Wargs

Wargs

Frances was exhausted, terrified even. The wargs were so wild, so violent that each hack, each strike threatened to break her sword arm. Claws, teeth, body. Every part of the foul beasts was a weapon. At first, of course, she had landed her arrows in the enemy's flesh, missing some, yet not so many. Unfortunately, most of them had taken the bolt and not strayed from their killing paths, undisturbed by the blood that ran through their flanks. Those creatures were sustained by their lust of destruction, their bestiality hacking bodies like rag dolls.

King Theoden's closest guard already lay on the ground, his face still. A nice man while alive… But she could not linger on this thought. Twice, one of Legolas' arrows had saved her. Needless to say that despite her intense training, Frances wasn't so proficient. She was used to enemies in human form much more than fighting wild beasts. Although her reflexes were quick from years of Interpol training, ker skill with the blade wasn't enough.

Everywhere around her, chaos was spreading. Being on foot exposed Frances more than necessary. When Legolas had reported the attack, she had been too far away from Aragorn's horse. She nearly regretted launching herself in the fight. But here she was.

Too late to turn back.

And she would not, she could not leave her company behind. Yelling a battle cry, she set off again. It would not do to stay put; an unmoving form was too much of a target for the wargs. There were fewer and fewer beasts running around now, and Frances suppressed a grin. Goblins were a much better choice for her skills. Thrown on the ground by the death of their mounts, they opposed quite some resistance. But at this stage, the young woman was more proficient in hand-to-hand combat, especially to injured goblins. She dispatched many, making her way closer to the cliff in her deadly trail.

And then she froze, her blood running cold.

A familiar form was closing in on the cliff's side. His dark long coat as recognisable as the fingerless gloves on his right hand. A stricken wail left her mouth before she even processed the information. Aragorn toppled over the edge, falling to his death!

Stricken, Frances ran, passing the injured rider with hardly a glance, reaching the cliffside in a few very long seconds. Too long, for there was nothing left to see downstream. The river rushed in between the rocks, taking in its wake everything that was thrown into. Frances' tears were falling already, disbelief marring her bloody face. She stayed there, stunned into silence, as the battle field was cleared from the remaining enemies. And then, after what seemed like eternity, Legolas appeared by her side. His hand was clenched on something, his face lost in another world. Wordlessly, the elf opened his hand, his palm facing the sky.

The Evenstar laid there, dirty, and bloodied. Was it Aragorn's blood? Frances did not know. Did it really matter? Legolas' features were set in disbelief. She could feel his anguish, yet would not turn to him. If she did, she was afraid to break down and sink to the floor.

Frances reflected on the irony of life. Not a day ago, she was telling Aragorn how Arwen was watching over him. And now he was dead. It had taken but a second to make him disappear from the history of middle earth. The King that should have reigned on Arnor and Gondor alike, and saved the world from its gloomy doom.

Frances' chest constricted, and she took a deep breath. No, that couldn't be! She refused to believe the ranger gone. Mourning would come later, but she had to see for herself. She owed it to the fellowship, to the world, and to Arwen to find his body and bury him properly. A quick glance around her gave her the information she needed.

Arod was lingering nearby, riderless. Frances' eyes locked on the animal. Her mind was set. As the King decided to leave the dead, shocking Legolas, the young lady walked to the horse purposefully. She knew that the elf would try to stop her, hence the long strides. She did not turn back, hoping to be unnoticed. Was he too shocked to understand that she had no intention to follow them to Helm's deep? But Legolas was no fool. As soon as Frances left his side, he knew that something was amiss. Despite the intensity of his grief, he was still able to feel the absence of her soothing spirit as she walked away.

She was, by any means, as utterly in shock of Aragorn's fall as he was. The ranger and himself had been friends for so long, more than seven years by now. Aragorn was, to him, a human brother. The pain was sharp, excruciating even. Destiny awaited the future King, probably more than the white city expected Boromir. And yet, none of them would return to the kingdom of Gondor. What was to become to the world of men? To the quest? And to him? Would Arwen fade from the grief while Legolas stayed by her side until the end, observing how life left her body through the tears she would endlessly shed?

A dozen yards away from the brooding elf, Frances murmured to Arod to go downstream, looking for Aragorn's body. And then, just as she clicked her tongue to launch the stallion forward, a hand seized her arm. The young lady froze, her eyes meeting the blue gaze she had become familiar with. Legolas stared at her, hurt and betrayal mixed in the most heart-breaking expression. Her throat constricted.

— "My lady, it is a useless quest," he said. "I urge you to stay with us."

— "I cannot," she answered sadly, "I cannot leave him there to die."

Legolas' eyes shone with distress as he whispered.

— "I fear that it is already so. Do not waste your life when there is none to save."

Frances' head shook from left to right. She did not trust her voice. Tears fell from her eyes, trailing on her cheeks a path of liquid purity among the dirt and blood. Legolas' words were lost to her, when the only thing she could think of was to repress the urge to sob from the injustice of it all. She had no insults in store for the Valar. The anger would come later. But she could not abandon her purpose. Her mission ought to be accomplished first. Legolas' hand tugged at her sleeve, demanding that she dismounted. How tempting it was, to launch herself in his arms and shut her mind down as he held her. He would be her anchor in this foreign world.

But something stirred within, urging her to go forth with her plan. A need that couldn't be ignored. Eventually, Frances straightened on the saddle. Her gaze grew steadier as she gently, but purposefully extracted her forearm from the elf's grip.

— "I need to follow my heart," she whispered to him.

Only the keen hearing of the eldar allowed him to hear it. Frances took off at full gallop, much to the elf's dismay. He didn't try to stop her. The pain was rougher now. He had lost not one, but two friends at the same time. Yet the tears would not fall. He was a warrior at heart, and as a warrior he would behave to the end. The defences had to hold until Gandalf's return. He was, with Gimli, the only protector left for those people. Yet, it held little sense now. His heart was rubbed raw.

Frances galloped south, following the stream. Never turning back, she didn't see the look of longing on the elf's features as she disappeared behind the summit of the first hill. The uneven terrain was too difficult to keep Arod galloping. She had to slow her stallion lest he broke a leg and threw her down. She would be of no use to anyone, alive or dead, if she died so stupidly. The wind blew her air around her bloodied face, tears trailing on her cheeks. She was well aware that leaving the only two remaining members of the fellowship felt like betrayal.

She missed them already. But she also felt terrible for Aragorn's fall, Boromir's death, and for so many things that had happened during this quest. Frodo's dangerous trek to Mordor with only Sam to keep him company, Merry and Pippin lost somewhere in Fangorn's forest… There was no ending to this list. And those events, carefully stacked away in a drawer of her memory, were resurfacing all at once. The loss of Aragorn, the true company's leader, called those souvenirs to crash down on her. Before long, Frances was sobbing in despair on the stallion's back.

Fortunately for her, Arod seemed to know where he was going. Impervious to her erratic directions, the horse followed the stream without faltering. Then, as Frances though she would dismount and lie on the ground to expel her grief, a strange light shone in the distance. Lifting her eyes to the sky, she gasped. One of the clouds gathered the brightness of the sun, rays falling down in a particular spot. Frances' red eyes widened in awe. The grey volutes, rolling under the wind, had taken a form she knew well. Arwen's silhouette floated an instant in the sky, her ethereal robes flowing around her from the breeze. And then she was just another cloud, the sun hiding behind it.

Frances' heart soared, urging Arod to go faster without losing the spot from view. The horse was strangely attuned to her mind, obeying without faltering as they came to lower ground. The hills had gradually become smoother, and the river's current was diminishing. It started to meander here and there, taking advantage of the softer terrain. Arod was galloping now, neighing impatiently as they came upon a small beach. Frances' eyes widened at the sight that greeted her.

Aragorn was there, spread on the coarse sand, facing the clouds. Her breath caught. At last, she had found him! Sadness washed over her as she approached. He seemed so alive, like a man enjoying a little bit of rest after a harrowing day. Yet, his body was assaulted by the freshness of the stream. The current swayed his legs from left to right, trying to drag him into oblivion, further down and to the sea to be reunited with Boromir.