And down we go...

Soaked to the core, the company was slowly descending the rocky slopes of the mountain that had defeated them. After nearly loosing their lives to a snow storm, the company now marched down to join the halls of Khazad-Dûm. The storm had piled up tons and tons of snow on their path, hindering their progress greatly. Despite her deep love for it, Frances swore she never wanted to see a flake again. A renewal of her thoughts, earlier the previous night, when Estel had gently coaxed her to his side to share body warmth. Huddled in a cave like structure, they had eventually relented and built a fire in the dark. Despite Gandalf's warning that it would sell them away to any of Saruman's spies, the men had insisted. They were right, of course. Being a higher being, Gandalf didn't suffer from the cold; he had issues understanding that they would be nothing more than an elf and a wizard to find the next day without the fire. Men and hobbits alike would have died on the mountain side, stranded by the storm that had nearly buried them.

So when the decision was made to go through the Mines of Moria, Frances could do nothing more than share a defeated glance with Estel, who in turn, had turned to Legolas. The silent exchange didn't go unnoticed; both Gandalf and Boromir chose not to comment, offering, instead, their own body warmth to the remaining hobbits. A miserable night had ensued, until an equally miserable, white dawn has greeted them. There was no other way than to retreat. And so the fellowship went. Down, and down again, all the way back from yesterday's trek.

The chilly wind had worsened and all them started to feel exhaustion gaining over their frozen bodies. The hobbits looked like they would sink down at every step, but curiously enough, they kept going. Frances, however, was depleted. It was a strange sensation; her stamina rarely reached the bottom. The nickname her grandfather had bestowed upon her – gazelle – was meant to illustrate her never ending supply of energy. She that bounced all day long, even after days of hiking or hours of swimming she felt close to collapsing.

The young woman had been gritting her teeth for hours now, trying to keep a sure footing over the slippery rocks. The weakness that was overtaking her body only had an equal in the numbness that slowly crawled along her frozen limbs. It worried her; she felt colder and colder as time went on, until all she could think about was to close her eyes and... Her body was spent, yet she couldn't afford to slow down. Great shivers ran up her spine, failing at keeping her warm – their initial purpose lost. The horrible night, cuddled into a ball, had provided little rest. Her body didn't have enough energy to fend off the cold anymore, and she dreamt of a beach in the scorching heat, of the benevolent rays of sunshine that would burn her skin. Southern Italy, with volcanoes on the horizon and the intense dry heat typical of Calabria. And a good book, Alexandre Dumas... Yes, it would be neat. Yet, all she could feel was the numbness spreading.

Strider and Gandalf walked in front, the steep incline placing them way below her feet. This last leg of the journey followed a vertiginous rocky path where a dizzying fall would greet any misstep. It didn't prevent the elf from running back and forth, opening the path for them with his ageless grace. Estel had told her that elves did not feel the cold, and Frances would have given anything to be an eldar, or a vampire. If only the pain could end... As she trailed a bit behind the group of ever cheerful hobbits, Frances didn't even register their slumped shoulders and miserable gait. Her world had turned white and icy; her steps automatic. Feet landing with very little sensation, too frozen to feel the ground properly. Once or twice she slipped over the path, nearly losing her footing, but her reflexes kept her from crashing onto the sharp rocks. The near miss sent adrenalin through her veins, bringing back some alertness.

- "Careful, lady Frances"

The young woman nodded, too exhausted to respond properly to Boromir's plea who closed the little procession, his great shield flung above his shoulder. In other circumstances, she might have retorted that she was doing her best, and that asking her to be careful wouldn't make it better. But the steward's son was as exhausted as she was, and still took time to worry about her. It earned him a few brownie points – when in the middle of a crisis, the man of Gondor was strangely tolerable - that lasted until they stopped for a quick bite. Frances had trouble eating anything, her stomach too tight to be hungry. Sam's admonishment, though, had her nibbling on a piece of cheese. There was such sweetness in this hobbit that a little warmth returned to her heart. Her limbs, thought, refused to heat up.

When the fellowship started their long trek down, the slope had eased a little. Gandalf's pointed hat showed in front rather than below her feet; a meager consolation, for the little break had caused her muscles to seize from the cold. Frances grit her teeth and went on, wondering how in the world the hobbits still managed to march. It was then, as her eyes lifted to check upon Frodo who walked directly behind Estel, that, her boot encountered a patch of mud that covered a wet piece of rock. The slippery surface sent her off balance. Time slowed as reflexes kicked in, adrenalin rushing through her veins. Her hands shot up too late; she was already barreling onwards. Realizing that she would not escape the fall, the young woman braced herself and waited for the unavoidable shock that would crack her bones. She should have kept her eyes open to avoid hitting Pippin. Should have twisted around, like a cat, to avoid breaking her neck. But her mind was too numb. Frances closed her eyes, accepting defeat, awaiting her fate.

Nary a instant passed before an arm caught her across the collarbone harshly. Her feet touched the ground all wrong, her body twisting as another arm snaked at her waist, tightening around her frame to secure her. A gasp escaped her, heart thundering as her face landed upon a rough chest. The young woman felt warm hands steady her position while she clumsily regained her footing, and eventually she dared looking up. Two concerned blue pools were watching her. Only one being could have been fast enough to catch her before she cracked her skull on the ground, and the warmth that was radiating out of him was an indication that he wasn't human.

- "Are you all right, my lady?", asked Legolas.

His enchanting voice caused her to shudder, hypnotizing her mind.

- "Uh..."

Frowning, the elf realized how terrible the young woman looked now that her hood had fallen down; her lips purple, her hands barely able to grasp his jerkin. Steadying her against his frame, the elf felt her body trembling uncontrollably. Instincts took over, and he would later think upon this moment with equal shame and awe, for never the Prince of Greenwood should have ripped a glove out of a lady's hand to grasp her fingers. Yet, it was exactly what he did. His breath caught at once; her skin was so cold, fingers taking a very unearthly shade of blue. Unconsciously he tightened his grip around her shoulders, ignoring the sharp intake of breath that greeted his actions. Her eyes, slightly out of focus, gazed upon him as if he was an angel. How had he not realized how far gone she was beforehand ? He might have prevented her to fall to her death altogether. Ripping his gaze from hers, the elf was about to signal Estel to come over when he realized the ranger was already making his way up.

Legolas towered over Frances' frame by at least a foot and the warmth that spread from his body was a sweet torture. This was so embarrassing – an elven prince was touching her - yet... she never wanted to let go. Struggling to keep her eyes open, the young woman concentrated on her nerve terminations. Legolas' hand held hers tightly, and no matter how much she wished she could feel there were no sensations left in her fingers. As she watched his finely chiseled features frown in apprehension, Estel appeared in her line of sight. He gave a quick look at Frances's face, then touched her hands before a deep sigh shook his frame.

- "Forsbite"

The young woman nodded; it wasn't the first time her fingers turned white, or blueish for that matter. Once, caught in a snow storm on a skiing trip, her middle finger had even become all blackish. The only way to cure this was warmth, and she knew it. They had nothing of the sort at hand. And there still was a little margin between the blueish hue, and the totally black that would mean irreversible damage. Would the magic of the necklace recreate her fingers on her journey back to earth ? She highly doubted it. If all scars disappeared every time she was transported, she'd never had to replace a missing part of her. Better to keep all limbs attached for now.

To her horror, Estel removed his own fur lined gloves and asked for her hands.

- "They are warm. Keep flexing your fingers as you walk, and we'll sort this out when we stop at night"

Frances hid her unusable fingers under her cloak, shaking her head vehemently.

- "You can't.... your hands !"

The ranger gave her a very serious look.

- "Frances, I'm twice your weight. I will be all right, but we can't afford you to loose your fingers"

To her greatest shame, Frances relented then, offering her frozen apendage to the dunedain's care. His hands were rough but gentle as he slid his warm leather gloves on hers and the young woman sighed in relief.

- "Thank you", she said, teeth chattering.

- "Can you keep walking?"

Strider's voice was surprisingly soft. Had she expected him to start yelling at her weakness? The concern in his eyes was so touching that she would have wept. The man doubted he would make a good king, but she didn't. Frances knew she would have lost patience and urged people to go faster, but there was nothing more than gentleness about him. If she had not seen him fight, she would never have guessed him to be such a great warrior. His grey eyes were roaming her face, and Legolas still had not let go for fear she would fall. Now the hobbits had turned around, their faces betraying varying stages of disgruntlement. Shame overtook the young woman as she nodded.

Estel's grey eyes thanked her deeply for the effort; discouragement would quickly spread in the ranks if she gave up. As their leader turned away, the ranger gave the elf a knowing look and was rewarded with a nod. Slowly letting his arm let go of her, Legolas studied her balance while she shrunk out from his touch. Then he started putting down his pack and weapons; the cold wind suddenly seemed to blow harder as Legolas' warm body left hers, and Frances did realize how good it had felt to be clad against him. The sensation of safety and warmth had been so surreal but she knew that it was no time to linger. Her eyes got lost in the horizon as she gathered the little courage to start walking again when a piece of cloth darted in front of her face. Lifting her eyes to the elf in front of her, Frances realized that he was offering his jerkin for her to wear.

- "No!", she exclaimed, coming back to her senses, "You cannot do that!"

Surprised by her vehemence, the elf stared at her in disbelief. The soft fabric that laid underneath his coat was too thin against the wind, hence her refusal.

- "You will be too cold", she stuttered.

- "Maybe a little, but not for long"

His smooth baritone washed over her like a benevolent wave, coaxing her mind to surrender to his will. An elvish trick ? Perhaps, but Frances wasn't so easily deterred. So when the elf ordered her to put the jerkin on, she was ready to resist with the little pride she had left. Seeing he was getting nowhere, Legolas Greenleaf pulled a fresh tunic from his bag to overlay the one below. Then he started buckling his scabbard and belt again, knowing how her eyes watched him until he swung the bow above his head. The jerkin lay on the ground, discarded. Lonely, even, its beautiful embroideries abandoned in the middle of nowhere on the Redhorn pass.

Frances sighed. Sneaky elf; the whole company was watching the proceedings now, hoping to set off as soon as possible. She was only delaying the inevitable, so when Legolas' hand expertly removed her frozen cloak from her back, she gave up any resistance. In an instant, she was clad in a warm piece of leather encasing her upper body loosely and falling past her knees. In another life, maybe, she would have wondered what she looked like, but for now it felt like paradise to feel Legolas' warmth all around her. Even if the jerkin fit weirdly because of her tiny frame, Frances suddenly felt much better. His scent reached her nostrils, and the sweet odor of pine trees and exotic spices surrounded her in a world where the bitter wind had no say. As her cheeks flushed from the feelings that assailed her, the elf smiled. It felt as if the sun had emerged behind the clouds. For an instant nothing else existed than his warmth, his scent, his fair features and twinkling eyes. As the company started again, Frances contemplated the tall frame of the elf running along the path, his long silken shirt modeling his muscles as he moved gracefully. Shame washed through her, but at least she could keep going. Where was your gore-tex when you need it?