Amon Hen

Three times the mighty horn of Gondor rang into the crispy air. Frances cursed as Legolas shouted Boromir's name, sending Strider to his aid. Elf and dwarf alike were doing a massacre in the orc's ranks, their team effective despite their very different techniques and stature. Legolas had retrieved his twins blades after running out of arrows, and the deadly swords were twirling faster than the eye could see, leaving no possible opening into his defense.

Gimli, on his side, was hacking ferociously through limbs and armors with is axe, splitting metal as easily as she would have cut a pizza. Assessing the situation, Frances realized that the team could easily handle the remaining group of foes and she therefore took off in the direction where their leader had disappeared. Tired as she was, the young woman was not able to match the ranger's speed ; she scolded herself for being so weak. After what seemed like eternity, Frances finally made into a clearing that screamed of recent slaughter. Fear blooming in her heart, she passed fallen corpses and dead limbs at full speed, looking for her companions.

Where were Merry and Pippin ? Where had Frodo disappeared ? It was his absence, and that of the Steward's son that had stirred them of their restful camp in the first place… and now, all hell had broken loose.

When she managed to find Boromir her eyes went wide. Kneeling on the forest floor was the warrior, several dark arrows protruding from his chest.

"No!", Frances blanched, her knees buckling.

Uphill, Aragorn's ill posture nearly had her heart leaping out from her chest. His head blocked on a trunk by an orc's shield, the ranger was desperately trying to set himself free before The Uruk severed his head. The hybrid orc was so huge that she felt like an ant compared to his bulky form. Setting aside her survival instinct, Frances took off at full speed to launch herself like a mad woman on the disgusting lieutenant of Saruman.

Aragorn's eyes widened in surprise, and he yelled in frustration at seeing her jump into the fight so carelessly. The technique however, if totally lacking elegance and survival instinct, gave him some much needed time. As Frances crashed into the orc, her chin banged roughly against her opponent's armor and both warriors rolled to the floor.

The orc's blade was already fending the air in her direction. Frances quickly got on her feet. It was the first time she faced an Uruk in a duel, and this one definitely had stature and muscles on his side. Gulping loudly, she nonetheless pointed her elvish sword in his direction, the finely chiseled blade looking so ridiculous compared to his huge rough scythe.

A rolling laugher rang, and then the Uruk was upon her. The beast attacked with massive blows, the strength of them nearly knocking Frances out of her feet. However, Glorfindel's lessons paid off. She remembered how he had taught her to get out of the way to use the momentum of the attacker. Adrenalin pumping, she managed to divert the next blow, her arm trembling from the shock up to her shoulder. Her ennemy's sword slid upon hers, leaving him exposed to a round house kick that should have sent him stumbling backwards. However, instead of the expected effect, her opponent seized her leg with a dreadful grin.

No human would have managed such a deed, but in her impulsivity Frances had neglected to consider the Uruk's bulk. She kicked and reared, but couldn't free herself. And that despicable creature smiled, baring darkened teeth and cracked lips. France was bracing herself for the loss of her leg – crushed or cut - when Aragorn leapt at the Uruk with a savage war hurl, Anduril at the ready.

Reacting quickly, the orc just threw her roughly away, and Frances was sent flying into a log. A swift cry escaped her lips at the sharp pain that shot in the back of her head. Damn, the ground was swimming before her eyes. She witnessed the enraged battle that followed, cursing herself for not being able to help ; her body was oddly non responsive.

The Valar help me if I have a concussion she though, her mind curiously wandering in several totally illogical directions as she tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. Aragorn had taken a bad beating, but the sight of Boromir dying was flowing adrenalin in his veins ; the Uruk could not handle a very angry King to be. In her haze, Frances watched the best's head roll on the ground. A winded and distressed ranger fell before her.

"Frances", he ushered.

Acknowledging that her name was being called, the young woman instinctively offered her arm to allow Aragorn to pull her upright in a swift move. Feeling her legs give way, she gave a yelp of surprise. The ranger's arm tightened around her waist to drag her along the sloppy forest. Pulled down like a sack of potatoes, she did not protest once, too worried about Boromir's fate to give if much case. As they reached the fallen warrior now lying on his back over a tree root, Aragorn let her go and she slumped on the floor.

"No" she murmured, tears threatening to flood her cheeks

Aragorn tried to contain the blood flow. But Boromir stopped him, his face growing paler by the second. Frances knew, in this instant, that they had lost him. And she knew that Strider, being the healer he was, could not ignore it. Yet he tried. A few tears troubled her view, and the young lady blinked them away. Tears of helplessness when Boromir stuttered, his voice faint, that the Uruks had taken Merry and Pippin.

Frances was too weak to gasp, but her mind went in overdrive. Where were Frodo and Sam ? What did the Uruk want with Merry and Pippin ? Were they even alive ? A quiet shuffle of leaves called her attention; Legolas and Gimli had found the little group. Silence followed, thick and heavy from regrets and grief.

- "I would have followed you my brother, my lord, my King…" came Boromir's faint voice

Then his eyes swept to her, and Frances could not help but smile at him. It was a very sad and peaceful smile, an acceptation of doom in all its injustice. The look in the steward's son eyes held acceptance as well. Boromir was at peace with his actions when his gaze got back to Aragorn, and his hand went limp in the King's fingers.

Boromir of Gondor, the steward's son, was no more. He had left those lands in one last heroic action. One more dead in the fellowship, though Frances, and two lost at the hands of the Uruks. This truly was a sad hour for the companions, and she could not help but weep at the loss of such a great warrior. She and Boromir had made their peace in Lothlorien. Now at least she could offer him some silent prayers of friendship and admiration to accompany his soul to wherever it belonged.

Some sensations were starting to come back into Frances' legs now. But still she would not stand for moving meant facing the world and she was not ready for this yet. Mourning, she nearly did not notice when Strider blocked her view from the deceased. Seizing her below her armpits he yanked her up.

"Come", he told her, "we must give him a decent burial but we cannot linger", he said softly. "One last resting place for Boromir of Gondor…"

Her unseeing eyes locked with his, and Aragorn blinked. Then, he engulfed her into a bear hug, mindless of the gore that covered him still. Clinging to him like a drowning cat, Frances allowed one sob to escape her lips as she took as much comfort as was needed from the contact. In the ranger's arms everything was so easy, his tall form shielding her from anything bad that had ever happened. A trembling hand caressed her hair in a gentle move, and she sighed.

It was time to stand tall and proud and move on, for this is how they would render Boromir's death meaningful. Gathering her strength, she stiffened in the ranger's arms and he let her go.

"Thank you" she told him, two little words without detour that expressed the full extend of her gratitude towards him.

Aragorn did not even respond, his throat too tight from grief. He simply bowed his head imperceptibly, his deep grey eyes mourning for their friend's loss but refusing to surrender.

A glimpse of steel settled in his gaze, the little glow that made the whole difference between him and anybody else. Nothing would stand in his way.

Avoiding the elf and dwarf' gazes, ashamed of the tears she had shed, Frances started leading the way back to camp. Her muscles were sore, her body bruised, but her resolve strong. Behind her, Legolas and Estel reverently picked up Boromir's body. The funereal march begun amongst dead leaves and dry trees.