The bond

They did not stop for the night, trotting through it like it was day. Frances' voice was heard some more, singing mostly what the dwarf wanted, but sometimes answering another ranger's request. It also meant that Legolas had to ride closer to her, for each time he led his steed away, Gimli protested. How ironic that his two friends would actually work against him without even knowing it.

Her voice lulled him into elven slumber. Eyes opened, he led the horse absently a she sang, resting for the first time in days. Frances' emotions were strong, and he could feel them clearly. So clearly that it should have startled him. But in his haze, he didn't take time to wonder about it. Her tones were powerful if muffled by the movements of the horse.

The songs were nothing as melodious as those of the eldar but it suited her talent better. Legolas knew, from the day she had interpreted this poem on the Anduin, that she had a beautiful voice. Now, he was carried by the emotions she displayed. Sadness, joy, elation, strength and longing.

Sometime if the evening, Legolas emerged from his slumber, finding only the sound of hooves on the path rather than Frances' voice. The young lady was spent, slouched against Elrohir's back, as she slept a little. The Peredhil was careful in his movements, his arm locked behind her in an awkward position. At some point after lunch, Legolas remembered Elladan trying to pass as Elrohir as he urged Frances on his steed while his twins assembled the saddle bags. But the young lady would have none of it. "I promised to ride with your brother his afternoon," she said.

Truly, he didn't know how she recognised them. No matter how they asked, they could not pry it from her. The more they begged, the wider her smile. Noting Legolas' gaze, Elrohir addressed him a quick look of acknowledgement. The eldar were weary as well, but Aragorn would not stop. The elf prince nodded, and urged his horse forward to reach his long-time friend. If the three elves felt the fatigue, he could not fathom how tired the rangers must be, and most of all, their chieftain.

The Grey Company passed the little town of Ciril. People scattered, crying out that the 'King of the dead' had indeed returned, fleeing before them. If there had been foe among them, the rangers were none the wiser for they vanished like the rest.

The hours passed in a blur for Frances. Riding in turn with Elladan or Elrohir, she lost track of time as the night settled, darkness eventually giving way to a dawnless day in greyish colours. In the sky, inky clouds seemed to roll, gaining over the lands like an evil blanket, killing the sunrays that should have warmed her heart. If the air wasn't as cold as the fellowship had faced on Caradhras, Frances was chilled to the bone. The absence of light only reminded her that a host of dead followed them. Once in a while, she felt their breathless presence, greeting her in a sea of icy dread. Closing her Lorien cloak tight around her, she held fast to the elf leading the horse, hoping that, even through the cloth, she would be able to steal away a little of his warmth.

Beside Aragorn, the prince of Greenwood shivered. Fortunately, the fast pace and weariness of the group prevented his friends to notice the sudden movement. Even Gimli, holding tight behind him, failed to comment on it. But Legolas's mind was on high alert. As an elf, he was nearly impervious to the cold, and he did not fear the dead host as his companions did. Elrohir and Elladan alike shared the blessing of the firstborn, much to their delight.

Hence his suspicions. Legolas should not have felt it, yet he couldn't shake the uneasiness from his shoulder. Deep down, he could pinpoint the dread as much as the numbing of his fingers. Frowning, the elf let his hands play with the reins. Nothing. His fingers were fully functional, as was all the rest. The elf was at loss, but kept his mouth shut. Surely the strain of the ride was affecting him after all.

Eventually, the Grey Company came upon Linhir, a bigger town set at the mouth of the Gilrain. Frances squinted her eyes to distinguish the rampart and lovely arches so eagerly described by Elrohir. But try as he might, she could not see more than high walls and a large dark swish of water. It was indeed, a dawnless day. How sad that she could not fathom the beauty of this coastal city! For they were close to the sea. She could smell it. Even through the ash and dust coming from the east, there were a few accents of iodine in the air. Frances smiled as they approached the great town. The architecture was indeed lovely, and she couldn't wait to see it with the sun and watch the sea from its ramparts. But today would not include sightseeing.

Corsairs and Hardrim were fleeing the city. And if many others stayed hidden, Frances marvelled at the effect the dead host had on their enemies. Eventually, a lone figure came out to greet them. The lord of Lamedon, as he called himself, had the courage to stand up. Aragorn bid him to take his men and follow the host to save Minas Tirith. Frances didn't know if they had answered his plea, for they pushed forwards, crossing a large bridge on the Gilrain and galloping once more on the road.

After passing the great river, the road widened to a more convenient size. The bumps were scarce, and the company sped up once more. They kept this pace for a while, never slowing down. Eventually, Aragorn called for a break. It was all that Frances could do not to yell 'Thank God!' to the ranger. She was exhausted, and her body ached in places she didn't know she had. The strain from the ride on her muscles was becoming unbearable, and the throbbing pain in her thigh increased the discomfort tenfold. How she was still able to cling to the Peredhil beside her was a miracle.

Dead on feet, she let Elladan seize her waist and haul her down. No sooner had her legs touched the ground that her knees gave out. Frances landed harshly, her fall fortunately lessened by the elf else she would have broken her hipbone.

"Frances," Elrohir cried out, glaring at his brother for letting go. "Couldn't you support her, brother, or has your strength diminished?"

Dark eyes met their exact replica, anger surfacing faster than it should have. Fortunately, Frances' voice interrupted the glaring contest.

"Do not fret, Elrohir. He couldn't have known that my legs were so sore."

A heavy sighed escaped his lips as he crouched in front of her. But it was not his voice that led the interrogation she feared.

"How are you faring, my lady?"

Aragorn's grey gaze was fixed on her face, a frown marring his tired features. She looked like hell.

"Peachy !"

"Frances…", Elrohir chastised.

The young woman sighed.

"I've seen better days."

That was it, she wouldn't say more. Her eyes broke contact with Aragorn's. He had so many worries, such a weight resting on his shoulders. There was no need adding hers as well. And what could she say? She was so exhausted that she was ready to beg to be left behind. But she knew, deep down, that if she did so, there would be no going back. A dead army followed them, and after them, a host of people full of revenge, intend on laying waste on the corsairs and Haradrims that had harassed their homes. She was an injured young lady, among a group of men. There were too many ways to die if left alone. And she didn't want Halbarad to be in position to say, 'I told you so!' She'd rather be damned than prove him right!

So Frances kept her mouth shut. She didn't tell about the angry pain shooting up her leg, nor the fact that her body was so tired that she didn't feel confident she could hold something in her hand, or stand at all. And she kept quiet about her birthday as well, because on the 8th of March she had been trapped underground with a host of accursed and dead warriors. That, certainly, could not have been a cause for celebration. Still, she had turned 19 on this day. Woman's day in her world, a fine date to be born! And even if she had been through hell, a lone gift had made it worth it: the hand of Legolas holding her own atop a horse's back.

The same elf who was now fleeing her very presence. His eyes still, the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen, tended to gaze over her when she wasn't looking. Yet, she could feel it. And she wondered at his decision to stay way from her, for it was obvious that he avoided her now. Guilt and sadness hit whenever she looked at the elf. But she couldn't prevent from staring at him for the world. Her self-esteem was simply not strong enough to deny her need to see him. His glow comforted her most of the day, and at night he was the only light that kept her heart beating. With the dead following, and the intense fright that surrounded her, seeing Legolas lifted her spirits in more ways than she could fathom.

Still, she thought that she understood his position. It seemed, after all, very logical. Legolas had probably figured out that she was falling for him. And thus, he created the distance, like a teacher would do for a pupil, to prevent this infatuation from going further. He was, after all, several centuries old. What did he need a teenager swooning over him? He had probably done so to many elleth until now. And Frances was struggling to accept it; she was not worthy of him in any way. 'Suck it up!' was her only response.

All this nonsense talk with Aragorn, how stupid he must have thought her! At the time, she had mistaken his reluctance to confirm Legolas' feelings. And now she knew; it was not chivalry that had prevented Aragorn from telling her, but pity. She had made a fool of herself, and his neutrality was meant to protect her from the sad truth. Legolas saw her as a friend, but kept her at arm's length to quell that ridiculous crush. A human lady and an elf, that was definitely unheard of!

Frances shivered. Once more. Elladan was wrapping her leg tightly and she could feel the cold wind sweeping under her cloak. Dark grey clouds had turned to black, their form so imposing that no light could filter through. It was a sad sight, those grey hills and deserted crops like a blanket of ashes over the earth. The sea was so close she could smell it, yet they barely could distinguish the shores. The landscape fit her mood so well, dead and desperate to flourish anew. What would be left of her when the war was over? If she survived the war? An ironic thought crossed her mind. With some luck, she wouldn't even have to wonder, she'd be killed in the first minute of the battle. Then, all her self-depreciating thoughts would accompany her to hell.

"Look!" came Aragorn's voice, and he was unsettled. "Minas Tirith is under attack. We must make haste."

Frances bit back a bitter remark about 'snailing down the hill', and let Elrohir carry her to his horse. He was still pissed at his twin, and for once, the young lady didn't feel up to settle this brotherly fight. She had no energy left to share. Frances was utterly and totally spent. Elrohir's warm hand came around her to push her further against his back, and she let the elf lead her to their death. Only the smell of the sea and its iodine accents gave her some comfort, the cry of seagulls bringing forth happy memories.

Unbeknownst to Frances, the same cries had frozen Legolas to the core. The sea was calling to him, wrapped in a blanket of darkness under the blackened skies. And he longed, how he longed to plunge his feet into the water and let the waves carry his life away! The pull held such a strength over him that for a while, he had to concentrate hard on following Aragorn lest he led his horse to the south.

Undone by the closeness of the shores, Legolas, prince of Greenwood, was ready to abandon all reason to flee to the undying lands. A shiver ran through his shoulders once more; this time he could not ignore it! A quick assessment of his own body taught Legolas everything he needed to know; he wasn't cold, nor tired enough to feel the clutches of the dead over him.

Turning back on a whim, his eyes caught sight of Frances. Slumped behind Elrohir, her cloak tightened in a death grip around her slender frame, she was trembling… Trembling from the cold, her fingers numb, her body assaulted by the dread of the dead.

And then he understood.

'Ai Elbereth. Natho nin !' (Ah Elbereth, help me!), shouted his frantic mind so loudly that the Arod jolted at the stiffening of his body.

"Oï, lad! Don't topple over!" came Gimli's gruff voice behind him.

The dwarf's comment called his spirit back to the task at hand. Now was not the time to ponder over the tremendous discovery he had just made.

"Hold tight Gimli, we must make haste."

"Haste all right, but we sure won't help Minas Tirith if we eat dirt before the battlefield!"

The dwarf's thick accent seemed to shake Frances from her slumber. Her eyes lightened anew, leaving the emptiness behind as she observed Gimli. The stout warrior was clinging tightly to the elf in front of him, his expression foreboding that he was ready for a good fight. Frances smiled at him, and he barely nodded. Then, she lifted her eyes to Legolas, and frowned. Never before had she seen such a lost expression on his fair features; something was awfully wrong! His anguish rolled in waves so frantic that she felt like she had dived into a stormy sea. A gull cried again, and she watched him stiffen. Only then did she remember Galardiel's warning.

It was a strange thing, to be afraid of the sea. But she knew nothing about elves, or this ailing whatsoever. Why fear it when it was such a beautiful and powerful ally? So she straightened, regaining a little countenance, and tried to convey all her good thoughts to the elf. In her mind, she replayed those fantastic moments she had spent on the beach, the sun kissing her skin, the waves of Spain rolling her upside down as she plunged inside them.

How could she convey the beauty of an evening's storm? The sensation of completude as she swam under the crystal clear waters ? She remembered the incredible indigo of the Stromboli's sea, the warmth of its waves enveloping her body, requesting her to go further as she lost herself in its depth. And the infamous number of sandcastles she had built under the care of her family.

In her gaze, Frances willed to give him all of this. The best souvenirs, and the reassurance that the sea could be a friend if he so wished, that he didn't have to forsake his trees nor his home to embark on the last voyage until he really wanted to. That it was possible to enjoy the shores, and leave them afterwards without being consumed by their memory. It was quite childish; she knew that well. But how she longed to tell him all of this! How she regretted she had not spoken before! His anguish was almost unbearable to behold.

His blue gaze had not left hers. Legolas didn't blink, staring into the depth of her eyes despite the fast pace of their horses. Warmth was flooding him anew. When regrets filled her gaze, Legolas smiled. Regrets were unwarranted. But she couldn't know the extend of what he felt. All those things she wanted to tell him, he felt them, more vividly than he should have. He felt them as if she had dragged him into her memories, as if he had lived them himself. Legolas was not cold anymore, nor was Frances. Of this, he was sure.