Of Frances' figure

His boots barely disturbed the fresh layer of powdery snow at his feet; the perks of being a firstborn. The sky was so deeply blue, a rich colour only seconded by the purest of gems. Not a cloud in sight, barely a breeze to deter them from the ascension to the Redhorn pass and the brightest sunshine to caress his flawless skin. Yet, Legolas' spirits were not as high as the sun for the rest of the fellowship has struggled on the steep pass of the mountain, even before snow covered the sharp rocks. Now, they followed in straight line behind Gandalf who carved a path for them, heads bowed in exertion, cheeks reddened by the reverberation of the light that burnt their skin as much as the chilliness of the air.

Free to roam without sinking in the snow, the elf ran ahead to ensure the coast was clear, then retreated behind the group. A never-ending task; one appointed by himself, just like a shepherd's dog. But he didn't mind; the weather could turn sour at any moment, mountains were treacherous; Caradhras most of all. With his stamina and ability to walk over snow, Legolas was the only one able to keep an eye on the fellowship in a timely manner. Still, even if they had struggled their way up, it seemed that Aragorn's will had summoned a little miracle to accommodate their needs. Attempting the cross the redhorn pass in the heart of winter was a folly; one accepted because the alternative was too bleak to consider. Never an elf would willingly enter the mines of Moria. Not without a desperate need. Little did he know that such need would soon push him into the entrails of the very mountain he was now treading upon.

As he overtook the little group of hobbits once more, Legolas found himself entertained by Pippin's huff.

- "It is too unfair that an elf can walk across snow while being so tall, and we have to dig into it when it comes to our hips"

Legolas chuckled, his spirits lifted by the innocence of Pippin who reminded him, so often, of a child.

- "And you seem unaffected by the cold," retorted Merry.

Grateful that neither cousin felt the need to use a title, the elf gave the hobbit a tight smile; he could see their reddened cheeks and the crispation of their hands carefully hidden inside their cloaks. As a first born, he did not suffer from the chilliness so keenly, even if he could feel it. His body adjusted by pumping more blood in his veins, something the second born and Hobbits had much more trouble doing. His eyes couldn't help but linger above Pippin where the lady Frances matched them step for step. Her legs were longer than the hobbits, allowing her to adjust her pace more easily than Frodo and Sam who preceded her. Her nose, reddened by the frozen air, her body tense and wrapped in the cloak even though the little hairs at her temple were plastered from the exertion. Yet, she showed no unease in the exercise.

He had to admit that for a young woman, she was sturdier than he might have thought at first. For a moment, the elf watched her graceful steps, space even between left and right, the economy of her movements as the long reddish braid danced in her back, the slight sway of hips and weariness that would never show had she been an elleth. And despite the relative easiness with which she progressed; the young woman seemed anxious. In a few steps, he was overtaking her.

- "What about you, Lady Frances?"

It was a distinguished, and very roundabout way to ask her how she fared. Her warm chocolate eyes settled upon him for a moment, as if she couldn't believe he was addressing her. The result of much time spent in silence as the climb had been too steep to talk. Now, the slope was more even, the pace easier to handle.

- "I can stand the cold for a short while. I am just weary of mountain weather since we have no equipment to face a storm, or icy ground."

The elf's features didn't change an inch, refusing to acknowledge that her concerns matched his. He was spared from answering as Merry questioned her.

- "You fear the mountains, Frances?"

- "I do, as anyone should," came her steady voice. "And I love them equally; there is much beauty in those landscapes. It brings many fond memories"

Memories she did not detail, for her breath was short.

- "Why the fear, then?" Pippin prodded innocently.

Legolas watched as the young woman nibbled her reddened lips, causing him to remark, for the first time, how red they were upon her pale skin. A colour so vibrant that they seemed coated with blood. The result of harsh wind and dry coldness, perhaps? She gave him an inquisitive look before answering Pippin – she had caught him staring! – causing him to dip his head to avoid her gaze.

- "Caution, no fear. Snow is treacherous by itself and the weather can change fast. It is better to be prepared."

The elf choose to remain silent, abiding by Frances' half truths; it was useless to detail the crevices that might swallow them whole, the avalanche or rocks and ice that could bury them alive or even the fate of poor men who had lost limbs to frostbite. But as his eyes met Frances' own once more, he could nearly read those concerns in their depths. She knew, just as he did, the dangers of their trek. Both Merry and Pippin butted in then, their voices too hopeful to be natural.

- "Is that not why Boromir, Aragorn and Gimil are carrying wood in case we need a fire?"

- "So we've got nothing to fear."

- "Right," Frances muttered.

Unfortunately, Meriadoc was more insightful than his every naïve cousin.

- "You seem sceptical"

- "You have to admit that I lack insulation," Frances retorted with humour.

An attempt to suffuse the situation, perhaps, as the hobbits let out a puzzled, "what?" that made her laugh.

- "I am a little skinny, some additional fat would have kept me from the cold, but all this walking doesn't really help a woman's figure."

As the hobbits rushed to reassure her about her "fine figure", Legolas heard Boromir snort. Annoyed, once more, that the steward's son would find reproach in Frances' comment, the elf stole a glance at the man. He was surprised to find a gentle smile upon his lips, devoid of mockery or contempt. What could possibly roam his thought, this great captain of Gondor forced to undertake a mission he didn't believe in? For the moment, nothing but amusement at the mention of Frances' figure. Was it because she was, purposefully, redirecting the conversation to more trivial matters, disparaging herself in the process? Or had the man formed an opinion about said figure? Perhaps he agreed with her, finding her too thin compared to Gondorian women. Perhaps it was the contrary.

After all, Boromir might come to consider Frances a proper match for marriage, for despite her unknown lineage, she was considered highly by the family of Elrond and had strong ties with Rivendell. She was young, and healthy. Strong, brave and soft-spoken; the perfect bride for a man of power who wanted heirs. Gondor was not renown for its even treatment of women; Aragorn's stories of his time as Thorongil were appalling enough. How would Frances adjust to a court that abhorred strong characters?

Legolas found that his heart felt unsettled by this line of thoughts. The elf frowned; he needed to catch up with Gandalf at the front. So, with one last look to the woman that walked a few feet ahead of him, he decided to close the subject; she wasn't too skinny. Lean, but feminine enough, not unlike an elleth. And now, he wouldn't think upon her figure anymore, even if the trail of her fiery braid taunted him as it swayed over her hips.