To Edoras

It was so very different to ride with Aragorn. Gandalf was an experienced rider, his two thousand years spent in middle earth having somehow sharpened his skills, and Shadowfax fended the air like a bullet. The speed at which they had travelled had literally exhausted her tights, even if she had been able to use the wizard's back for support. A few times she had wondered how fast could Gandalf travel when he went alone, and the extra weight and uneasiness in the balance she brought to their company was a token of their reduced speed. Melting inside the movements of the horse, the wizard was able to create a totally different entity with his mount, the two of them nearly turning into one mystical being, like the centaurs would have been had they existed.

Now that she had changed companion, Frances could feel her muscles starting to relax as Arod - Aragorn's steed - went swiftly through the plains of Rohan. Where Gandalf' body had been like steel the ranger's was soft and relaxing, his riding habits pushing him to remove as much of his presence as possible onto the horse's back. His hips easily followed his horse's shoulder blades. He unconsciously matched his moves, letting his lower body adapt to the pace. Frances did not have much to do but to follow, and she let her mind wander freely as they made way to the capital of Rohan. Many thoughts populated her spirit as she naturally took in the geography of the place, many of those concentrated on Gandalf's return and on the raging of the war, but many more than expected on the souvenir of the brightness of the elf's smile.

How many times Frances had thought of her family, her friends on earth. All of them blissfully unaware of her wanderings? And yet, something else was bothering her entirely. When Gandalf appeared in its glory and death had seemed inevitable, her ultimate thought had not gone to them. Why had Charlie not popped into her mind ? Charlie, his inimitable laugh and lovely eyes, dethroned by the image of her companions. If she was true to herself, she would admit that one loss, in particular had filled her with regret. Regret that she did not have more time to share with him, to learn from him, to make him laugh and hear his stories, to contemplate his beautiful features and princely manners. Frances shook her head in an attempt to rein her wandering thoughts.

The prince of Greenwood the great was no longer a stranger, but she could not yet call herself a friend. She had no right to. He was, by birth and by race, far superior to her. Her admiration had not waned, but she now knew why. Each day passed in his company had increased it further.

Had Legolas noted that she did not reject him anymore? The endless exchange they had about their respective cultures and the history of middle earth was extremely enjoyable, and it seemed that neither could tire of sharing points of view. His innocent questions sometimes surprised her, but soon enough she had realised that Legolas could not use sarcasm or cynism. Never had he taken advantage of his many years of experience, or his status.

Most of all he treated her with respect and attention, but never like she was going to shatter in his hands like a piece of glass. Yet, the last days had brought feelings that should have remained buried. And from the elf's reaction to their forced parting, it seemed that something was amiss on his side as well.

Frances frowned. She was not ready to dwell on it… yet. Her hand squeezed Aragorn's arm. Strider answered back with a fondness that she did not deserve. But such was the greatness of his heart. Her attachment to Aragorn was rooted deep within; she trusted him with her life, and viewed him as a greater brother. He taught and protected her, with patience and grace shared his knowledge, with nobility led and counselled. And yet, it was not Aragorn's face she had viewed last when facing death, his noble countenance replaced by the brightness of the elf's features.

It disturbed her, the importance of his presence. Where Charlie was cute and hyperactive, Legolas stood with a quiet contentment. Wait, was she really comparing her boyfriend to an elf prince?

Was Charlie still her boyfriend after all this time? It felt like a lifetime since she had last seen him. The souvenir of their first kiss warmed her heart. Of his arms around hers, of his very special smile and fidgeting. And then distance had taken over, and dread seized her young heart. Had Charlie realised how unrealistic this relationship was? She was after all way younger than he, and not American born. They had had their fall out, culturally speaking, and he had made no mention to get back to France someday. Had his love waned, like the colours of a poppy before it faded away?

Not that she questioned hers. Charlie was her first boyfriend. She has succumbed to his unusual charm long ago, giving him her affection without even knowing she had fallen in love with him. And his stress at all times had not disminished this affection, calling instead to her mother's instinct. A squeeze from Aragorn called her back to reality. She kept her hears open, but he didn't speak. Frances relaxed against his back, struggling to keep awake; she was spent.

The ranger felt her head fall upon his back, and he smiled. The guilt could, at last, be freed. Aragorn knew better than to pay heed to imaginary events, but leaving her behind had moved him more than any other of his wandering years with the grey company. Leaving the twins or his rangers to fend for themselves was not unheard off; they could lay waste on a battlefield better than anyone. But Frances, no matter how skilled, was the weakest member of their group now, and he had sworn to protect her no matter what.

Now that she was back, Strider could not help but let his hand wander, reassuring himself that she was safe, aside from totally exhausted. The ranger had never been very proficient at showing his feelings, and even less after so many years in the wilds, but there was something in her that called for his protection. Her apparent strength was not only a façade, but the look she had given him as a farewell had broken his heart. She had prepared for death, and bid him adieu without a single word. Aragorn grit his teeth at the memory; he would never forget it.

The sun was getting low on the horizon, setting the high grass on fire under its reddish light. To the West, smoke seemed to rise in its halo, surprising Frances by its sheer size. How could a fire be so intense that it would send such a plume at such a distance?

— "What is it?" she asked.

— "There lies the gap of Rohan' said Gandalf. "It is now almost due west of us. That way lies Isengard"

Frances shuddered. She had yet to hear about Merry and Pippin, had they finally found them? Most of her questions remained unanswered, Strider only telling her that they were safe. She longed to extract the map from her bag to check how far they had gone, and where they found themselves. Yet she could only cling to the rider in front of her.

Legolas's voice came behind them, and she twisted in the saddle. She had not realised his horse was so close such was the intensity of her scrutinity for the Gap of Rohan. The elf harboured a frown she did not often see on his face. To him also, something was amiss and he voiced the question she had not dared asking.

— "I see a great smoke, what may that be?"

— "Battle and war," responded Gandalf, his features disapproving.

And he urged his horse forward, leaving no choice for the others than to follow as the sun set and dusk extended its arms over the plains of Rohan. Then at last, the wizard called for a halt. Only a few hours of sleep were granted.

They started again much before dawn, and Frances had to postpone most of her questions such was her exhaustion. At they rode on and on the next day, led by the silvery light of the golden moon, the young lady closed her eyes an instant, and nearly fell asleep against Aragorn's back. Losing consciousness here and there, she realised that he had secured her arms tightly to refrain her from falling.

As she drifted on and off, dawn came, and the sun travelled in the sky. The orb cast its brightness over the hills' crests while the valleys lingered in the few remaining shadows. And then, very soon, there was no river, no place that could escape its light. And yet Frances had issues being totally conscious. It was Shadowfax's neigh that woke her up completely.

She straightened. Gandalf was speaking, his voice a low rumble, pointing to the south west. And then she saw it; Rohan's capital. Edoras stood proudly upon a hill, somehow dwarfed by the peaks of the white mountains behind it, and yet fully displaying the richness of Rohan. Behind the wooden fence and way higher than the numerous houses, the Golden Hall was erected as a reminder that the Rohirrim owned those lands. Its northern design, from a European point of view, resembled so much the Vikings churches that Frances wondered if there had been any leaks between the worlds. The roof was clad in golden scales shining in the afternoon sun. It was a grand hall indeed!

The young woman sighed in relief; it would have taken days to walk to Edoras, and she was glad for the company.

The horses slowed down to a trot, easing the conversation between Gandalf and Aragorn. Shadowfax, as noble as a steed could be, was starting to fret at the perspective to be home. The wizard patted his mount and gave him a few words of encouragement. Shadowfax set a straight course through the grassy hills, sometimes turning around treacherous bogs and hidden pools.

Finally, they passed a stream, and as Gandalf fed them on the situation of Rohan, Aragorn delighted them by singing a song in Rohirric. Surprised by this new development, Frances heard the gravelly language that spoke of Eorl the young and his steed, Felarof, first one of the Mearas. She made a mental note to ask Aragorn about his knowledge of the language. Had he spent some time in Rohan in his long years as a ranger? Or had he learnt from the incredible library and knowledge of the elves? She had seen no books, no maps written in Rohirric in Elrond's extended library. And yet, Strider seemed to master it quite thoroughly. Was it even a written language?

Keeping her questions for another time, Frances kept her hears and eyes opened as the little company passed the graves of past rulers, their grassy mounts clad with pretty flowers known as Simbelmyne. Five hundred years of men's rule were towering upon them, the memory of their settling a mere song forgotten to most.

At the gate, guards wearing chainmail eyed them suspiciously. They greeted them in Rohirric, their voices strong and mind set upon barring the way. Gandalf answered fluently in the same language, probably negotiating their way in. Meanwhile, Frances took in her surroundings. There was a great heaviness in the air, as if life itself had deserted the city. Little did she follow the conversation between Gandalf and the guard for she could not fathom what they were saying until she heard her name mentioned. The guard granted her a quick glance, and then passed to Legolas and Gimli on her left. And then, he took off to announce them, or so she thought. Gandalf's gaze was hard, his lips set in a firm line. His expression did not bear great tidings.

A little while later, as the guard returned to his post, they were asked to dismount and follow. Frances' legs were so sore, and the climbing of the hill was a long agony to her muscles. Travelling in front of Gimli, she heard the dwarf comment on the gloominess of the people eyeing them curiously. For sure, it was not every day that a wizard, a future king, an elven prince and a dwarf came upon the city. Let alone a woman in breeches. Granted. A Keeper of Time in breeches. That was probably worth mentioning, right? Her reddish hair stood out like a sore thumb amongst the people of Rohan, their golden heads turning as they passed. She could gather that they made an unusual company. She wondered if people's eyes would have bulged out of had the hobbits been in attendance.

People were wary of them. This much she could sense. Some were angry, other desperate, and most were dirty and exhausted from their daily chores. Women chased children away into the huts, their features pleading. What could have happened to Rohan to mark its people so? As they climbed, stair after stair, Frances remembered the empty halls of Moria. Her heart went to Gimli. He who had witnessed how welcome one could be in a dwarven home, his feelings fuelled by the souvenirs of his own. How hollow the silent corridors of Moria must have been to him? She wondered if Aragorn felt the same now, watching a once great city of men ripped from its glory. How would she react to her parent's empty home ?

At last, they came upon the terrace that held Meduseld, the Golden hall of King Theoden. The guards asked that all weapons remained at the gate, and Frances surrender her Lorien bow with a sigh. Letting go of Glorfindel's sword was a hardship she had not expected to live. The sword had protected her, saved her countless times. It sang in her hand like no other, recognising its owner. She had not realised how attached to her weapon she had become. But the look on Aragorn's face gave her courage. He faced an even greater challenge for the guards had ordered him to surrender Anduril, forged from the fragments of Narsil, the blade that had been reforged before their departure from Rivendell.

Aragorn was reluctant to part from it, and this Frances could gladly understand. There could be no greater loss if the blade was somehow misplaced. It was no mere blade, but a legend itself! But Gandalf settled the matter his patience growing thin.

— "The laughter of Mordor will be our only reward should we fight amongst ourselves. Here is my sword, Goodman Hama. Keep it well. Glamdring it is called, for the elves made it long ago. Now let me pass. Come, Aragorn."

Reluctantly, the ranger unbuckled his belt, and set the sword against the wall. He asked that no one touch it under pain of death.

— " … for only Elendil's heir can wield it."

The look upon the doorman's face was priceless, and Frances smiled. At last, Aragorn was announced as such. Gone was the nickname of Strider, gone as well the disguise of the ranger. And as he rose to his full height, she felt it in the air. Now, the lone wanderer had accepted to embrace his inheritance, and such he would be called and remembered by the people of Rohan. She was, in a way, proud of him. Or could she, really? The pride resided mostly in being his friend, of having an existence in his eyes, of being worthy of his trust and affection. As Frances' eyes met Legolas's, she caught the same look of wonder in his eyes. He too approved that Aragorn's rights and inheritance would not be hidden anymore.

And so, it was with renewed vigor that Frances passed the heavy doors of the golden hall.