The fields of Pelennor

Frances' breathing came in short pants, dread slowly claiming her as the Nazgûl appeared on the battlefield. Hidden below the elvish cloak, she did not dare moving to take a peek outside. Still, the all too familiar icy sensation warned her that the ringwraith were close enough. Too close for her own taste. Despair followed quickly as her mind spiralled in dark places.

Crouched in the crow's nest, Frances waited with shaking limbs. From the strain or from the fear, she didn't know. The overwhelming noises of battle filled her ears, giving her imagination far too much to work with. Truth be told, the young woman was terrified. Terrified to be found and devoured alive, terrified to lose her friends, terrified to die at the hands of those horrible and disgusting beasts from Mordor.

But beyond all, she dreaded that Legolas would meet his end. He had promised to come back, should he die in the process. Would the elf ask Mandos to be reincarnated should he die on the fields of Pelennor? Would he be granted such a wish, like the mighty Balrog slayer – Glorfindel - from Imladris? Frances highly doubted it. And this, more than any other preoccupation, had her struggling to stay put instead of rushing into the battle. Anything rather than discovering, once freed from her hiding place, the pale face of her beloved prince set in death!

Her right hand clutched the handle of her sword far too tightly, knuckles dead white. Any movement of the ship, any variation in the breeze called to her to draw the weapon and hack at anything that could come her way. Her chest constricted, frozen in dread, as her breathing became shallower. This was it! It was the end! Soon enough, one of those fell beasts would find her and … ugh!

Better to jump down and commit suicide than to let them have her. Never before had she felt so utterly powerless, so insignificant in the face of fate. Never? In her daze, Frances concentrated on keeping despair at bay. Once before, she had been subjected to this incredible despair creeping through her heart. Damned Nazgûls! They probably were the cause of her horrible musings!

So, trembling at the bottom of the lookout, Frances tried to gather her brightest memories. Praying to the Valar to release her from the ringwraith's hold, she fought tooth and nail every sombre thought that called her to the dark. Soon enough, happy moments flooded her mind. Friends and family smiled at her, warming her to the core as she contemplated the merry days she had spent with them. Playing, laughing, being idiots and cuddling. She saw her brothers wrestling in the grass as she giggled, her father diving through a wave and being swept over, his head emerging thirty feet away. She saw her grandparents, building sand castles in the sunshine and picking cherries in their lovely garden. The deep voice of her grandfather singing flamenco.

And friends … not that she had much. The best of them, her cousin Cécile, had brought so much joy in her life. She remembered how they both struggled with their tennis racket, sending balls flying everywhere. They were so many, those hilarious and merry moments of her existence, so many that they filled her with renewed hope and a wave of warmness.

Then, her mind lingered on Charlie, sweet Charlie. In her vision, he was kissing her cheek, saying goodbye with a cheeky smile. No disappointment in his gentle eyes, only a kind-hearted adieu. Suddenly, everything went blank. Before her, a fluctuating halo greeted her joyfully. A hand caressed her cheek, Legolas' hand, as his smiling face appeared. Bright blue eyes, an ocean of love, and she drowned into them.

In his arms, an elfling gazed back at her, his eyes a lovely shade of green. And when he smiled, the whole world seemed to lighten up. His long blond hair was flying around him, making him laugh as he opened his arms in her direction. The sound of his giggles was like music to her hears. It drowned away the cries of the dying men, and the roar from the battlefield. The next second, the elfing was curled on her chest, eyes closed, sleeping.

A loud screech startled the young woman, and she opened her eyes. Had she zoned out or just turned crazy with fear? The agonising cry was so strong, so horrendous that Frances cringed. It felt like nails on a chalkboard, or the horrible noise of a TGV[1] slamming on the brakes. None of them rather agreeable. But she knew that sound, one of a Nazgûl. Yet, she wasn't afraid anymore. Well, not so much. Had her memories warmed her enough to prevent her from jumping down the lookout?

Some kind of implosion came from the battlefield. She felt it in her bones, although she could not locate it. Frances snuck a peek over the railing of her hiding spot before crawling once more, trying to process the scene she had witnessed. The Pelennor fields were a wasteland littered with corpses now, yet some pockets of resistance were still fighting. Frances thought she had seen many horses, a good sign that a relevant portion of Rohirrim lived on. The noises receded slowly, too slowly as the battle dragged on. All senses tuned to discern the faintest of familiar voices, Frances waited, her nerves frying as her limbs started to feel numb.

Then came the lightest of trembling on the mast. Before she could stand up, her cloak was yanked away. The young lady cried out, startled to find a familiar face.

"You can come out of hiding, sweet lady. The battle is over."

Although he attempted to smile, Elrohir's grey eyes were weary. His face, smeared with orc's blood, harboured a nasty bruise on the upper cheek. As Frances lifted a trembling hand, his fingers stopped her before she could touch him.

"That's your princeling's fault. He distracted me."

Frances did not deny the title, nor the possessive form Elrohir had used.

"How so?"

The Peredhil's brows were set in a frown.

"He cheated on an Orc's count."

Suddenly, Frances was laughing. And God, how good it felt. The twin's eyes sparkled a little, before he turned serious again.

"Let me help you down."

As the elf supported her on the rigging, he recounted the battle as accurately as he could.

"Many men I have seen fall at the hands of the enemy. Yet I am proud to have fought by their side. There are valiant warriors among them."

Frances stopped dead in her tracks, suspended to the cord. She dared not ask the question that ravaged her mind.

"How many?"

"Too many. But do not fear, Aragorn yet lives…"

Her chest heaved in relief.

" … and we have lost none of your fellowship. The Prince and the dwarf are as healthy as can be after such a rough encounter."

"Elladan?"

"He is well. Do not fret, sweet lady."

And, losing his patience, the elf swept her onto his back and descended the last portion in an instant.

Elladan stood at the bottom of the ship, waiting for his brother. Frances did not hug him, although the temptation was strong; they were covered in gore and blood, and Elladan's lips were set in a firm line. She knew this expression far too well. He was beyond angry from his encounter with the forces of darkness. Frances sighed. Would the twin ever heal from his cold-blooded rage, from the guilt that ate him alive?

"Let us go," he said, barely acknowledging her. "There are many in need of assistance."

And off they went, into the battle field and beyond the sea of cadavers, looking for soldiers who needed a healer's touch, whether to surive or die in peace. Frances followed, hopping behind the twins, her eyes searching for a flash of blond hair. But he was nowhere to be seen, and the Pelennor fields were spread out on miles, all of them littered with bodies. Around her laid the dead and the dying, the cadavers entwined with smelly corpses of orcs and other disgusting creatures.

Some bore ghastly wounds, some had their eyes still open, staring at her in death, their faces pale. Frances' heart clenched, her gaze misty. Who would honour the fallen, disentangle them from the beasts and offer them a proper burial? How could they reach the homes of their ancestors if they lay here, in death, amongst the foulness of Mordor?

Step after step, Frances went on, following the twins. The worst, though, was the men that still drew breath. Soon enough, both Elladan and Elrohir had stopped to help the wounded, Frances lagging behind them. They hopped from soldier to soldier. Rohirrim, Gondorian or Dunedain. They were all mixed up in the face of death, all so pale, or covered in black blood. Sometimes, they held onto life desperately.

Far away, an anguished yell resonated. Frances turned around; a blur of blond hair was flinging himself to the ground, his armour of the Rohirrim. She did not recognize him, but he would not be the only one to witness the death of a loved one today, nor the last. Still, she felt compelled to join the man, whomever he was, to lend some support if she could. Rohirrim were proud warriors, not prone to cry or give in to despair. The loss must have been a deep one. Who was the fallen, a son to a father? Or the other way around?

Frances passed Orcs, horses and wargs alike, her feet carrying her on their own, her mind submerged and no longer in control. The stench was unbearable, so horrible that she had to breathe through her nose. And then, she saw a movement. A few feet from her, a beast had turned around on its back. Those blasted creatures! Anger seized her, and she drew her blade, the familiar weight feeling right in her hand. One moment later, the elvish weapon sliced mercilessly through its throat. Others followed, some attempting to crawl away, but the young lady would not have it. She took her anger on the wounded of Mordor, effectively ending their agony, making sure that they would not rise and cause more harm.

The destruction, the families broken, the despair. They were responsible for it. And so, one by one, she hunted down all the orcs that still drew breath, and sent them to their death in one swift movement.

The Keeper of time turned into an executioner.

The blade, her faithful companion, seemed to sing through her arm. As she killed another, her eyes encountered a familiar face. Set in death, Halbarad's features were more peaceful than she had even seen. Frances froze; she couldn't look away from the Dunedain. Guilt washed over her, guilt about the words that had been exchanged between them. And sadness as well, for the family he had talked about, and orphaned family now that would wait for his return forever.

A choked voice dragged her from her musings, and Frances turned around. Her eyes widened in grief, and she fell to her knees, tears spilling over at the sight. Beside Halbarad was the young Dunedain that had asked her about her home. His face, so pale, contrasted with the crimson river running from his chest wound. There was nothing that could be done. She didn't even know his name. The young man reached out, his hand covered in blood, begging for her to take it. And she did, crawling over to encase his icy fingers in hers.

"He died to protect me," he whispered. "To no avail."

Frances nodded, her throat so tight that she could not utter a sound. Her hand squeezed the Dunedain's in sympathy. His voice was weak, his words slurred, interrupted by shallow breaths. Each of them sent a new wave of crimson down his stomach.

"I am glad you are safe, my lady. It was a tough battle. My last. But I am proud."

"As you should be."

His handsome features darkened, and he started trembling.

"My father. Halbarad. He was not a bad person. He only wanted to protect us all."

Frances' eyes widened, comprehension dawning over her. As shame seized her, her face fell. She understood now, the distrust of the man towards her. What she would give to erase what she had told him! What could she say in her defence ? That she was a spoiled brat with great friends to protect her when she messed up with people in charge ? The young Dunedain's eyes were searching hers, begging for an answer. Frances exhaled slowly, and smiled.

"I am sure he was a good man. I will honour him, he will be properly buried, I promise it."

"Your heart is immense, my lady. Can you …?"

At this, the ranger choked, coughing blood. When he recovered, his whole body was shaking furiously, and he seized Frances' arm tightly. She wished, so badly, that she could do something to help him. Anything. But she was powerless. Useless once more. His blood soaked her tunic where she touched him, the fountain of his life leaking on his chest. Its wetness passed through the fabric, pooling on her skin below the linen shirt. The warmness contrasted so much with the icy fingers that held hers. And there was so much of it, almost a river to her eyes!

"I wish to rest beside him."

Frances summoned her courage to show him her best resolve.

"You will, I will make sure of it."

Then, the soldier seemed to settle on the ground, life flowing slowly out of him as his blood spread upon the spring grass of the Pelennor. When his voice rose again in this vision of hell, it was barely a whisper. Crawling next to him, painting herself in his blood, Frances bent so close that his breath tickled her neck.

"I could have been a good husband, I only wish…"

But the rest did not come.

It never would.

His eyes fixed upon her face, the young Dunedain exhaled one last time. Frances' feelings eventually broke through her resolve to be strong. She sat awkwardly and started sobbing like a baby, her heart wrenching cries raising in the foul air of the battlefield. Gathering her legs against her, she left her hand in his, eyes lost in thought, tears streaming down her face. It was so unfair, to see those families ripped apart by such madness! The destruction made her sick, its absurdity carving words deep in her heart.

The executioner, defeated.

[1] Truthfull. Come to France and hear the dreadful sound of a TGV stopping in the station.