On the brink

The drugs had kept the young woman in uneasy slumber, tremors replaced by agitated sleep. Incoherent words of a language they could not understand flew past her lips. Gandalf and Aragorn had stayed hours beside her, washing the cuts and bruises and preparing some mysterious healer's paste before wrapping her right leg in tight bandages. The bruises would heal, even if their colour and surface were impressively extended over such a small body.

Eventually, the ranger left for a few hours of sleep. The gash was nasty but there had been no poison in the dirty blade. A small relief, for the cut was deep; half a finger. Fortunately, nothing vital had been severed; If Frances survived, she might regain her senses and mobility. The crimson line ran from the inside of her knee to the middle of her thigh. The blood pouring out of it had left the elf aghast.

The young lady had remained silent during the whole ordeal, her eyes wide open, unable to utter a breath. Her stoïcism had gained their respect, and if she had had the energy Frances would have snorted in amusement. Silence was not of her will, it was a requirement from her constitution. When in pain, the concentration it asked her not to pass out left her speechless. There was nothing she could do about it; when the feeling of agony spread amongst her nervous system, the young woman could not utter a sound. Some things were too painful to voice them.

The lady of Rohan was now tending to her patient in a corner of the improvised healing ward. Without a sound, Legolas approached slowly, and his eyes took in the small form clad in a blanket. Frances' face was dead white, probably a result of the lack of blood. The elf frowned, his souvenirs fresh an ever-bouncing lady who had lightened their mood during the hardships of their travels.

She was gone now, replaced by the ghost of her body, sweating with fever and trembling from the pain. It was not an encouraging sight, and even if he knew there was little he could do to improve her condition Legolas clung to the idea that his presence could somehow ease her agony. Now that he was facing the situation, those hopeful thoughts seemed to be good for burial. What could he do except watching her body struggle against the fever?

The lady of Rohan lifted her eyes and met his gaze, staring at him in wonder. The cold water ran down from her outstretched hand to her elbow, and Eowyn stood up abruptly, wiping away the trail forming along her forearm.

"My Lord?", she asked. "Did you need anything?'

The elf hesitated, gaining from the lady a startled look. His noble ascendancy should have prevented him from intruding in a moment like this. But they were at war, and a silver sparkle clouded his ever-blue eyes.

"Nay my lady. I was wondering if I could be of help to my friend, but I hold little hope."

"There is indeed little than can be done", answered Eowyn. "Though, I could use some help. She must be kept cool to limit the damage done by the fever. Could you replace me?"

Legolas nodded. This task he could perform for sure. As he took the lady's place on the stool, Eowyn showed him the rags she had been using to soak Frances' forehead. Then she made to go, but a falter in her step intrigued the elf.

"Is there naught that can be done other than this?"

Eowyn turned to him, her face reddening at the thought. It was improper, highly improper to ask this of him. But she had many more warriors to tend to, most of them in dire need of her presence if only to get a smile from the white lady of Rohan. Frances, on the other hand, seemed to hold little love for her.

Had the situation been reversed, if her uncle and Aragorn had allowed her to fight, of course, would the redhead have taken as much care of her than she did now? Better to leave the people close to her tend to her needs.

"My lady?"

"I was about to wash her hair," she said quickly.

The elf stilled. These actions were very intimate to him, and Eowyn knew that as well as he did. However she would not have asked if she had not been overloaded with work, and he knew that the reason she was here being the results of Estel's demands that Frances would be well taken care of.

The halls were crowded with wounded soldiers and farmers, most of them out of reach from medical help, but the ladies could still assist some of them. Refusing this simple task would have been rude and misplaced. Lifting up his sleeves, Legolas held his hands forth to receive the washing basin; Eowyn lifted an eyebrow in surprise before handing him the damp cloth and thanking him.

Once alone, the elf stood there, tall and proud amongst people who would probably not see another day. For once, Legolas felt very out of place. In Greenwood, elvish medicine would have saved a great many. But Strider needed the rest more than anyone. Legolas sighed, touched by the massacre. The aftermath of this battle was much rougher than the ones he was used to. His eyes caught sight of a young one trembling in pain, a few feet away. Any elven kingdom considered youngsters as sacred. Seeing them blatantly put to death destabilised him more than he would have thought. Legolas closed his eyes for a moment; It was too much for him to bear.

Helping Frances would probably distract him from those gloomy thoughts. He sat on the stool, the water basin balanced on his knees. A lone window gave him a little light, and for some time Legolas gazed outside. How he longed to be amongst his beloved trees rather than trapped inside the fortress. After the halls of Moria, he had seen enough rock for the rest of his life. With uneasy gestures, the elf started wiping away the sweat on Frances' brow. She sighed in her sleep… probably the freshness. Passing the damp cloth around her collarbone and arms soothed her, and he covered as much surface as he dared.

Her cheeks were red already, the fever high. How much hope… ? Would the Valar allow her to die after she had survived the battle ?Legolas shuddered; he dared not think about it.

Smiling from her unconscious reaction, Legolas suddenly realised how matted her hair was, and the stink from the orc blood was probably worse than on the battlefield. Slowly, he gathered the reddish tangles to pour them into the washing pot, and he started caressing them very carefully to dissolve the gore. Once the water had changed colour, the elf gently unfastened the ribbon, and scrubbed the knots with soapy plants to wash away the dirt of the battle. It felt strangely soothing to work on Frances' hair; during this time he would not think of the worst that could happen, of potential lethal infections humans could contract, or the torn muscles of her thigh.

As he worked his hands through the strands, washing away the remains of the battle, Legolas stared at their reddish colour. They were smoother than silk under his fingers, and the elf could not help but play with the loose strands while contemplating the fire that shone through the water. The young woman was in no position to have her hair braided anew, and the elf found a little comb to arrange the strands around her face after gently squeezing the water out of it.

Once he had finished, the elf contemplated her pale face and his mood sunk anew. The young woman was sweating again, and her skin glistened from the heat wave. He sighed. How long before the fever took her entirely? The elf shook the thought from his mind, berating himself for losing hope. He could not afford to do so, not while Estel was away. Gritting his teeth, Legolas resumed his treatment, passing the damp cloth over her arms once more. Frances shuddered and whimpered. She seemed to regain consciousness and started shaking. The elf looked around the dark room of healing in search of Eowyn, but then Frances' eyes shot open and her brown gaze bore holes into his.

There was no hesitation in her eyes in this moment of lucidity. The young woman knew she was playing her life, and that Legolas would be the one to save or damn her. There was no place for games and secrets anymore, it was a matter of life and death, and if she did not grasp the little window of opportunity she could be unconscious for hours. It would be too late.

"Legolas …," she whispered

"I'm here", answered the elf, bending over her at once.

"My bag, I need my bag…"

Relieved beyond understanding that he did not try to discuss the reasons for her demands, Frances saw the elf dart off to fetch the precious pack. Trying to keep her eyes open in the afternoon light, the young woman concentrated on the radiating pain that was shooting through her right leg. It was terrible to be awake because all the potential consequences of her injury started swirling in her mind. Would she survive the infection? Would she be able to get her mobility back? Would she be crippled for life? Would the magic of the necklace replace the muscles properly when she returned home ?

The elf's return came as a blessing, and Frances even found the strength to smile, which gained her a wholehearted glow radiating from his lovely features. Even after battle he was amazingly handsome, and the sight soothed her soul more than anything,

"What do you need?", he asked, crouching next to her sweaty form.

She felt disgusting, especially with that radiant elf by her side.

"In the inner pocket… There is a little transparent box with white bullets, I will seem very weird to you, a little crunchy maybe…"

As the elf dug into the unfamiliar bag in her stead, Frances realised that her cover story was dead, but she felt too exhausted to do it herself. The strain on her body was so intense that it took all her strength to even stay conscious. Eventually, Legolas laid his hand on the antibiotics tablet, and he gave it to her with a frown. The young woman extracted two of them with shaky hands and gestured for the water before letting the rest fall into her bag again. As she fought to straighten herself, the elf supported her back and handed her the mug of liquid with curious eyes. For once his hands did not feel warm, that was an indication of how bad the fever was. She had to explain how important it was that those pills stay hidden, but the words would not come.

"I need this", she panted, her chest heaving up and down too fast for her own good, "I don't have much…"

Frances gulped down the water, swallowing the two pills at the same time, and she instantly fell back, too winded to stay upwards. As she allowed the slumber to overtake her body again, the young woman extended one weak hand to hold the elf's.

"Thank you…"

"You are very welcome mellon nin," said Legolas, totally at loss.

She slowly fell back into delirium, her body starting to tremble again from the fever. But right before she let go, the young lady whispered those words to him

"Secret… I will explain … promise"

"Do not worry…"

Frances' eyes suddenly opened and found his. Her expression was so serious and yet demanding, like a silent plea for him to trust her. In this instant where her body was failing, she needed to tell him the truth so badly that it hurt. She needed his trust and his regard. If she died, she wanted him to know what she was, who she was. He was too close a friend now to be left in the dark.

"I promise," she said anew, "do not forget".

Legolas squeezed the little sweaty hand with more force than was necessary, and his eyes watered at the silent plea. Seeing her in such agony twisted his stomach; it hurt to be the testimony of her downfall.

"Not a soul will know. And forget I never will. Do not worry, Frances. Rest, and we can talk when you are better."

As his promise reached her, the young lady smiled, and fell back against the bench. At once her body went limp. She had lost consciousness again.

When day grew late, a pensive elf made way to Isengard with what was left of the company, but his mind was elsewhere. He kept on thinking the smooth reddish curls that had danced around his fingers, and the pale face that had wished him goodbye. Would Frances survive the fever?

During the next few days, Frances' mind danced around consciousness, and she felt so very lonely in her few moments of clear mind. After so many weeks travelling with her companions an unbreakable bond had formed, keeping them tight in spirit, almost like a family. Their absence, she felt keenly.