Facing death

Rain was pouring down so hard that the sky himself seemed to be falling unto them. The long wait was excruciating, the tension affecting everyone, be them seasoned warrior or young lad. Fortunately, Frances was lucky enough to have Gimli by her side. His antics at not seing was was beyond the wall lessened her worry for a while. Because nor Aragorn, leading the Lorién battalion, nor Legolas, standing stiff a few feet away from her, were cheering her up.

The elf had not spoken a word to her since Aragorn had assigned her a position. His blond brows, darkened by the rain, were set in a resolute frown. No matter how much she usually enjoyed his presence, Frances was unsettled by his mood. Never before had she felt him so tense. Not even when the Balrog had appeared in the depth of Moria. Somehow, she wondered if her very presence was the reason of his aloofness. Little did she know that the elf was sick with worry.

Eventually, the Uruks lined up in front of them; a sea of darkness waiting to assault their fortress. Their numbers were so great that Frances felt like a rock lost into an evil ocean. But the worst was to come. When the beasts started chanting their horrid war cries, crashing their spears unto the ground like a macabre dance, she nearly lost it. More than the drums of Khazad-dûm, it filled her heart with dread. And she regretted, how badly she regretted not to be in the caves in this instant!

Was there anything else than death waiting for her, at the end of this path she had chosen? Had the prince of Mirkwood been right? Frances' features were set in fear, and she closed her eyes for a moment. This strange chant reminded her of the "all black" rugby team, at home. It was a lifetime ago, but how she loved hearing their Haka before every single match. The aim was the same, intimidation. And it worked like hell. No matter how strong and determined the adverse team was, their faith always faltered as they faced the tribal dance.

Frances exhaled slowly, and opened her eyes to stare at the Uruks. They were, after all, only a set of stupid beast with very poor musical talents. She also knew a few songs that could rival theirs, with much better lyrics and nicer rhythm than a stupid pound pound aaaargh. There was no turning back now. So be it.

From where she stood, she could see the youngsters were crowded at the top of the fort where they would be able to throw rocks. At least, they had not been placed in harm's way. Well, not directly. She, on the other hand, was standing on the wall. But Aragorn would have it no other way. He had taken hold of her arm, and lead her amongst them with determination.

"If fight you must, it should at least be by our side."

So there she was, standing beside them, waiting for a slaughter to begin. Her gaze lingered a little longer on the elf towering over her, a mere two feet away from her position. She was determined not to let her fear show, and to put all those skills she had learnt to use. But for a moment, only a little moment, she wanted to remember what ethereal beauty was like.

Despite the heavy droplets assaulting his face, Legolas' skin still shone from his soft internal light. He seemed impervious to the element, ready to wage a bloody war on his enemies, no matter what. His jaw was set, his gaze unwavering. But then, his eyes left the darkened sea for an instant, turning to her. Grey clouds passed over his blue pool, like a testimony of the turmoil raging inside of him. Yet, his countenance did not change.

"Stay as close to me, lady Frances", he shouted.

It was a request, much more so than an order. His deep gaze fixed her until she nodded. Frances couldn't smile, her face simply refused to grant her the energy to do so. But she hoped that her thanks travelled to the elf nonetheless. If the whole prospect of battle was terrifying, she was at least happy to have them by their side.

And so, accepting that she could only go forward, Frances nodded. She wanted to cry, wanted to shout her distress, but her anguish refused to leave her constricted chest. Yet… a few words came to her mind.

Amazing grace! (how sweet the sound)

That saved a wretch like me!

I once was lost, but now am found,

Was blind, but now I see.

Warmth infused her blood, when pouring rain attempted to seep in her bones. But the simple hope contained in those words was stronger than despair.

Frances started singing. Just a hum, at first, the beautiful 'amazing grace' a familiar comfort. Then, little by little, her voice rose in the air, lost to anyone but the elf whose hear was the only one that could tune the Uruk's haunting chant out. And that amazing grace became her saving grace, as she watched the darkened sky and the sea of beasts intent on laying waste upon Rohan… upon her.

Stronger and stronger, the words flew from her chest. Words sung from the heart, drowned in the rain. Tears sprang from her eyes, and still she sung. For the souls that would not last the night. For those who would be forever marked. A song to call the Valar, God, or any other sentient power that might protect them this evening.

And when, at last, a great silence settled upon the wall, Frances' voice was the only one that still remained. Incensed, she refused to settle until her piece was said. And thus, she finished the song with renewed vigor, her cry for faith loud and clear upon the walls of Helm's deep.

Thro' many dangers, toils, and snares,

I have already come;

'Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,

And grace will lead me home.

A great cheer came from the walls when her voice died and Frances blushed, aware that more people than intended had actually heard her. But the look Aragorn gave her was far from chastising; he looked hopeful. Gimli's slap upon her arm, meant to be friendly, called her attention to the side… to the elf, whose wide blue eyes considered her with renewed respect. For a moment, she thought he was at loss for words.

Then Aragorn started shouting orders, and the young lady draw her bow at the ready, waiting for the order to let loose. And she knew, as the battle was about to begin, that she was surrounded by friends. They would watch over her at the best of their abilities.

And they did when those blaster beasts started invading the wall. Gimli, with his twirling axe, clearing her path. Legolas, circling and kicking in a dance around her. And Aragorn, fierce Aragorn, being the usual berserker when in battle. Yet, it was chaos. Absolute and crushing chaos. Arrows flew everywhere, soon replaced by ladders and anchors that brought the monstrous Uruks onto the wall. Elf, men and beasts fell, some grazed by a blade, some pierced by arrows, some falling from the wall to their death on either side.

Everywhere, blades were clashing, punches were thrown, armours were bent and torn with fury. The horrid sound of crying men, gurgling throats and blades ripping through bodies paralysed her. For a few seconds bordering on eternity, Frances stayed put. Then, a body fell in front of her. An elven warrior, with his shining armour, struck dead as a darkened blade tore through him. Frances recoiled in shock, staring into the clear gaze of the elf.

Fight! he uttered as blood spilt from his mouth.

Then she understood. The elf had fallen to defend her, taking the blow that would have cleaved her in two. Her stomach heaved, intent on emptying its content on the ground, but a vicious snarl called her back to reality. A massive Uruk was charging! The same damned beast that had just killed one of the Lorién elves in front of her very eyes !

All rational thoughts left her mind; Frances unleashed her wrath with a powerful cry as she leapt forward. Her blade sank deeply into the stupidly surprised Uruk that she tossed quickly over the wall. The heavy body took a few colleagues with him as they climbed the ladder. But soon enough, others were coming. Frances dove in the fight, her heart fuelled with anger, dancing like death herself on the battle field. She ducked, punched, kicked, stepping lightly to avoid attackers. Her loyal blade, dancing around her frame, aimed true.

Was it her recent training, or the blessing of Glorfindel's blade that made her so deadly? She did not know. But as the battle raged on, Frances roamed on the wall, killing as many beasts as she could with very little damage taken on her side. Of course, there was the occasional brush of a blade on her arm, stinging before the adrenalin took over. A few punches landed true, their strength greatly diminished by the leather armour. But in essence, Frances started to understand. The Uruks were massive, and relied on their brute strength. She was, on the other hand, much faster. The elvish blade twirled, its weight perfectly balanced as she progressed. If she kept her concentration to avoid unexpected blows, she could very well survive this battle !

In this fiery mess, Frances eventually realised that she had been swept to the side. Like a swimmer taken by the tide's current, her fighting had led her further and further away from her friends. The occasional silvery armour from Lorien was becoming scarce. She had to get back. Distracted, she failed to notice the noises behind her until an Uruk came crashing into her frame and she slammed violently on the external wall. Her blade went flying, and Frances, sprawled on the stones, turned around frantically with her dagger. The orc slid off her, dead already. There was no head to his monstrous form. It was a gruesome sight, one she was not likely to forget in this pool of rain, blood and sweat. Yet, she sighed in relief. A few bruises to add to the others, but nothing serious.

Before standing up, she searched for a familiar blond head. Better to stay crouched for a few seconds before becoming a moving target. Then she spotted him. Legolas had an arrow at the ready, Aragorn at his side, pointing to the sea of darkness. He set it loose. And retrieved another one from his quiver faster than any human could fathom. The second arrow went flying. And with it, the wall followed.

The explosion blew a crater into their defensive wall. The deafening noise was mixed with the sound of cracking rocks and yelling creatures. Debris flew everywhere, ripping elves, men and orcs alike in their wake, cracking skulls and bodies as if they were no thicker than skinny toothpicks. Frances cried and crouched behind the beheaded Uruk. A few rocks hit her armour, some hard enough to leave a lovely bruise. A splinter got her cheek. Blood started pouring out the wound such was the violence of the impact. Most of the torches went out, darkening the night.

Frances' ears were ringing, much to her dismay. Beside her, opponents and warriors alike hard a hard time regaining their spirits. Dust clouded everything, blocking her view of the massive hole that stood only a few feet away. A few seconds later, the whole scenery started to clean up. Frances swore. This was the worst situation ever. Her initial spot on the defence wall did not exist anymore. In its stead stood a very big hole flooded by a dark tide of orcs. Aragorn and Gimli were lying on the floor, unconscious. Cold dread seized her chest, and she stood up. Her blade was lost, discarded somewhere in between bodies and debris. Dagger in hand, she launched herself in the fight. She had to go down and see for herself! They could not be dead!

Blocking and attacking like a lioness, she started breathing again when she realised that both companions were now struggling to regain consciousness. At least they still had a chance. Frances cleared her path brutally, hoping to reach the stairs before the Uruks took them over. But she was too late. A dark wave of beasts were climbing the steps, trapping her on the remains of the wall. Somewhere, the Eorlingas called for retreat. There was no way out! Frances bowed her head, taken aback by the unforgiving reality; she was as good as dead. There was nothing her friend could do to retrieve her, not even the elf.

Dumbstruck, Frances froze, her heart beating a staccato in her chest. How long did she have ? Thirty seconds ? A minute ? Darkness was heavy, even thicker than before since the water of the stream had washed out most of the torches. The rain had finally stopped, leaving a cloud of cold mist over the devastation.

But her mind refused to accept the dreadful reality. Several elves and men were still fighting on the remainder of the broken wall, but not so many were still alive. Uruks flooded the area like a wave of evilness, and very soon there would be no place to go. Orcs were already climbing the ladders on the other side of the walls and their numbers increased at a frightening speed.

It was an elf that gave her the solution. The amazingly light creature was dancing around the cliff that bordered the defence wall, and she thought that maybe with a little help she could make it. Her body ached everywhere from bruises and cuts, but Galadriel's armour had saved her life. Orcs were thick, very heavy but amazingly powerful; most of them dismissed her due to her small size, going instead for grown men and elves. Playing with the darkness, Frances managed to slide amongst the remaining warriors, trading blows here and there to kill those who had noticed her but mostly unseen in the chaos.

She felt sick, leaving those men to be slaughtered as she ran for her life! All of them were doomed. And the will to survive was just too strong; she wasn't a soldier. She wasn't sturdy enough to sacrifice her life, in this moment.

Frances hastened her step; orcs would soon flow the area with lights and she would not be able to subtract herself from their attention. As she touched the wall, the last elves and men were being butchered mercilessly, and she concentrated on her task. Hiding behind corpses, Frances started to climb the sliding rocks. As silently as a cat, her little form progressed on the wall. There were as many good grips on the massive cliff as time to be careful.

So she hurried, sometimes finding herself suspended by her fingers while looking for a place to secure her feet. How different the situation from her childhood climbs! But the level of difficulty was quite similar, and nor her skills, nor her fitness had disminished. The only massive difference from the tree and outcrops climbing of her youth was the scabbard at her hip, the armor on her back and the definite death that waited for her at the bottom.

Frances groaned. Her exhausted arms burnt, but she needed to find a spot to hide from plain sight as long as was needed. Using as much stealth as she was capable of and praying to remain unseen, Frances used all her talents to climb the difficult wall of darkened rock. Adrenaline pumped in her veins as she lifted herself gracefully, knowing that falling down was not an option. All her muscles ached, protesting against the treatment, but still she went higher and higher, so flexible against the wall that nobody noticed her catlike figure making her way up.

Down in the gully, her friends were retreating, trying to save all the people that could still be salvaged in this hopeless war. The agitation from the fort gave her enough time to finally find the ideal spot. It was a little crack in the rocks with a corniche just big enough to keep her footing. She slid inside the hole and let her muscles rest. But the nightmare wasn't over. Down there, she heard the cries of men, children and elves slaughtered like beasts.

After a while though, their pleas for mercy were replaced by moans of agony. Their cries rose, tugging at her heart. It was unbearable, and she wondered for a while if she should not have taken Legolas' counsel. Nay, she thought, she could not have stayed in the caves with women when children had been sent to battle. She could fight, she had done so.

Thinking about the elf was strangely comforting, and as she watched their troops retreat she spotted him disappearing behind the heavy wooden doors. He was the last, Gimli by his side. Darkness did not allow her to see if the elf was hurt for he seemed to be struggling. She dared not think about it, flattened against the dark wall like a fly, knees shaking. At least they still stood a chance! If the Valar held true, Aragorn would already be inside. All of them were fighters, warriors. They could not give up. Boromir would have died in vain if they yielded to despair. Estel used to say that there was always hope. Estel … hope in elvish.