came. Out of sight, except for the elves, but not out of influence. The ring wraiths faithfully followed them, seeping despair into their hearts. Seeking to sap their strength.

It worked too efficiency, for every leader choose to stay with their men to keep the morale; no more campfire gathering.

The army of the west repelled an ambush with swift efficiency, horsemen cutting orcs before they could even start harming the main troops. It wasn't enough to lift their spirits for the Nazgûls didn't give them a moment of peace; the shrills cries of those ghastly beast put everyone on edge.

And when they penetrated the harsh, dry lands of Cirith Gorgor, some of the men froze in their tracks. Young men from Rohan, husbands from Lossarnach, men from the westfold. Who could blame them, for the land itself seemed intent on repelling them?

Frances shuddered, wide chocolate eyes taking in the dry expanse of land. Away in the north were the dead marshes… Gimli had spoken of those. Malevolent volutes danced above it, compelling the lone traveller to approach and get lost within its hungry belly. Far above on the east loomed the volcanic peaks of Ephel Duah; more dead land, fashioned like saw claws, so dark that its volumes were too difficult to distinguish.

When a warm hand slid around her waist, Frances almost jumped. Blinking, she slid a glance to the elf that sat behind her on Arod. His presence hummed like a benevolent beacon, and she slightly shifted to align her back to his chest. His long fingers squeezed hers, and she sighed.

"My father refuses to speak of it," he murmured in her ear, his ocean gaze fixated upon the dead marshes. "My grandfather, Oropher, died in the seven-year siege of Barad-dur."

She nodded, her eyes set upon Estel. His grey eyes were conflicted. They couldn't very well afford to slaughter their own men for refusing to march to death, right? But what could he do? Once more, the burden of leading was heavy upon his shoulders. How could they sustain the despair, all alone in their boots? She had Legolas, his very presence infusing her with hope. But those soldiers did not. Would Aragorn inspire them enough to go on?

Eventually, the newly appointed King straightened in the saddle, and faced the men who refused to march any further. A great hush fell upon the troops as he looked at them, proud and strong. Behind him lay a land of devastation, cracked earth without an ounce of vegetation. Sick ground, dead to the world, bloated with seeping water.

But the cape, embroidered of the white tree, billowed behind him like a beacon of hope. One piece that was still alive in this deserted land; the King's heart.

Frances felt Legolas' hand splay across her stomach, his warmth seeping through her clothes. Slowly, her shoulders relaxed, the memory of their bath clear in her mind. She was the lucky one; who could claim keeping such amazing company? An elvish prince as her betrothed, two elven lords for brothers, a dwarf and a hobbit as close friends, and a benevolent King for companion.

Yes. Frances knew her luck, and thanked the Valar for allowing them by her side. Finding Aragorn's grey eyes, she watched his face tighten when he addressed the men.

"Go!" he said, his voice strong.

The young woman gasped, breath caught in her throat. Was he sending them back in defeat? This didn't bode well for their current quest, but she had not expected less of his compassionate nature. Many eyes fell to the ground; those very same soldiers who had been ready to make a run for the hills now hesitated in the face of their King's acceptance. Aragorn smiled at them, grey eyes blazing with renewed fire.

"But keep your honour, and do not run!" he yelled. "Take your way south-west till you come to Cair Andros. Then retake it, if you can, and hold it to the last in defence of Gondor and Rohan!"

Some of the men squared their shoulders and decided that the King's mercy was enough for them to follow to the black gate. Others took the offer; Frances watched them with both compassion and benevolence.

Thus, their army was cut short of a few hundred men. To her surprise, Gimli didn't even grumble about cowardice. The heaviness of the land affected him just as much; out of their little group, the dwarf was the most sensitive to the language of rocks. The Ephel duah loomed over his heart just as much.

Some of the soldiers marched away with slumped shoulders, shame shadowing their steps. But, in their midst, she saw hope. Aragorn had managed the impossible feat of instiling pride and a sense of purpose to those who couldn't sustain the darkness of Mordor.

The last night was morose. Frances fitfully slept in Legolas's arms, using his presence as an anchor. None of the twins attempted to steal her away from her betrothed; propriety died when they had set foot in Mordor's clutches. Fumes rose from the very ground, masking the faint light of the waxing crescent moon.

The wind died in the night. Then, all fell silent in camp, except for the long, nearly inaudible screeches of the ring wraiths high above.