Leaving Lothlorien

At last, they had left the golden woods! While its giant trees and soft meadows receded, Frances' chest suddenly constricted. So many feelings were assaulting her that she couldn't make sense of it. The young lady's eyes left the river bank where the glowing form of Celeborn and Galadriel were addressing their final goodbyes.

The peaceful waters of the Anduin were scarcely disturbed by the elvish boats, opening only to allow passage and closing in behind them. Frances plunged her hand into the river. The ice-cold water was unexpectedly soft. The company progressed silently under the archways of branches, expertly guided by Aragorn in the lead canoe. The burden resting on his shoulder felt twice as heavy now, yet he bore it well.

They finally emerged in the open, welcomed by the winter glow. Not yet high enough in the sky to be warm, the sun nonetheless casts its light without the filter of the Lórien leaves. Frances relished in its caress. She had missed being out in the open. Despite its greatness, the Great Wood covered most of the sky. Once inside the forest, the blanket of trees was impenetrable. It provided cover for sure, but it somehow created a cage for the unaccustomed souls. Frances was one of them. If she couldn't live without trees, she still needed to be able to see the sky.

The young lady couldn't help it; a part of her felt relieved to leave the constant watch of Galadriel. The Lady's power was everywhere; in every dancing branch, even in the very air they were breathing. And despite the benevolence of her intentions, it was unsettling. Like a kid being watched by her parents, Frances had felt this weight on her shoulders. For sure, the forest was spectacular. The Mellyrn trees, graced by golden leaves, were so incredible that she was sure to never see such magnificence again. But there was a certain relief at fleeing far from Lady Galadriel's influence.

Freedom, at last!

And yet, despite this weight being lifted from her shoulders, anguish was starting to creep in. In the temporal bubble of Lothlorién, Frances had grown. Past the increased bond she had formed with the company, she had also learnt about her purpose. This callin, the "Keeper of time', started to make sense. Days and nights, she had thought about it, as she wandered from hot springs to elvish paths. After the spider fiasco, Frances had kept to the inner forest. So many questions remained unanswered. Many times she had wondered if looking into Galariel's mirror could bring forth the answered she sought. Would it lead her to lose her free will?

But Frances had held true.

Quite surprisingly, Boromir had become a good companion. Together, they had wandered, sparred, and covered a great many miles. The steward's son apparently had enough on his mind not to ask whatever was on hers. A silent companionship. Little by little, Frances begun to see the person behind the title and the arrogance. And day after day, Boromir had left the lady's humour and skills impress him. She for sure didn't complain much about walking, nor being beaten, not having her muscles so sore that she couldn't sit properly on a bench. He had to admit that Frances was resilient … for a woman!

Deep down, Boromir's inherited misogyny was slowly crumbling as the girl rubbed on him. Yet they had their disagreements. As none would back down, each of them as opinionated and the other, the rest of the company would sometimes witness dire rhetorical fights. And Valar was she stubborn! Aragorn would never admit that he found some amusement in watching Frances crush Boromir's assertions with her quick mind. But the obstinate man went on and on, and yet his eyes laughed. He was leading her on, and she following without resentment. Sometimes, Aragorn was even sure that their argument was fuelled by the need to cheer the hobbits.

Gimli, being his noisy self, always exclaimed and guffawed heartily. Legolas, on the other hand, seemed at loss. His senses could not reconcile with the heated arguments happening around the fire. Did humans always argue like this? Here and there, Aragorn peeked at the elf. Between the need to be with his kin, the Galadrhim, and loyal to his friends, the young prince was torn. Yet, he had seen a smile crack on his ever-serious face at Frances' jibs. Legolas had always been one to get along with men. Despite his noble manners, the elf could stand the grime, dust and heaviness of the second born. One more reason for them to be fast friends.

Lost in her thoughts, Frances risked a glance at the elf paddling silently. Ever graceful, the prince's movements were as soft as they were powerful. Only the eldar could muster such force effortlessly. The elf spun a little, risking a smile in her direction. Frances blinked, and turned backwards to Gimli. She couldn't fathom that the elf would mind her. Behind her, the dwarf was abnormally silent. In his pocket, the three strands of hair were safely stored. Three strands of the golden head of Galadriel! Quite a present!

Realising that the smile was indeed intended for her, Frances plunged her eyes into the water, her cheeks reddening a little. How stupid she felt for reacting this way, but she wasn't quite sure how to treat the elf. He still impressed her. The mix of fear, respect and distance was slowly receding. During their time in Lorién, Legolas had taught her how to improve her archery. And some work there was!

Even the twins could have benefited from his teachings. There were so many corrections, so many remarks, so much advice to give! Never was his voice raised, no irritation passed, his patience finding no limits. Over and over he repeated the same sentences, the same movements to show her how to improve her aim.

But Frances couldn't remember half of it. Always confusing right and left, always messing up. There was too much to mind at the same time. Unbeknownst to her, the elf had been quite impressed by her capacity to learn. While the blade wasn't her weapon of predilection, Frances seemed to have a natural gift for the bow. Legolas knew that humans had only a few years to perfect their craft. It was, in his opinion, quite impressive that she could do as much as she did with so little training.

And Frances was stubborn. She trained, and sparred, and ran, and trained again. Repeating the same moves over and over, it eventually started to feel more natural. Frances was painfully aware that she didn't master the blade as well as she should. Aragorn had even asked her if she wanted to stay behind. No matter how softly he brought the notion, it stung.

Frances didn't show how hard those words rang true, for the ranger was worried. And he was rightly so. As an answer, she trained some more. Glorfindel's weapons helped her. Frances felt its magic running through the blade, coursing in her very veins as she used it. She knew how lucky she was to possess such a weapon. Even with her limited warrior skills, the blade seemed to teach her. Its curves, its weight, its balance guided her movements. When she reached a high state of focus, it was almost as if the sword led the fight in her stead.

Dear blade was now strapped to her hip in its scabbard. If Frances had consented to set it aside in the golden woods, vacation time was over. As the company left Lothlórien, Frances felt more confident in her skills. In truth, she had had the best teachers no one would ever hope to have. An uncrowned king, an elven prince, a steward's son. Quite a pedigree.

Casting one last glance behind her, Frances remembered a few words she had learnt a long time ago. To her, those months in Lórien felt like Christmas vacation. Like the passage of the new year. One lady had entered the woods. Another one came out. The gentle swooshing of the paddle produced an aquatic noise soft to her ears. Gently, almost imperceptibly, Frances sung.

'Old Christmas is past

Twelve tide is the last

And we bid you adieu,

great joy to the new'

Legolas straightened. Her voice was crystalline. Never would it be as soft and ethereal than the elvish voices that sung on the great hall of his father in Greenwood the Great. But still. Even if she sang very low, he could hear the softness in her tone. There was something different in her singing, something imperfect and yet so emotional.

As the word 'joy' died on her lips, the young lady tensed behind him. Legolas's body responded without him turning around. The elf frowned. He was paddling softly, his keen eyes scanning the trees and the river bank as they floated gently down the Anduin. Facing front, his whole body turned against the young woman behind him, there was no reason to react this way. And yet he was sure of it. Nervosity came to him in waves.

Frances' chest constricted. Concentrating, she took one breath, then another. None of them knew where the boats were taking them. Frodo's eyes said 'to death'. No matter how cheerful he tried to seem, when no one looked, his blue orbs pooled with sadness and fear. Leaving Lothlórien was like leaving the safety of one's home in a world at war. As the rafts progressed on the smooth surface of the Anduin, Frances' eyes roamed across the river banks. The trees drank the silvery light of the afternoon, plunging their roots deep into the soil. There was no movement except for the oscillating leaves at the summit. The soft north breeze kept to the top. Ensconced in the valley, the company was strangely spared by the winter's cold.

A smooth voice pulled Frances out of her reverie. The elf was speaking to her. Surrounded by a halo of light, the sun was getting lower to the south, he appeared to her like a saint in the holy paintings.

— "This song you were singing, it is one of your people? What is its meaning?"

— "Ah. Er…"

Caught unaware, Frances tried to rewind the song in her head. Of course, it was a very old English song, something about a King and New year's eve. Her brow wrinkled in the effort, she was surprised to hear the musical laugh of the elf.

— "Come lady, instead of thinking too hard, maybe you could sing it anew?"

Surprised, Frances had to consciously close her mouth. Could the elf be serious? With the eldar's inner talent for music, her singing could only ring wrongly even if in her world, she was a decent performer. Well, more than decent. But after hearing elvish songs in Rivendell and Lorién, she thought she would shut her mouth forever. Her face flushed red.

— "Me, singing?"

This time, it was Legolas's time to frown.

— "Of course, why not?"

Music was so natural for the elves that her apprehension startled him. Had he done anything wrong? The young lady's eyes were averted, and she said flatly.

— "Isn't it dangerous? Like, are we not susceptible to be noticed?"

Frances was stalling and she knew it. But truth be told, she was not ready to expose her talents to the judgment of the prince. Unfortunately, it was another voice that answered. A voice that carried so much authority that she didn't have to turn around to identify its owner.

— "We are quite safe Lady Frances. Pray, bless us with a song to accompany us on our journey".

Frances pivoted and rolled her eyes to the leader of their company. Aragorn's boat was gliding closer to theirs, Frodo and Sam watching her with expectant eyes. At once, Boromir's raft curved its trajectory to join them. His face held a teasing smile.

— "Don't ask us to beg my fair lady, for the little ones might as well do so."

Pippin seemed ready to oblige. There was no way out.

— "All right, all right, give me a minute. It's been a long time since I last sang this song."

And she never sung in public... Well, except for her dear cousin. But in a world without television or CD player, it made sense that anybody would do so naturally.

— "What is a minute?" asked Pippin.

Frances blinked. This was one of the details to which she usually paid a lot of attention. This little slip outlined the state of distress in which the elf's request had plunged her thoughts.

— "Shhh, or she won't sing" came Merry's voice.

— "Thank you for getting back to the subject" said Frances ironically.

And so much for my stage fright, she added in her head. Frances took a steady breath, and started singing. Loreena Mc Kennitt's voice came to her mind, guiding her through the notes as the melody oscillated.

'Health, love and peace be all here in this place

By your leave we shall sing, concerning our King.

Our King is well-dressed in silks of the best

In ribbons so rare no king can compare.'

Frances closed her eyes. There came the hardest part where the second voice took precedence over the others, and she wanted to sing it properly so the harmony would be preserved. The little raft held it course steadily, and Frances felt more confident than in any other place on the water. Her voice sung high, its crystalline tones enveloping the melody like a warm blanket. How she loved this song!

'We have travelled many miles over hedges and stiles,

In search of our King unto you we bring.

Old Christmas is past, twelve tide is the last

And we bid you adieu, great joy to the new'

A movement passed upon the company. Something akin to shock. As she sang the words, Frances' realised their meaning. Being French, she had never taken the time to consider this lyrics in depth. But to her companions it made an awful lot of sense! All gazes were on her. Boromir's unreadable. And none as intense as Aragorn's. And then she realised the enormity of her inspiration. She was celebrating the return of the King. As they paddled in direction to Gondor, the only song that had come to her mind was one speaking of a King coming home. Silence greeted the company. The only sound breaking her breathing was the gentle 'floc floc' of the paddles.

— "It was beautiful Lady Frances" said Legolas. "Thank you for sharing this song with us. But pray tell, what is twelve tide?"

And with this innocent question the discomfort dissolved, and both Aragorn's and Boromir's boats floated aside to keep a little more distance. A conversation started over the signification of Christmas which kept Frances' mind extremely busy. The hobbit's questions were endless, while Legolas's ones held more significance. It was difficult to explain the importance of Jesus Christ without revealing that she indeed came from another world. Except for Aragorn, none of the company knew of her origins, and the title that had been granted to her by the Valar. Thus the Keeper of time kept her brain busy until they made camp for the night.