Faramir

Frances drifted through the battle field in a haze, her limbs coated in sugar as she stumbled through the mist. Bodies littered the floor, their numbers so great that no strand of grass could be seen under their lifeless forms. For ages, the young lady strode on, hoping to escape the maze of ghosts and dying soldiers. But she was trapped on the battlefield, pursued by shadows and volutes of fog alike. Eyes heavy, feet dragging on the ground, she followed an orange glow that shone in the distance. A fire! It was a fire !

With renewed hope, Frances tried to hasten her pace, but her legs would not follow. No matter how hard she tried, she was rooted to the spot, unable to escape. And then the mist cleared out, and suddenly she was facing the great fire, closer than she imagined. How badly she wished for the fog to come back ! Such a horrid sight !

Frances wanted to close her eyes, but even then, the monster of fire was in her mind. A pitch black oval form surrounded by flames so dark, angry. She had seen it before, blaring flames of darkness; The Balrog. But instead of a monster of flame, she now faced evil itself. The great eye was Sauron the defiler. He reeked of darkness, his malice so grand that it oozed from its burning form. Her skin burnt, consumed by his anger. A horrible voice filled the air, a voice so dark that it seemed that the earth itself was speaking from within.

"There is no hope, Keeper of Time. Very soon, there will be nothing to save."

A hand dragged her foot and Frances snapped out of her trance. Erbaran 's bright eyes stared back at her, his mouth distorted in a cry of agony.

"Save me…" he repeated as he sank in a pool of blood.

The young woman tried to seize his wrist and pulled hard. His skin was slick with blood, and no matter how firm her grasp, the ranger was sliding away from her. He screamed then, and was sucked away in the horrible blaze, leaving red marks on her fingers. His clear eyes held her as the great eye devoured him alive, terrified.

Frances screamed, helpless.

In his stead stood Halbarad, proud and tall, eyes ablaze.

"You arrogant fool! You distracted him, you delayed us and dragged your useless form on the battlefield. My son died because of you. You should burn as the witch you are !"

A deep booming laugh greeted Halbarad.

"And so she will," said the voice beyond the grave.

Dread filled Frances as the flames engulfed her, tearing at her flesh. Her hair caught fire instantly, disappearing in mere seconds in a heap of black smoke as her skull burnt. But then, a great light surrounded her, so blinding that her eyes closed. The pain receded, replaced by the softness of a warm breeze upon her skin. The light kept her in its embrace for a while until dawn replaced it. And then it lifted, and Frances, barely awakened, went back to sleep.

Many hours later, the young woman stirred under the covers. Opening one bleary eye, she realised that morning had probably come and gone without her batting an eyelash. The clouds of Mordor had receded temporarily, allowing Minas Tirith the respite of a proper daylight. Confused, she sat in her bed and waited for consciousness to wash over her. Had she dreamt the latest evening, or had she really managed to share her energy with Aragorn?

Shaking her thoughts, Frances sighed. She could not discern the truth from the rest. The exhaustion of the later days had finally taken their toll. But she felt better rested now, especially after sleeping half the day away. Still, her mind was a bit cloudy. Her body though, ached everywhere. Dragging herself out of bed, she found a few slices of bread and cheese on a tray, and wolfed it down. Then, she settled in front of the fire with a cup in hand, sitting in silence.

It felt weird, to be sitting silently in a room fit for royalty. For her accommodation was incredibly well furnished and all matched in colours of deep red and gold. After Helm's deep, their wild chase with ghosts on their tail and sleeping on hard rocks, she should have felt serene in such luxury. But she did not. Erbaran's eyes haunted her. Frances shuddered, and tried to find a little respite from her thoughts by staring into the fire. How many times, as a child, she had lost her gaze into the flames to soothe her mind? Even through the travels of the fellowship, she had found comfort in the dancing flames.

Minas Tirith was surprisingly quiet given the ordeal the city had been through. Yet, she did not want to think about burials and funeral pyres just yet. The reddish embers devouring the logs brought her a great deal of uneasiness. Was it the wood, blackened and crumbling that frightened her so? Standing up too quickly, Frances nearly toppled over. Some of the herbal tea slouched over the fire with a hiss before turning into vapour instantly. Setting the cup down on her tray, Frances caught her cloak and fled the room. She needed to be outside lest she went crazy! Her feet roamed numerous corridors, until at last, she huffed in frustration and asked the guard the direction to the houses of Healing. At least she could visit Merry. The hobbit would, for sure, sheer her up.

Or so she hoped.

Frances passed the citadel's gates in haste, her hood fixed upon her reddish hair to conceal her identity. She felt compelled to hide, especially since Aragorn did not want to claim his inheritance right now. Eventually, she reached the garden of the houses of healing. The young lady paused, her nose smelling the fresh air that she so desperately needed. A bench waited for her. Although the gardens had not been her destination, she indulged in the moment to claim it.

The terrace overlooked the city; so did the darkness of Mordor. How beautiful would the view be once this threat was over! In her mind, she saw Aragorn, hair clean and clad in beautiful garments, a crown upon his head, watching the exact same view from the highest levels of Minas Tirith. His face was serene, his task accomplished. In his grey eyes reflected the darkened mountains, but there was no fire within. The land, at last, was at peace. Happy.

Strangely, the King was sad.

Frances frowned, escaping from her reverie. How she longed to be able to draw to imprint this vision of hope and show it to Aragorn. If only a figment of her mind, it was still a beautiful moment. For now though, the fires of mount doom reflected on the darkest clouds she had ever seen. What a pity for Gondor to face such a desolate land!

Pulling her hood down, Frances breathed deeply, relishing in the freshness of the air. No matter how difficult the last days had been, she was grateful that the Grey Company had travelled in the open. There was nothing like trees and earth to make her feel happy. Except for the sea… Leaving her thoughts wander back to the shores of her childhood, she failed to hear the footsteps that approached her.

"Frances! What a surprise!"

The young lady turned around, a smile gracing her rosy lips.

"Pippin! I'm happy to find you. I've been a little lost without my companions as of late."

"I understand what you mean. We have been travelling so long together that I also have trouble getting used to being on my own again. But come, we must visit Merry and Faramir. I heard the steward was awake."

Having seized Frances' hand, the hobbit was tugging on like a child. The young lady relented. Let it not be said that moroseness had won the day over ! Right before they entered Faramir's room, Pippin turned around as if enlightened by sudden knowledge.

"You remember what Strider said, right?" he whispered.

Frances nodded, her lips pursed. Aragorn had forbidden the healers to give Faramir's the grievous new of Lord Denethor's demise until he was fit enough to resume his studies. It seemed like sound advice, but Frances could not help but feel bad to conceal such a thing. Everyone deserved the truth.

A sudden ray of light caught her in the eye: Pippin had opened the door and smiled at the newly appointed Steward. The young man attempted to greet them cheerfully, and failed miserably. Dark circles still lingered under his eyes, and would not disappear for a long time.

His trials were not so different than her own, except that she had the support of her company instead of being scowled at by her father figure. She knew how low one's self esteem could be when being scolded like a child. Her heart went out to him. How he resembled Boromir, and yet seemed to much younger. There was a freshness in his eyes that the eldest did not have. Some uncertainty also, and a lot of self-doubt. Where Boromir's behaviour was not short of bragging, Faramir's quiet gaze told her the opposite of his character.

"My lord Faramir. I hope you will not mind; I have brought some merry company from our fellowship. This is the lady Frances, from … uh."

Never before had Pippin had to introduce his companion, and he felt now at loss about her origins. Frances did not let the hobbit put his foot in his mouth and curtsied.

"I hope my presence will not hinder your recovery. I am glad to see you awake."

The Steward's features lightened a bit, but his eyes remained sad.

"My lady. Your companion Frodo spoke a little about your company. Yet I had not known that a woman had joined this fearful quest,"

Frances smiled, and lowered herself on a stool to level her gaze with the steward.

"It was not out of spite, I assure you. I have been called crazy a few times, and I admit that some of the saying are true, but even I would not go to that length of madness."

Faramir's grey eyes twinkled a little. Of all the sayings about Lady Frances, he had not expected the woman to be so lively and fiery-spirited.

"I admit that I was curious about you. There are many rumours running around the city as of now…"

"Already? Damn, news run fast."

Pippin, silently watching the exchange, was practically clapping his hands together. He had brought Frances to lighten the mood, and he was beside himself to see Faramir taking the bait.

"Oh, pray tell my lord, what have you heard ?"

The young woman lifted an eyebrow in the hobbit's direction, to which Pippin answered in a huge smile. The camaraderie between them brought some solace to Faramir's sombre mood, and he couldn't help but coat the stories a little to amuse his hobbit friend.

"I have heard she fought valiantly against ten thousand orcs…"

"Remove 'valiantly' and you have it. And they had me…", muttered the young lady.

Faramir stopped an instant until his eyes met her expectant gaze.

"And that she rides with the king and is an elf-friend."

The young lady smiled, thinking about their boisterous arrival on the Pelennor fields with the Corsairs of Umbar. That had been quite an entry!

"All right, nothing too compromising as of now."

"And that she must be a witch or a fairy because she magically helped the King to cure people from the Black Breath."

Frances nodded, appalled. How was she going to explain that when she had no idea what had happened?

"Wait, you can do that?" asked Pippin, his eyes wide.

The young lady sighed. Count on Pippin to never let go an embarrassing subject.

"Er. Not exactly. I'll tell you later."

Then she turned to Faramir.

"Is that all they say about me my lord? Then I find I am very safe from gossiping."

Was that irony he heard in her voice? Was she getting upset about the sayings? Yet, he would not stop until he had said it all.

"And that she is well renown amongst the kingdoms of elves, men and dwarves alike."

Frances snorted. Where did that come from? Before she could try to pry it from the Steward, she noted that his jaw was tense.

"I do not give much attention to gossip. There is one thing, however, I would like to ask of you."

"Shoot."

Faramir's dark eyebrows shot so high that it reached his hairline. Frances hastily corrected her speech before he could choke on her lack of formalism.

"I apologise on behalf of my tongue, it sometimes runs ahead without waiting for my brain to keep up. Please ask away, my lord."

The image shocked him beyond measure. Had he not been so tired, Faramir would have loved to converse further. Still, he wanted something from her, and he wanted it before he had to close his eyes once more.

"Were you here when my brother died?"

Uh oh.