The fields of Moranon

The massive gates, thousands of pounds of iron and blackened spikes, had spewn a messenger so horrid that Frances gasped in Legolas' tunic. A deformed face now bandied words with both Gandalf and Aragorn, insulting them at great length. But it wasn't the words of hate and sarcasm that created the deep void in her belly.

No.

Despite its monstrous nature, the fellowship of the ring could have overlooked the Mouth of Sauron's insults. But not the mithril shirt that he shoved in Gandalf's face. Neither Sam's elvish blade.

Mouth open, Frances watched the veiled sun reflect upon the finely chiselled shirt, so fine that it flowed like water. A mail that used to protect Frodo, and now rested in Gandalf's palms; a reminder of their failure. Elladan swore when the wizard's features fell. Frances' stomach plummeted, and she watched the agony etched upon the old wizard with grief.

Thus, the quest had ended.

The young woman buried her face into Legolas' shoulder, tears running down her face. She kept her sobbing quiet, ashamed at her own weakness. For, by her side, neither Gimli not Pippin cried in despair. They held fast, tears in their eyes, channeling their anger for the battle to come.

Did it really matter anymore?

Aragorn prowled forward, his shoulders tense under the shiny armour that reflected the seven stars of Minas Tirith and Numeror. A panther, containing his energy until… The strike came swiftly, and flawlessly, accompanied by a cry of anger that echoed all around them. One second, the mouth of Sauron was insulting the heir of Elendil. The next, his head rolled I the dirt.

The hills, fallen boulders and scorched earth, couldn't ignore the mighty roar of King Elessar.

One last moment of glory before they were wiped out entirely, middle earth swallowed by despair and ruin. Frances stiffened in the saddle, her hand finding that of the elven prince.

"I love you, Legolas."

"Do not despair, meleth," he answered. "I shall always find you." Then, he proceeded to turn to Gimli, and graced him with a smile.

"Would dying amongst friends satisfy you, master dwarf?"

The awe painted upon Gimli's features was so raw that the young woman laughed. Those two had fought, bickered and scorned to their hearts's content, only to become tighter than a set of brothers. The whole fellowship gathered instinctively to face the wrath of Mordor. One last stand, together, before the wrath of evil.

The fellowship was ready to honour their oath. For those already dead –Boromir, Frodo and Sam. For those about to die, and for everything they stood for. If this was the end of the road, they would meet it together.

As a massive, rumbling noise caused the earth to tremble beneath their feet, Aragorn, Gandalf, Gimli, Pippin and Legolas stood as one. By their side, the twin sons of Elrond gathered their wrath to face the armies of the Dark Lord. Not a look was exchanged between them as they watched a sea of darkness – Mordor's army – spill forth from the black gates. But Frances could feel every single one of them beside her. And while the solid vibration of more than fifty thousand orcs shook her legs, Aragorn spurred his horse forward and turned to his army.

"The strength of men shall not fail!" he cried.

A great cheer answered him, and Frances cried with the others. At some point, she locked eyes with the former ranger and smiled. Despite their difference in stations, despite the fact that she had no right to feel thus, she couldn't help but feel proud of him.

Perhaps her visions were wrong, and Aragorn would never be crowned. But, while the sea of swimming darkness advanced behind him, he still stood straight in the saddle; the only man offering his back to an army of half a hundred thousand foes.

Some would call him a fool for showing such disregard towards danger. Other found strength and courage in his steadfast posture. Frances was one of those.

Trumpets cheers then, and heralds announced the coming of King Elessar, sovereign of Gondor and Arnor. And, in this surrealist moment, the young lady grinned. Grey eyes misting over, Aragorn grinned back. The quirk of his lips soon turned into a feral expression; the glint of his grey eyes steeling like the finest blade.

Legolas left one last, lingering kiss over the crown of her head. Words were useless. The time had come.

As they couldn't afford to charge, the armies of the west waited, with bated breath, the sea of darkness that irrevocably came crashing upon them. Horsemen dove into the fray, spearmen at the ready to break the tide. To no avail; there were too few compared to the tide of Mordor.

"Stay close to us!" Elladan roared as the first orcs started seeping into their lines. Frances nodded, noticing that most of her companions were scattered around her. The fellowship, reinforced by the remnants of the Grey Company, held true in the face of adversity.

Frances unsheathed, and started slashing. If Frodo had died, those sons of bitches would pay. If he had not perished yet, then they must hold on at all costs.

It was desperation that led her blade as she twirled, mindful of her diminished leg, blade searing through her enemies. On her right, twin blades danced, dealing death with efficiency. More and more orcs passed through their front lines, hacking down their men, and the fight became a brawl in close quarters.

Using her small form to dodge, Frances grabbed her sword closer to the hilt and reduced her stance, swimming in the dark sea like a fish in ugly, tainted waters. She lost count of the slashes that nearly took her head off, and the limbs she severed with cries of rage. Blows landed upon her body, the armour taking most of it as she tried to dodge.

Her arms ached, heavy, but she called forth the anger to sustain her body. The slightest of weakening in her attention, and all would be lost.

The chaos spread, but did not abate. It lasted forever, and still Frances sliced, diced, and received a thousand cuts and blows. Her body was a giant bruise; it ached everywhere. Adrenalin kept her conscious, but her feet just refused to lift anymore. The ground was littered with blood, flesh and stinking fluids. Too exhausted, the young woman lifted her sword to parry an incoming orc.

"Watch out!"

Frances was flung aside, and nearly impaled herself on her sword as a massive hammer passed right over her head. A hand pulled her roughly by the collar to a standing position, grey eyes – Elladan – giving her a quick once over before they returned to the massive troll that had nearly crushed her. Her protector leapt into the fray, nailing the huge creature. The troll swung wildly around him, taking friends and foes alike.

Frances cleared the area, taking a few steps back to allow the twins to do their job properly. A piercing cry echoed above them, Nazgûls and their foul beasts picking apart their horsemen with nerve-wracking cries.

The young woman grit her teeth so hard that her jaw popped. Fuck them! Fuck those wraiths!

She wouldn't allow despair to swallow her whole, and fuelled her determination with renewed wrath. Nary ten feet away, Legolas' silvery hair danced as he cleared the area. His movement were slightly less graceful than usual; Frances nearly snorted; she was bone weary, moving with the swiftness of a massive cow. Every muscular fibre was screaming in protest.

Fortunately, she wasn't the only one.

The swirl of her beloved's hair suddenly darted in a different direction. His scream – Aragorn ! – dug a massive hole in her stomach; her eyes followed him, dread infusing her blood. She knew she shouldn't have. Knew that, anytime, an enemy could sneak behind her and hack. But she couldn't keep her attention away from Legolas, trying desperately to reach their mutual friend.

Frances shuddered, blocking a blade at the latest moment; she sent the orc's head flying with a rageous slash. Where were the twins? Pivoting on her heel, she looked for the familial set of dark hair, and found them.

Should she call them to aid Aragorn? No, they were too far away.

Another piercing cry rattled her bones, different from the disembodied wraiths that shattered their hope. This one was familiar, yet a thousand times stronger.

"Eagle!", Pippin cried from somewhere behind her. "The eagles have come!"

Sudden hope bloomed in her chest as she watched the giant birds, rusty feathered and sharp talons, digging into the Nazgûls. The young woman smirked.

Aerial support. Good.

Take that, spawns of hell !

New energy filled her limbs; a strong wave of revengeful blood flowed through her veins, and Frances started hacking at the orcs with vigour. Her mind didn't linger on the fact that, should Sauron find the ring, the eagles wouldn't make a darn difference. No. Her whole world had shrunk to the moment, and the bodies littered around her as she sought to join the twins once more.

Suddenly, the remaining Nazgûls departed in a rush, screeching in unison. The noise rattled her nerves, and Frances was grateful to the eagles for releasing an ear-splitting cry of warning. The winged beasts were making a beeline for the Volcano. Could it be that Frodo had somehow managed to …?

Sore, Frances spent her last forces forging a path through a sea of deadened flesh. Eventually, Elrohir's eyes found her and she nodded her satisfaction. Twenty feet, at most, and she'd be by his side. The elf was about to respond when his expression morphed into one of horror. A cry left his mouth as his eyes flickered behind her.

Worried, Frances wondered if he'd been hit. Damn her brain, who could perform the most difficult calculation in a heart's breath, but failed at grasping the most basic situation in time.

She understood too late. Twisting aside, the blade that would have separated her in two distinct pieces slashed at her back. Fire spread from shoulder to hip; her mouth opened in a silent cry as her body followed its initial momentum, and landed with a dull thud.

Her muscles spasmed, and her eyes locked upon the orc that was about to run her through.

Darn body! Move, move, move!

Her leg twitched, but the agony wracking her nerves was rapidly dulling any other sense. A body suddenly collided with the orc, sending him sprawling backwards.

Frances didn't even get time to sigh in relief before her vision darkened. Her body arched, the pain so searing that tears leaked from her eyes. Something warm coated her waist, a burning liquid that slowly seeped out of her. Her body was convulsing now; hands tried to still her.

"Elladan !", a voice shouted, frantic panic.

The grip was firm around her shoulders, but she couldn't make out the words. They were sad, and angry. A beautiful melody of elvish that drowned the chaos until the earth started shaking beneath her prone form.

A massive explosion sounded in the distance, efficiently stilling the battlefield. As if God himself had descended to discipline rowdy angels.

Frances' lips quirked.

Frodo. He had made it.

A veil of darkness descended before her eyes.

Frances floated in and out of consciousness. Hands replaced others, gasps and rumbles. The voices of her friends around her.

"She's losing too much blood. We must staunch the flow."

Estel.

"Strider ! What can I do?"

Pippin.

"Nothing, lad. There's nothing you can do."

Gimli. Defeated.

"Estel… This is beyond our skill."

The twins.

Warmth touched her neck, and despite the darkness, she could distinguish a faint light ahead.

"But not beyond those of her world. Hold on, meleth."

Legolas.

They were all accounted for, and her body shuddered while her mind danced with gless. Frodo was alive, her friends were alive. The Valar be blessed ! Coldness slowly but surely crept up her body, and a set of very hot fingers squeezed hers.

"I'm coming with you."

Confused, Frances' eyebrows scrunched. What did he mean? A lone tear fell upon her face, and she felt his hand fish out the necklace from below her breastplate. Then, his fingers enclosed hers, and his smooth voice started an elvish prayer to the Valar.

Aragorn stood, aghast, his battered body too weak to sustain such a blow. Frances was dying in Legolas' arms. His agonised grey eyes searched for the reassurance of his brothers, but they both laid on their knees, head bowed.

As if she had died already.

Pippin's gaze was wide open in shock; Gimli guarded him. They had won, but at what price? Frodo and Sam had probably been levelled by the volcanic explosion, and Frances…

But Legolas wouldn't let go as he relentlessly prayed to the Manwë, hands shaking upon the jewel at her neck. As Frances' chest stuttered, it started glowing under the elf's hands. More and more intense, it painted the elf, then the whole area in a great light of white and blue.

"Goodbye, my friends," Legolas eventually stated.

The light grew so fierce that Aragorn had to close his eyes. Its warmth washed over his body, soothing its aches in benevolence until it disappeared entirely.

When his eyes opened anew, the new King gasped. Frances had disappeared, leaving behind a huge pool of her blood and her sword. And within the crimson circle sat Legolas.

Alone.