Energy in its purest form

The company passed the doors, Aragorn first and the other in his wake. The captain of the rangers was cloaked, but his hood was down, and he very much looked like Strider. Somebody noticed it too as he made his way to greet them, for a halfing was there, guarding the door, and he started bouncing at the sight of Aragorn.

"Strider! How splendid! Do you know, I guessed it was you in the black ships? But they were all shouting corsairs and wouldn't listen to me. How did you do it? Oh, Frances, well met indeed !"

Aragorn smiled, and this alone lightened the room for an instant before he turned his questions down. The hobbits's good mood felt warm after seeing so many dead in the battle field, and Frances embraced the Halfling as Strider passed them. Meanwhile, she heard Imrahil share his surprise with Eomer regarding the name that Pippin had used about the future king, and Elessar's answer in good faith that it was one of his many names. 'Princes really have to loosen up in this world,' she thought. Well, most of them anyway. As to where the heir of Greenwood was she did not know. Probably still working on the aftermath of the battle. Her thoughts went to him for a while, hoping he would stop to rest at some point.

This little argument over his name cast aside, Aragorn visited the three wounded. Frances and Pippin followed, staying behind while the hobbit murmured comments to the young lady. Gandalf spoke of the disease, and explained the principles of the black breath that ailed the sick. All of them were so pale that their complexion was slowly turning to grey. In Merry and Eowyn's case, their wounded arm had nearly gone black.

As Aragorn brushed Faramir's brow, a deep frown animated his features. Frances concentrated on the man for a second. His face was slick with sweat, but despite the unrest and suffering he looked fairly handsome. His rusty hair was scattered on the pillow, darkened by the water that had been running from his brow not so long ago. The young lady concentrated on him, and she felt the cold taking its hold over his body; it was draining him and the Steward wasn't strong enough to resist it. Frances' eyes crossed Aragorn's, and he knew she had felt the same thing as he had.

"He is a great man, strong in mind and very wise," said Pippin, his eyes regretfully leaving the young man's form.

"I am sure he his," whispered Frances, putting a soothing hand on his shoulder.

"Can you tell?" he asked quietly, knowing how she could feel people inside.

Frances nodded, at loss about what to say. Seeing the ranger's worry, Eomer proposed that he rest and ate, but Aragorn declined, stating that Faramir's time was running out. As Pippin and Frances contemplated the young steward, she wondering how he could be helped, and the hobbit fearing that he might die, an old woman entered the chamber. The ranger asked her for Athelas, or kingsfoil, and her wrinkled features lightened up as she started speaking about how she knew this plant but did not use it. She was a stout little lady, seemingly wise but her flow of words was endless. Now was not the time, and Aragorn interrupted her after a few seconds:

"And now Dame, if you love the Lord Faramir, run as quick as your tongue and get me kingsfoil, if there is a leaf in the city."

Gandalf added for good measure that he could ride with her outside the city if needed, and the little woman disappeared in haste. Aragorn then turned back to Faramir, and enquired about the wounds he had sustained.

"He is nearly spent," he finally concluded, "but it does not come from the wound".

The prince Imrahil had been the one to draw the arrow out of his nephew, and both men discussed over the fact that it was nicely healing, fever cast aside.

"How do you read the matter?" asked Prince Imrahil, a spark of hope brightening his tired features.

"Weariness, grief for his father's mood, a wound, and over all the Black Breath."

At Frances raised eyebrows, Pippin slipped a few words to her about how Denethor had treated his second son, and at hearing this she could not help but be angered. Knowing that none of them were needed quite soon, and that Athelas had yet to be found, Frances dragged Pippin into the winter garden, and sat with him as he told his tale.

The young lady was horrified that Denethor could have treated his own flesh so badly. But she remembered Boromir's words when, unguarded as they strolled in the woods of Lothlorien, he had told her of the passing of Findulias, his mother, in childbirth. Was his grief alone a reason to scorn a child?

Her musings were interrupted the sound of a running man.

"Come," she said. "They must have found Athelas. Let us see if we can be of help."

When Frances entered the room where Faramir was kept, she was greeted by the smell of freshness. The young lady breathed intensely, savouring the fragrance that brought joy to her heart. Aragorn had cast the Athelas leaves into a bowl of steaming water, effectively spreading the dewy smell inside the chamber. And then, he passed the bowl in front of Faramir's face. The steward steered, and opened his eyes. Many gasped, and Frances revelled in the miracle she had just witnessed, her heart soaring in joy.

The young man's voice was a little hoarse, but he said those words with confidence as he gazed upon Aragorn.

"My lord, you called me, I come. What does the King command?"

The ranger smiled, his eyes full of love and pride that Faramir had vanquished his ailment. His baritone voice felt like music to Frances' hears as he commanded with gentleness.

"Walk no more in the shadows, but awake. Rest for a while, you are weary. And be ready for my return."

"I will, lord, for who would lie idle when the King had returned?"

Aragorn nodded, and bade him farewell for a while, for there were many more who needed him. And off he went to Eowyn, Eomer in tow, bidding her to come back to her brother, and slipping out of the room the moment she awoke for he feared that her feelings would prevent her from healing properly. Then, they came to Merry, and he opened his eyes very soon with the most famous of phrases.

"I'm hungry!"

To this, Frances laughed, and Aragorn joined her as well as the wizard. A furious debate about pipe weed ensued, but the ranger answered sternly that he was in need of rest and sustenance. Nor Frances not he had slept in a bed since Dunarrow several days ago. Aragorn paused as he left the houses of healing, giving some precise instructions to the chief healer, forbidding anyone to speak of his father's demise before he was ready to busy himself with stewardly duties.

A quick look to Frances ensured him that she would not say a word. With her natural empathy, the lady understood how learning such dreadful news could cast Faramir back into the shadows. Then they left to partake a small dinner. It was a welcome moment of rest, but not for long, for the rumour of the King's return had travelled through the city. There were many whose loved ones had been touched by the Black Breath.

The ranger then summoned the sons of Elrond, and set to work. They visited house after house. Eventually, Prince Imrahil himself enlisted them to help some of his swan knights mistreated by the Nazgûls. Aragorn nodded, the lines of his face so deeply carved that Frances feared he would fall from exhaustion. Very soon, she knew that the ranger would take no more.

As he called once more to a young soldier touched by darkness, she saw him waver in his seat. The healer was spent, drained to the core, but he would not relent. Even with Elladan and Elrohir's help, there were still so many to take care of, many whose lives could be saved. Who knew, if tomorrow, they would still draw breath? How could he chose, when he couldn't save them all ?

Frances watched the ranger struggle against the darkness, his gestures slow, his speech slightly slurred. And then, as his body staggered anew, she came up behind him and put each of her hands on his back. Aragorn stiffened, waiting, but he did not pull out. Frances closed her eyes, wishing with all her might that she could provide some comfort, that she could share some of her strength so that he could continue saving lives. Deep inside her, she felt a fresh wave of energy tingling through her chest. Concentrating hard, she directed it to her arms in a desperate attempt to help.

Aragorn frowned, unused to the strange sensation. And then he felt it, the flow of energy feeding him from her touch. It was not much, but it steadily leaked through to keep him awake and functioning. The wave engulfed him, radiating like a silver sun. What a feat, for such a young lady totally unaware of magic! They did not speak, not exchanged a word for fear it would stop.

Hope renewed, Aragorn got back to work, using this newfound source of energy with heartfelt gratitude. Later, he would thank her profusely for her gift. But now was not the time. One soldier, two soldiers, five soldiers he treated and for each, Frances pushed her vital forces into him to bring them to life. The twins marvelled at their connexion, jaw slack as they watched this incredible miracle. Until Frances dropped to the ground, unconscious.

Aragorn heard the loud thud as much as he felt the loss of her hands on his back. Turning sharply, he was by her side in an instant, eyes wide in fear. Had she gone too far and given everything she had left? One of the twins felt for her pulse, breathing in relief when he found it.

"She still lives," stated Elladan sternly. "But she must rest."

Elrohir gathered Frances in his arms, alarmed by the coldness of her limbs.

"Shall we bring her back to the tents?"

The question hung in the air, all of them quite concerned about letting her sleep outside. Would she survive another night in the coldness of a lingering winter? But then, Prince Imrahil approached, and spoke to Aragorn.

"I am regent until you will it different, my lord. I can take her to the citadel."

Elrohir stared at the Prince with suspicious eyes until he relented. Cautiously, he deposited Frances into his outstretched arms, and nodded.

"She must be warmed lest she might be sick. Her energy is spent, and she had none left to heat her own body."

"I will see to it that she rests in a room with a blazing fire. She has, after all, contributed to saving my swan knight's lives. This is no small feat."

"No, it certainly is not," answered Aragorn. "I trust you to take care of her."

The Prince bowed to his king, and departed with a soldier in tow, the young lady safely tucked in his arms. She was so frail, so slender. He could not fathom how she had come to travel with the Grey Company, let alone kept her head on her shoulders with the horrendous battle. And more importantly, he did not understand the connexion she shared with the King, nor the easiness between her and the infamous lords of Rivendell.

Was she a noble descended from the Dunedain? She certainly did not look the part. Nor her eyes, hair and poise did not remind him of the distant lineage. Yet, the closeness of her relationship with Aragorn stunned him as much as it startled him. Were they lovers? Siblings? Was she a sorceress of some kind? A healer from Lord Elrond's house? All those questions unanswered, for now, if absolutely irrelevant.

Prince Imrahil was not one to be steered by his curiosity. He sent his aid ahead, to ask for a room to be prepared as he climbed to the citadel. Keeping his promise to the King was his sole and only purpose. And then, he would get some rest. The siege of Minas Tirith had left him as exhausted as his fellow commanders.

What he did not expect, though, was the blur of green and gold that fell upon him from above. The familial ringing of steel being drawn stopped him in his tracks.

"Where do you intend to take her?" asked a dangerous voice.

Imrahil started, not accustomed to being questioned so rudely. Without losing his temper, he squinted his eyes at the man, no, the elf before him.

"The lady Frances has passed out from exhaustion and will be laid to rest in the citadel. The King asked me to care for her, and I intend to fulfil his orders."

Legolas sheathed his twin blades, worry oozing from his blue eyes as he came closer. Imrahil though, took a step back. Did the elf actually glow in the dark?

"My apology to you, Prince Imrahil. I failed to recognise you. The lady is a dear companion, and I feared for her life since she has already sustained a dire injury not a fortnight ago."

"An injury, my lord?"

Legolas gave him a stern look, his blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

"In the battle of the Hornburg."

The regent of Minas Tirith bowed his head slightly, the imperceptible nod showing his acceptance for the apology. It was the third elf he saw today, a rare occurrence in this part of the world, let alone the fact that he had just discovered what a Perian looked like, and that a woman of naught but twenty years had transferred her energy and comfort to the future King of Gondor.

All of this explained by a pair of very identical elves. Could this day become even stranger? In truth, he had no idea. The golden-haired elf approached him and, with a familiar gesture, he gently caressed the young lady's hair.

"Frances, what have you done?" he whispered.

The young woman stirred, mumbling softly.

"Legolas?"

"Yes. My duties are done now. I will take you to a safe place to rest."

The lady seemed to fall into a deep sleep, and the elf he reached out, silently requesting that the Prince unburden himself. Imrahil would have scoffed had he not been so weary. But his patience was growing thin, and he knew the elf to be a companion to the King. Hence, he did not protest when the slender frame was lifted from his arms. A hundred pounds she may be, a little weight no match to his strength, but he had fought days and nights for three days. Although he would never admit it, the regent of Minas Tirith breathed in relief.

"Come, master elf. I have requested a room to be prepared for her."

The elf nodded and, as if the lady in his arms weighed nothing, strode up the cobbled street. He held her close, his embrace protective, and Imrahil raised an eyebrow at the familiarity between them. By the Valar, how he wanted to know who the woman was! The corridors of the citadel had returned to their normal state. No more fires burning in the steward's halls to incinerate his nephew, no more guards running around in a frenzy, and most of all, the quiet sounds of the night to lull anyone to sleep.

Prince Imrahil was soon reunited with his aid and, without a word, indicated the elf to follow him across the corridors of the private quarters. An orange light fluctuated through a door left ajar, the promise of a burning fire and a welcoming bed. The regent shuddered, eager to lie down in his chambers. In the corridor, a guard if the citadel stood at attention. The man saluted him as he pushed the door open for the elf to follow. Then, he watched as the golden lord laid the lady Frances on the mattress, pulling the covers over her form, and kissing her brow gently.

"Sleep, meleth."

It had barely been a whisper, but in the silence of the night Imrahil had heard it. And like his ancestors before him, he spoke some elvish. There was the answer to his question. The elf hesitated for a while, his eyes scanning the room in search of a threat. The desire to stay beside his beloved was written on his face, yet he pulled away. His penetrating stare ran over him, a quiet investigation that seemed to satisfy him for he did not press nor asked for his discretion.

Imrahil wanted none of it. He would be a very poor ruler indeed if he was prone to gossip. Gesturing for the elf to come out, he silently closed the door beside him. Then, before he could utter his intention to hit his bed as strongly as a rock plummeting down a mountain, the elf had pulled his face a few inches from the guard.

"If some harm befalls her, you will have to answer to the dwarven kingdom of Erebor, the elven kingdom of Greenwood and the wrath of the King."

The guard, sweat running under his helmet, nodded nervously. Imrahil refrained from laughing. As he walked the elf out, he chuckled.

"I doubt this guard has been more terrified when the Nazgûl attacked the citadel. It was a mighty threat indeed."

The elf paused a moment, his face so beautifully motionless that it seemed carved in white stone. When he answered though, a spark passed into his bright eyes.

"Good night, Prince Imrahil. You have my thanks, and those of my companions."

Then he strode away, leaving the new regent behind.

"Good night, my lord," answered Imrahil softly.