Hail to the dead

Charlie, home, the fellowship… an elf ? All thoughts mingled in her head, and she couldn't make much sense of it.

Time to man up! Ignoring the stinging pain that spread around her upper leg and her sore hips, the redhead lifted herself up and walked to the bowl of water… lukewarm, at best. Frances shuddered, washing herself thoroughly. The process was difficult at best, but she eventually managed to remove the grime and dust out of her skin.

Then she passed on the linen shirt and the velvety dress over her head. Tightening the ribbons, Frances was happy to be able to do it by herself without calling the maid. After such a long wait, the girl must have wandered off to the party. The young lady fastened the belt around her waist and contemplated her reflection in a stained mirror. The heavy fabric could not match elven silk but it was soft enough and flowed on her hips with grace.

Dark blue was a nice shade for her to wear, even if the last days of fever had robbed the colours from face. Unbraiding her hair, Frances slid a few claps in it so as to keep it away, and then she realised how long it had grown in the past few months. On the road, it was always braided. The fierce colour contrasted so much with the dark velvet that she considered tying it back again to avoid attention. But she felt no danger here in Rohan, and therefore let it flow freely around her small frame. The tips of fire brushed her back below the waist. This would have to do.

Late was the hour when Frances passed the doors of the great hall. A ceremony was happening and she hid in the back. She also wanted to pay her tribute to the dead of Rohan, bitterly regretting the massacre that had taken so many lives. As Theoden spoke of loss and courage, the young woman scanned the crowd for familiar figures. At the front was sitting Aragorn, and a bit further she spotted Gandalf in his bright robes. When people stood up and presented their pint in honour of the fallen, Frances closed her eyes, attempting to chase away the memories of the dead bodies scattered on the cold ground, that same image that plagued her dreams. Then people started to move around, and the sound of instruments indicated that the party had begun. Without waiting for anybody to acknowledge her, Frances crossed the huge room, sneaking through soldiers and nobles.

As she slid through the crowd, weird stares were sent her way; she dismissed it as curious glances due to her status in the fellowship. In truth, men were quite dumbfounded by her limping figure, and most of all by the burning colour of her hair. Oblivious to this unwanted attention, Frances was looking for her friends, and eventually spotted Gandalf's white cloak towering against a pillar. Laugher filled the air, and as she came closer Frances saw the two hobbits thrashing down a table with their dragon dance. A cloud of drunken men surrounded them and clapped in rhythm and Gandalf… Gandalf actually laughed. The sigh of the wizard smiling was quite enough to lighten her mood. The wizard spotted her and addressed her a gentle smile. Surprisingly, he did not greet her formally; instead pulling at her arm and hugging her. The almost fatherly gesture startled her, but soon the young woman could relax, and she watched the two hobbits dance and yell as she rested her battered body against her much bigger companion.

As a soft hand gently brushed her back; she knew at once that Aragorn had returned. After so much time travelling with him, she could actually feel his presence like she had learnt to recognise the twins. The ranger appeared beside her, his smile genuine. A second later she was pulled into his strong embrace, and collided with the red sleeves of his tunic for an instant before he released her.

"It is good to see you again mellon nin"

"Likewise" she answered, a light grin spreading on her features.

It seemed like he was going to add something, but loud applause started from the hobbits table, and the trio joined in with a good heart. Then Pippin lifted his eyes to them, and his face lightened in an instant.

"Frances!!!" he shouted, bouncing down the table, kicking out a few pints on the way.

Merry heard his companion and followed his cousin. Pippin came crashing into Frances with arms wide open.

"Pippin, No!!!" Cried out Aragorn.

Bracing herself for the impact, the young woman got hit full force by a speeding hobbit that shook her off balance. Fortunately, the ranger was behind her in the blink of an eye, and instead of letting her stumble back he gently kept her steady. Pippin's hug was most heartfelt and she joined him.

"Pippin, mind her leg injury" ground Aragorn behind her.

The hobbit's face fell as he stumbled backwards.

"Oh, Frances, my apologies. I am so sorry, I forgot!"

"Only you can forget such a thing!"

Merry, a little more responsible, embraced the young woman with more caution. Behind her, she could still feel Aragorn's warm hands on her waist. Either he didn't trust the hobbit to rein his enthusiasm, either he was afraid that she could collapse on the spot. Frances bent around, her face holding a silent question. The ranger's grey eyes were worried as he took in her pale face, still he smiled at her.

"I am well Aragorn. Tired from the ride, but as much alive as usual."

The ranger released her from his hold, keeping her hand into his for an instant.

"We have thanked the Valar for the blessing they bestowed upon our fellowship to not let us lose another member."

Well, that was a very swift way of saying that he had been worried to death. Frances frowned. Aragorn was a good healer. He probably knew, when he left, that the fever should have claimed her. As the two hobbits were bouncing around her, trying to explain all that had occurred to them, she mouthed to the ranger.

"We will speak about my recovery."

Aragorn nodded slightly before Frances was ushered away by two excited hobbits. The trio sat down together, a pint on the table for each, to relate their adventures. It didn't last long for a few moments later, they were distracted by Rohirrims asking for more songs. Two sets of pleading eyes turned to Frances in questioning. As she stood, Frances gave each of them a hug, and told them:

"You'll tell me everything tomorrow. For now, I shall probably rest while you entertain those warriors."

"Really? We could stay and make sure you are all right," asked Pippin guiltily.

Frances smiled.

"I do not need a babysitter."

"But your leg…"

"Go!" she cried, shooing them away with her hand.

As the two hobbits disappeared quickly, glancing one last time at their female friend, Frances couldn't help but grin.

Then she took off to another table where a spot of white-blond hair had shown not so long ago. She needed to scold Legolas for scaring good Rohirrim soldiers, but most of all she just wanted to let him and Gimli know that she was back. As she wandered to a circle of men gathered around the table, Eomer's familiar figure came into sight. Behind him stood Legolas, drinking gracefully into an oversized pint. In front of him sat Gimli. Turning her attention back to the King's nephew, she made her way next to him, and his face changed slightly.

"My lady," he said with a bow.

"My lord," she responded, trying her best to bend over without sending sharp stings of pain into her lower body.

"I heard you had been injured in the battle. How fare you?"

"Alive. That is more than I could hope for."

Frances smiled at Eomer and he arched an elegant eyebrow. The King's nephew did not understand so much how the lady came to be injured. The little company of dwarves, hobbits and elf never ceased to amaze him; they treated her like an equal. The only thing he knew was that Eowyn was upset to be refused the same courtesy.

Frances pointed to the table, her face curious.

"Would you happen to know what those two are up to? The crowd gathering around them seems enthusiastic."

"Oh…"

Eomer frowned in embarrassment. The women of Rohan knew of their men's tendency to indulge in drinking, but what would possibly the lady Frances think about it? He certainly did not want to be the cause of a diplomatic crisis. Gulping once, he tried to tiptoe around the subject.

"Well, you see the dwarf decided to defy the elf once more."

"So did they strike a bargain?" she enquired, standing on her toes so as to spot the table better.

"Lord Gimli did bet that he would beat the elf."

There were no words to explain how uncomfortable he was to tell a young woman of her status about drinking games. After all, she was travelling with one future king, two princes and a respected wizard so what else could she be but a princess ?

"Drinking games?", she questioned.

"Well, yes…" Eomer admitted, rather sheepish.

"Wow, I never thought Gimli would manage to drag Legolas into such a thing."

Relief flooded Eomer at her reaction. Obviously, she must have witnessed drinking games before, for she did not seem spooked about it. The ghost of a smile gracing her rosy lips even suggested that she was amused. Thus, Eomer explained the situation further.

"Well, to be honest, I do not believe that the elf realised what it was about, but he is faring quite well if you ask my opinion…"

Lifting up an eyebrow at the king's nephew, she took the arm he graciously offered so that they could fend the crowd without difficulties. Frances grabbed her stick, on the other hand, and followed Eomer's lead. The man was steady, and well respected among his men; people parted to give them some space.

It was then that Frances saw the scene in its pathetic splendour: Gimli sat at the table, a line of empty pints lying in front of him. His head was nearly buried into the next one, his frizzy hair the only thing escaping the metallic goblet. Disgusting noises rose from the pint as he drank. In front of him stood a very stoic elf, not a strand of hair aside, his posture as graceful as ever. His faintly glowing skin had attracted much attention, but not as much as the family of pints lying before him in a straight line.

Frances' eyebrows shot up; the amount of beer he had swallowed was impressive, but his unmoving silhouette indicated that alcohol had no effect on it whatsoever. How could any being, human or elf, drink so much liquid? Even that amount of water would have been too much.

Suddenly Frances understood why all the cheering. In the country of the mark it was probably an exploit unheard of. Legolas seemed as sober as ever. Eventually, as Gimli muttered unintelligible things in his pint, the elf suddenly reacted.

"I think I feel something," he said strangely while staring at his finger tips.

Everybody's gaze turned in disbelief, wondering how he could stand after drinking so much alcohol. But the prince was totally oblivious of his surroundings, lost in his new experience:

"A slight tingling in my fingers, it's affecting me," he concluded.

Frances had to refrain herself from laughing her head off, but when the dwarf sank backwards roars of amusement filled up the room. Looking too innocent for his own well-being, Legolas said softly, a smile at the corner of his lips.

"I guess I won."

Loud clapping and cheering answered this statement and Frances couldn't help but detail her companion from head to toe. His luminosity was like a sweet humming calling to her soul, and the blue tunic he wore accentuated his refined form. The Rohirrim were still cheering loudly, but even in their drunken bliss they did not dare clapping the elf in the back, conscious of the invisible barrier that held between them.

So Legolas stood alone, a bit confused by the loud exclamations that were sent his way, and he looked for a familiar figure to escape from the crowd. Eomer's face greeted his sight, and clinging to his arm was somebody he did not think he would ever see again… As her hazel eyes met his, the prince's heart jumped into his chest. And then he realised she had caught him in a drinking game.

Frances couldn't help but smile. She, mere mortal, had surprised Legolas, prince of Greenwood, in an awkward position. And his reaction indicated that it mattered to him. However, the elf regained his composure quickly and a smile blossomed on his lips in response to hers. He took the few steps that separated them in a heartbeat.

His eyes studied her, intense, roaming her face, watching her posture. Noticing the dark circles under her eyes, probably, or mourning the loss of colour upon her cheeks. Frances felt awful, but under his watchful gaze, she almost felt… worthy. At some point, he even unconsciously lifted up a hand to run his fingers through her wavy strands. Frances' breath hitched.