Home !

He was unreal, a marvellous being, a soul worthy of the eldar, worthy of the line of Oropher and the Sinda princes of Arda. His people, the firstborn, held some wisdom. But they had abandoned this world. From weariness or pride? None would really know. Maybe a little bit of both. But he had not.

Long golden hair, with warrior braids framing his finely chiselled features. His expression, sometimes lost in the faraway world of the elves, was so seldom contorted in anger. Acceptance and joy usually graced them. The paradox of his youthful face compared to the wisdom contained in his eyes never ceased to amaze. Yet, even after a life of many centuries, there was surprise in his gaze, like a child discovering the world.

He was sturdy, quite unbreakable. Even if, like most of his kin, he had inherited the incredible grace that softened his sharp build. So elvish. Present without anyone noticing, bright as the sun, ardent like the wind that scatters the leaves in autumn, and graceful like a panther. Despite his inheritance, he never lost hope.

Hope…

Beeeep. Beeep. The light was harsh. Too harsh. And cold, so very different from her beloved inner glow. Frances closed her eyes and sunk into oblivion once more.

His gestures were so sure; they transformed him into a breeze fairy sometimes. Flying more than walking, he used his legendary lightness to reach the most unattainable places without difficulties. There was no more precise eyesight nor surest hand than his. His bow, just like him, was mortally accurate. As supple as it was tall. Aesthetically perfect, and deadly, just like him. It was a strange and dangerous beauty that the elves possessed. Bewitching and soothing, yet incredibly powerful.

On the battlefield, he was untouchable. In a few seconds, his adversaries succumbed to death. His gestures were precise, and aimed to kill cleanly, without rage, without shame. Be it with his twin blades or his bow, the enemy never stood a chance. It was so strange, to see such a beautiful being triumph without ever being touched in battle. Not a scratch ever marred his face. Never weary, nor even sweaty even after the worse of our battles.

It was in those moments that the reminder came so clearly: Legolas was not a man. For he stood tall and dignified when we staggered and struggled from exhaustion.

Like the reeds subjected to harsh winds, he bent, but never broke. I truth, the fluidity of his moves made him totally unattainable. Protected and deadly, he was a force to reckon with. But there was no brutality in his fighting style, nor the sheer frenzy of men.

Only once did I see fear on his face. The Balrog. We were too ignorant to know what was coming, but he knew. When the walls were set ablaze, we were fearful, of course. But not enough, for we had no clue that our enemy had been created by Morgoth himself. But when I saw his face, the horror etched over his features, I understood. And he was right to be afraid, for no wise man defies forces that are beyond him.

Beeep. Beeep. The sound was really getting annoying. It seemed to take up more space in Frances' head, trying to pry her out of her thoughts. But still, Legolas was waiting, his hand outstretched, and the warm memories of his embrace held much more appeal than the coldness that surrounded her.

His spirit was so bright, even if he had inherited from his people the legendary poise and wisdom. His relative youth had protected him from their weariness, and he offered all his energy to the world. But not to the dwarves. The rivalry, inherited from their fathers, was so uncouth in such a beautiful being.

But then, after days in each other's companies, the most unusual of friendships developed. It graced those dark days with its spontaneity, and once more I could only marvel that those prejudices could be forgotten, however long they had run. His willingness to accept the world helped us in our quest. If elves and dwarves could get along so well, there was hope still for middle earth.

His spirit was honourable, yet unprotected. The people that raised him had not prepared him to face human ailments. Changes, time, death, disease … and love. In the millennia of his existence, no one but his beloved forest had ever made his heart thump so wildly. Never before had he considered being tied to someone, depending on someone for his happiness. Legolas was free and unbound; he ignored everything about those feelings tied to another.

Beeep, Beep, Beep.

Frances started awake, and the annoying noise intensified, coming more frequently and making her ears bleed. Her eyes squinted against the aggressive light; her sight blurred. But the smells could not be mistaken. This horrible stench of antiseptics and iodine permeated everything. Hospital. Which meant she was probably back home. What had happened?

Panic washed over her, and the beeps were getting really annoying now. Her frantic mind was searching in her memories. There was darkness, and anguish. Dead, so many dead, and her blood sweeping from a gruesome back wound. Of all those images, she could not make head to toe. But there was one voice endlessly turning in her mind. A voice whispering his undying love in Sindarin, and the souvenir of his brightness surrounding her as she … died.

Frances sat up in a frenzy, her eyes searching for him. He had promised, promised that if she needed to go back he would accompany her. His silent plea for her to accept to remove him from his beloved Arda to follow her back to her world. And at the time, she had feared for his life. Her world, polluted, cold and corrupted to the core. How could he strive in such a dreadful place? Yet now, she wanted nothing more than his presence. He had promised so where was he?

She needed to find him, but her mind was on overload. Everything hurt her, too loud, too bright. She tugged on the wires stuck on her chest, and grimaced when they gave way. The machine let out a horrible noise as it was deprived of her heartbeat. But Frances couldn't care less. She threw the sheet away, revealing her bare thighs, and froze. The scar from her leg was purely and simply gone. Skin and muscle perfectly smooth, no trace of Aragorn's stitching. Frances frowned, her mind hazy. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she realised how tired her body was. The young lady swayed in her bed, ready to collapse.

Voices grew louder in the corridor, and the door clanged so badly that she winced. Was everyone so loud in this goddamn place? Had the population of earth been replaced by dwarves? A frantic nurse barrelled in her room, only to find her seated instead of plain dead. The woman in white let out a huff of frustration, and set her back to bed to put the wires in place while lecturing her. Stunned to be touched in this intrusive manner without her consent, Frances seized the nurse's hand in a vice grip, effectively stopping her fussing.

"There was a young man with me, blond with very long hair. Where is he?"

The nurse frowned, displeased with her tone.

"No. It was the SAMU who brought you. Alone."

Frances sagged against the pillowed, dread seizing her heart. She was falling, falling into the pits of Khazad dum to the shimmering lake. Cold and icy, its claws tightened around her chest.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now, can you let go?"

Dizzy, the young lady unclenched her fist and released the nurse. This could not be! She remembered now how Legolas had put her hand into his and touched the blue rock to bring her home, willing to travel with her! He knew that she stood no chance in middle earth, but that her world might save her. And it had! She remembered his swift goodbye, uttered in Sindarin, to his close friend. For Aragorn had been by her side as she faded from life in her beloved's arms. And before she closed her eyes, the King had told her she would be all right, tears filling his eyes.

Poor Estel, such a beautiful soul. He had lost so many of his kin already… But they had won the war, even if she had nearly died in the process. And as she started to realise what had happened, a ton of bricks settled in her stomach. Yes, they had won the war, but Legolas had not crossed. And she had lost the love of her life, condemning him to solitude in Arda while she wallowed in her grief on earth. If he had not been killed in the process.

Frances shuddered. No. She could not dwell on such thoughts. Legolas was alive and well by Estel's side. The magic of the rock had probably prevented him from travelling with her since she was the designated Keeper of Time.

"The doctors will come and speak to you in the afternoon. And do not remove the patches, we need to monitor your heart rate."

Frances addressed a levelled gaze to the nurse. Who cared if her heart was still beating? Had no one realised that it had already stopped?

"Yeah, like you care," she grumbled.

The nurse gave her an irate look, but left nonetheless. Numb, Frances did not move. Could it be true? Could it be true that never again she would contemplate Legolas's soft glow? A deep hollow settled in her chest, constricting her airways and threatening to send her into a panic crisis. How would he fare? Left behind, with her promise and undying love and her absence? The ghost of his sweet lips on hers, of his soft yet strong hands encircling her waist was too much to bear. But Frances was glad that they had refrained from completing their bond.

Legolas had been right; it would have killed them. She was glad now that at least he stood a chance. Accepting his absence would be like living in hell. Given the ache in her heart right now, she knew she couldn't have borne a stronger pull. Had they given to their desire before the battle of the Black Gate, they'd been both fading from the grief now. It was hard enough to breathe already.

Before the doctors came to examine her, Frances examined her thigh again. Nothing. There was nothing. Ripping the patches again, and turning off the stupid machine, she leapt to the restroom and discarded her blouse. Turning around, she peeked at her back in the mirror. Her back was smooth, and unscarred. Yet, it was only mere hours ago that she was bleeding to death on Legolas's tunic, barely keeping her wits about her such was the agony!

But there were no bruises, no cuts nor scraps. Where her body should have ached, it was strangely smooth. A sudden hunch crawled its way through her mind, and she bent over to examine the scar over her eyebrow. Nothing. There too, there was no souvenir at all of her encounter with a puny rock in the schoolyard fifteen years ago. Stunned, she sank on the toilet seat. She was … new?

A wave of exhaustion came over her, and she staggered back to her bed. Of course, the nurse came back and berated her. Frances did not even respond for fear she might be very rude. She had to think. All of it, it didn't make sense. Her awareness drifted away, and the sudden noise of the corridor woke her up. Then started a long and tiresome walz. Doctors, specialists and so on came and went, asking stupid questions and getting stupid answers. But then, two familiar figures popped into the room, and upon recognising them, Frances smiled.

"Mum! Dad!"

Her mother gathered her into her arms, and the dam broke. Tears and sobs escaped her body, but she could not relent. Very soon, Frances regained her composure, blaming her breakdown on exhaustion because of her studies. She would weep and grieve in private. For now, she needed to be out of hospital. She hated hospitals, they never helped her. And after the comfy houses of healing of Minas Tirith, the cold and aseptic environment seemed even harsher.

Frances thought of Faramir, of Eowyn, and the hobbits, and all those people that she loved and that she would never see again. Tears welled in her eyes, and she struggled to regain her composure. Pushing those thoughts away, the cogs in her minds turned a hundred miles a minute to find a cover story.

But neither the doctor, nor her parents were quite ready to give in. She suffered, apparently, for severe anaemia. Frances almost snorted at that. With the blood loss she had sustained, it was little wonder! Of course, the doctors could not make sense of it, for there was no injury to behold. Apparently, the transfer from one world to another reconstructed her frame from scratch. Or so she deduced. So basically, the magic of the Valar saved her life. Had they done it on purpose? Were they watching her? Or was it only the magic or the gem that responded to her? So many questions, and no explanation in sight.

Anyway. She had the Valar to thank for her life. A few minutes later and she would have been very, very dead. Had the rock not performed its shiny magic, she definitely would be buried. Would her body have stayed behind? Would her companion bury her somewhere on the road, or take her to Minas Tirith? What would have been their choice, HIS choice? As Frances considered her brush with death and the consequences of the aftermaths, she missed the insistent questions that were directed to her.

"Miss?"

"Frances?"

Her mother's worried tone reached to her, and Frances realised how much she had missed her parents. It would have been an impossible choice, to stay in middle earth and leave them in the dark about her existence. The joy to be reunited with them, though, was more than dampened by the loss. Still, they could be her rock, her sanctuary until she started living again. Or died from the grief.

"What?"

"The doctor asked you a question."

"Oh sorry, I kinda zoned out. I'm quite exhausted."

A tall doctor with bright eyes smiled at her. He looked, in appearance, a little less condescending than his kind.

"It's quite all right. I merely wondered if you had sustained any intense bleeding recently. Your red blood cells are alarmingly low and we have even considered a transfusion."

Frances lifted an eyebrow.

"That much?"

"Yes, that much. It is usually a result of major blood loss by injury, or after birth. But in your case, it does not fit. So have you sustained any injuries, or abundant periods, anything?"

Was he asking if she had had a clandestine abortion or something like it? That would be a good cover story, but Frances couldn't abide by it. Not in front of her parents. And they knew she had an implant to prevent her period from happening; the solution to her impromptu travels. Injuries? She wanted so much to tell them.

A few ones, so insignificant… A deep gash to the thigh and a sword lacerating my back to the bone. That kind of injury?'

Seemingly lost in thought, she played dumb. If Legolas had been there, he would have picked up the irony hidden in her eyes. Her sweet and bright elf knew, by now, when she was being difficult on purpose. By her side, her father gave her a strange look. Frances sighed dejectedly. Those two would have got along just fine.

Careful there. I inherited the ability to read people from my adar, so better to keep a low profile.

The doctor, however, seemed unaffected as he wrote down her answer without flinching.

"I see. Have you been eating enough? You are quite underweight."

Roaming the wilds munching on Lembas could do that to you, yeah.

And she was just over a hundred pounds before she left. Given her five feet five inches, it was not unreasonable … before the quest. How many pounds had she lost to this crazy adventure? Between the heavy travelling, the lack of nourishment and her fever after Helm's deep, she dreaded to step on the weighing scale. The hospital would no doubt put her through that before releasing her anyway. The only issue was that she had visited her parents the week end before disappearing in middle earth. The changes … all of them, it was impossible in less than a week. Her hair was longer, her skin darker, her muscles more defined and her eyes … her eyes were probably haunted by the loss. What was she going to tell them?

Frances exhaled. One step at the time. First, justify her weight to the doctors. To this, at least, she could probably find a more plausible answer.

"Erm… I have to admit that the canteen is absolutely awful in this boarding school, so I might not have eaten as much as usual."

"But you can go to the supermarket," exclaimed her mother.

"When? In between classes? I work from 7'45 to 11 at night, Mum. It's difficult to have time for a snack!"

There was nothing but the truth in those words, and quite some resentment directed at her parents for pushing her into this school. The rhythm was as crazy as a Japanese university. But hey, the director had said that they were "elite' of France. Yet the food was terrible. It seemed that the brains of the elite would not be fed properly, for pecuniary reasons, of course. Just thinking about getting back into that aimless routine clenched her heart.

She would have to speak to her room mates, and entertain conversation like nothing happened. They would discuss maths, physics and biology when Frances would love nothing more than keep silent and mourn.

Mourn Boromir, mourn for the love of her life, mourn for all those Rohirrim and Gondorian soldiers, mourn for Théoden, Halbarad and his cute son. Mourn for the life she had made there, and the places or Arda she would not visit, mourn for the twins that she would never see again. Mourn for the life she could have built with Legolas, for the children they would not have, for the brilliant smile on his face. The simple notion of getting back to class was overwhelming. For the first time in years, Frances realised that she wasn't strong enough to handle it.

Doctors and parents were having a hushed conversation as she rested her head on the pillows. Exhaustion threatened to drag her into restless sleep and she wanted nothing more. Maybe then she could reunite with her soul mate if her dreams allowed it. But then, a nurse appeared, giving the doctor a laundry bag that raised her curiosity. The smell it exuded was as horrendous as it was familiar. Orc blood and oiled leather. How strange, that her only link to Arda would be the gore and blood of those foul creatures.

Her mother gagged and squeaked at the same time.

"What is THAT?"

Frances' heart lurched.

My armour!

The doctor turned to Frances, the laundry bag precariously balanced at the tips of his fingers.

"These are the clothes your daughter was brought up with. Care to explain what this is?"

"Er. Cosplay?"

The whole concept of cosplay baffled them, and Frances had to explain, or invent, the things she was supposed to be doing. She created a fake event, and hoped her parents would not dig any further into it, to justify the smell of her clothes, stating that it was fake gore and blood. The leather back plate was probably cleaved in two. She would have to assess it properly once this bunch of idiots had left her room. But then, cold dread settled in her stomach. Her blade! She had lost her blade on the battlefield! Clearing her throat, she seized the comforter to prevent her hands from trembling.

"Did they bring my sword?"

Her mother opened eyes bigger than saucer.

"Because you had a sword?"

"Cosplay, duh! We're supposed to be realistic. Hence the mud and fake blood on the tunic. And the smell."

"Well, this is horrible!"

"It helps me unwind," she retorted.

Please don't ask anymore.

Frances closed her mouth, lips set in a grim line. Her sword was gone; she was not a fighter for middle earth anymore.

Forgive me, Glorfindel.

Fortunately, both doctors and parents blamed exhaustion when a tear escaped without her consent. The doctors left, negotiating another day in hospital and at least two weeks of bed rest at home. Her parents, once alone with her, were quite at loss. There were so many things that didn't make sense, so many details that didn't add up.

Frances had to negotiate to keep her laundry bundle, and once this battle was won, she collapsed on the cushions, pretending to sleep. At least, her parents would not ask any more questions before she could thoroughly think them over. They promised to be back on the next day to pick her up and bring her home. Her eyes watered at that. Home. Where was home again? Earth, with all its imperfections, had been home for nineteen years. But middle earth had welcomed her with open arms. Could she get used to Earth again?

Several hours passed, many of them interrupted by nurses coming to check on her temperature and blood pressure. All of them highly annoying. Frances drifted on and off, her dreams turning to nightmares as the fell beasts roamed in the sky, bearing the Nazgûls and heir horrid cries. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the mouth of Sauron, orcs and trolls assaulting her, mount Doom exploding and drowning them in lava. In the middle of the night, Frances eventually lost it.

She had been dreaming of Legolas, his arms around her waist, his lips on hers, and the dull ache in her chest had, at last, disappeared. But an unlucky nurse had woken her up by opening the door. She could not have known, the poor lady, that Frances was a very light sleeper.

But when the nurse's eyes met her patient's, all she could see was cold fury. The intruder staggered back on instinct; even in the dark, even in a hospital bed wearing their stupid gown, even with the wires stuck on her chest and her slender frame, Frances was a sight to behold. A warrior at heart, the Keeper of Time in her mighty wrath

"I just wanted to make sure you were alright", the nurse stammered.

Frances leapt on her bed and yelled.

"I was fucking sleeping! For once, I was all right."

The nurse opened her mouth, and closed it before she muttered.

"I'm sorry miss. I'm just doing my job."

But Frances would have none of it. Her wrath was unleashed, and it threatened to possess her such was its strength. For a second, she felt like hurting the nurse so badly. That stupid woman had no idea what she had taken from her, the true moments of happiness she would ever have!

"Then keep doing it elsewhere!" she retorted. "I'll call if I die."

The nurse scurried away, and Frances sighed. Well. Now she was awake, and feeling slightly better than the previous day. Guilt stirred in her gut at having treated the nurse so badly … mayhap they would think twice about waking her up every second hour now.

The smell from the laundry bag was really getting to her now. No wonder she had dreamt of the battle with so foul a reminder in her room. So, bracing herself for a next round of protests, Frances ripped the wires of the heart monitor and took the bag into the restroom. Her eyes found what she needed: the shower.

Stripping from the stupid hospital gown, she sat on the tiles and opened the warm water tap. It felt good, to be able to bathe at last even if she only had a piece of soap to scrub the dirt away. Frances enjoyed the water gliding on her skin, drowning her sorrow. Water was her element, it always soothed her no matter what. Even when now, it took away the last remnants of Legolas's smell on her skin.

She heard the door to her room open, and she strongly encouraged the nurse to get lost through the bathroom door. There was some fussing in the room, and the clanging of the door again. Whomever it had been had taken the hint. Alone at last!

Fat hot tears started to roll down her cheeks, very soon followed by heart wrenching sobs. Frances cried and cried, releasing her anguish and praying for Legolas to be all right, begging for his forgiveness, wallowing into the infinite depth of her grief. Her heart was ready to implode under its weight. It was so raw, so badly scarred that she doubted it would survive. She would go on, of course, for the sake of her missions and her parents. But her heart, had died on the way from Arda to Earth. It was beating still, its sound hollow.

The tears did not stop as she fished her clothes out of the laundry bag. Leggings, tunic, jerkin, boots and cloak. All that was left. They did not stop either when she washed the dirt and gore away from her leather armour with paper soaked with warm water. They surely didn't stop when she had to untangle her warrior's braids to wash her hair, the braids that Legolas had expertly woven through her hair a mere 24 hours before. Would it ever stop? Could it ever stop?