Dunarrow

They reached Dunharrow on the morn, climbing the steep path under the greyish light of the new day. Frances was exhausted, and as soon as the lady Eowyn had found a tent for her, she collapsed in a cot. The afternoon was upon her before she lifted her eyelids, but she rose far better rested. Washing herself from head to toe, she hesitated between a bun and braid. Eventually, she decided against both and left her hair tumbling down her back; today was supposed to be battle free.

The young woman found the Dunedain encampment beside her tent. Soon enough, the twins had ordered her on the cot again to work on her wound. And be it magic or not, her leg regained much mobility thanks to their care. The gash was less painful, no more displaying the angry red around the scar. Walking still strained her thigh, but she could bend her knee a little bit further without tearing up skin and muscle. Once satisfied with their work, the twins left in haste to spend time with their kin. Of Aragorn they had not seen much. Dumbfounded, Frances watched them go, her eyebrows raised up on her forehead.

After several months of absence, she was surprised to find the bond between the three of them unscathed. Nor war, nor death had affected their relationship. They were, though, more overbearing and protective that they used to be in Rivendell. Had the wound reminded them that she was a mortal? Frances didn't know. She had no time to dwell on those thoughts. Her stomach was growling in the most unladylike fashion and she grabbed her cloak to go hunting for food.

Outside laid an incredible number of tents, and more hearths than she had ever laid eyes upon. The Rohirrim gathered around them, talking, sharpening swords, drinking and playing games. Frances was at loss. It was the first time that she walked through an army. And even if most people in this world tended to be civilised, or at least afraid to lay a hand on a high-ranked lady, she knew not to wander among soldiers about to fight the latest battle of their lives. Overwhelmed, she stood still, her cloak entirely closed around her frail body. She cursed herself for letting her hair loose. Its fiery strands stood out like a sore thumb among the golden heads of Rohan. Already, many eyes rested on her.

Frances' gaze roamed over the encampment. Higher on the hill towered the royal tent. Eowyn would probably be there, and able to guide her to a piece of food. Making up her mind, Frances seized her walking stick and started to climb the nasty path that led to the royal quarters. The stiff leg made the hike uneasy. Despite her new-found mobility, the rocky slope was tough given that she couldn't bend her knee so much. Swearing in French after sending a few pebbles tumbling down the path, Frances was surprised to hear an amused voice behind her.

"Is your mother language always so musical?"

The young lady turned around, blushing profusely. A few steps below stood the elf. Not Elladan nor Elrohir. No. Her elf. The twins were so very different than him, and their sister altogether. That Arwen would be called the Evenstar made sense; she was as beautiful as sunset, all dark shades and lovely colours. Like a blanket settling in on the rocky hills of Imladris, Arwen brought the solace of a restful night. The twins, though, represented something darker. They were the night. Full of shadows, yet beautiful. Deadlier than a cliff under the dim light of the stars, yet as hypnotising than the void beyond the edge. This void calling to the restless hiker to come closer, and take the deep plunge into the abyss.

But not Legolas. Bright and untamed Legolas. As brilliant as a day at the beach, all sunshine and light, his smile so radiant that it warmed her from within. Like the sun reflecting on sand and water, his moods seemed to reflect on her as well. It was so easy to get sunburnt such was his presence. He was as powerful as a star, as deadly as its flares. Yet gentle, allowing all life to grow in this planet and beyond. How could she not succumb to his presence?

A tentative smile graced Legolas' lips, he did not dare laugh openly at her expense. Frances did not know whether to be proud of him to tease her so, or annoyed at his smugness.

"Err. No. French usually sounds much better. To my defence, the people that carved this path did not think of crippled ladies."

The elf's smile fell at once.

"My apologies for my lack of consideration. My first intent was to offer some help, if I may?"

"You may. I am in dire need of some sustenance. Would help mean food by any chance?"

The elf's face lightened.

"Let us get back to camp. Gimli has roasted a set of birds recently, and there should be some left."

Legolas climbed the few steps that separated them and offered his arm. Frances cocked her head aside, feeling a tad more mischievous.

"So then, your mind was blown by the beautiful poetry that flew out my mouth?"

"Kind of…"

This time, Frances laughed openly. Seizing the elf's arm for support, she couldn't help but exclaim:

"You, master elf, are starting to use my expressions. What will your father say when you get back to his halls speaking like a wench?"

Legolas stilled, his head turning north with a thoughtful expression.

"If I ever return … and if the halls of my home still stand. Then I will be glad to have this conversation with him."

Frances frowned, taken aback by the worry that marred his beautiful face.

"Has something happened to your kindred? Have you some news of Greenwood?"

"Nay. Not since Gandalf left. But I fear that war will come to my people all the same."

Truth be told, she had quite forgotten about the forest of Greenwood in her attempts to stay alive. Still, Legolas's home was in danger, and she could not fathom how he must feel to have abandoned it in this hour of need. Did he regret being involved with the fellowship instead of joining his father, his people in the north? She knew that Boromir would have stopped at nothing to get back to Minas Tirith. Before his death, he was intent on returning to Gondor. Did Legolas feel the same?

"I am sorry, mellon nin. I had not realised that they would face such danger."

Frances's voice seemed to shake Legolas out of his daze. Leading her downwards with caution, the elf refused to let worry gnaw at him. If he did, he risked losing his mind over it. Not that he felt overly sane with Frances by his side.

"Come, let us not linger on events that we have no control over. My father is a skilled tactician and warrior; he can protect our borders better than anyone else"

Her hand on his arm warmed his skin, and her presence brought him some solace. She, who would joke in the direst of hours, seemed to take the hint.

"All right. Anything you would like to know?"

"I would rather hear about your mother language, and what those colourful words meant, if you please."

Frances bit her lip, wondering if she should die from embarrassment, or tease the elf about it. The latter won the contest… by very little.

"This, my dear Legolas, is out of the question. And you will not pry it from me, under no circumstances."

"You seem to forgive how persistent we, first born, can be."

The young woman raised her eyes to find his, the corner of her lips lifting in amusement.

"First born or not, I will not surrender."

"I am afraid I must insist. I am feeling very curious now that I have heard them uttered so beautifully."

"Over my dead body…"

The elf's shocked face caused Frances to snicker. Despite her amusement, she couldn't help but notice that his grip had tightened slightly.

"It is an expression from my world. It means 'no way'. There are many more equivalents to this, but I couldn't possibly quote them without turning beetle red."

"What a strange way to communicate"

Frances features turned pensive.

"Yes. You have to understand that my world is a lot less formal than middle earth. Our so-called evolution has buried politeness and conventions for something we thought to be closer to being truthful. It could have worked, really. But I fear that it has taken us a long way from civilisation."

Legolas nodded, his head trying to wrap around the sheer amount of information that seemed to be locked inside Frances. Eventually, though, she sighed.

"The truth is, I can have a foul mouth when in pain."

"Believe me, you are not the only one."

The young lady shot him a curious glance.

"Do elves even swear?"

"Aye. We do. But not in the way you are used to. We'd rather call to Elbereth's light or Manwe's breath."

"Right. The equivalent to 'Oh my God'. Or 'Par la barbe de Saint Antoine' Much more polite, even if my grandmother always wanted to cuff our ears for saying so. My father used to say 'Bon Dieu', which means 'Good God'. But even that she could not accept. Swearing in the name of God always got us a dressing down."

Sweet grandmother. She had died but a week prior to Frances being called to middle earth. How she missed her already! The campsite was in sight now, and Gimli hailed them as soon as they came into view. Roasted meat was dumped on her lap unceremoniously topping a slice of brown bread. Famished as she was, she made a quick job of cleaning the bird bones. Then, the juicy bread disappeared. Frances felt self-conscious, eating so hungrily in front of the elf. Fortunately, she had kept a handkerchief from her room in Edoras, and she wiped her hands and mouth thoroughly.

"Your hunger had not been sated."

It was a statement, not a question. And damn him for being right. How did he even know? Frances' eyes stubbornly focused on the ground; she dared not look into the blue pools of the elf. There! She had made quite a spectacle of herself, eating like a street urchin.

"Lass? Pointy ears seems to have a point."

At last, Frances lifted her eyes to meet the dwarf's.

"No offence Gimli. Your roast was marvellous, and it left me wanting for some more."

The dwarf scoffed, setting his huge hand on his knee.

"Can't blame you there, there's hardly any meat on those birdies. I'll go and find Merry at the royal tent. I'll be sure to find something interesting."

"I'll accompany you then" she said.

"No! Don't you bother? It is my pleasure."

Who knew the dwarf could be so gallant? But she couldn't have him running around for her sake.

"Gimli, it doesn't feel right…"

"Let him go, my lady. The climb is very steep, and you need to rest" came Legolas smooth voice.

Again with the formality. Frances's interrogative frown reached a pair of eyes as blue as the sky, and a quick nod directed to the rangers on the other side of the fire taught her everything she needed to know. In front of those people, he would call her as such, to mark the rank. A sly smile formed on his lips as he turned to Gimli.

"And it will prove that the hospitality of the dwarves is proven right!"

Gimli laughed at that, welcoming the quip with a slap on the elf's back. There was a time when the two warriors would have fought about this, retorting snide remarks and trading low blows. But now, their antagonism was reduced at exchanging good-hearted jokes on their respective people. How far they'd come, all of them, to cement such a beautiful bond in the fellowship.