The last debate

Frances was silent as the counsel unfolded, her presence quiet but not subdued as the golden hazel of her gaze flickered from a leader to another. A map lay upon a makeshift table; the perfect support to get a lay of the land. The young woman scooted closer to the future King, her finger tracing the lines their army was supposed to travel. Then… her index stopped at the black gates. They loomed, imposing, overwhelming, upon the land of Ithilien. A fortress of volcanic rock. A geologic impossibility. Who had risen them so high, to enclose the dead land that was Mordor ? A shudder ran up her spine as she caught Aragorn's eyes.

This is our destination.

The King stared into her eyes, as if waiting for her support. The young woman gazed back intensely, her eyebrows set in a frown, until she nodded to him. He knew the land, its people, and fought for Frodo. It was suicide, and she would follow him to the end.

Across the table, Legolas' mind rolled. Never before had he witnessed so obviously the closeness these two shared. They sometimes behaved as if they were kin, supporting each other without fault. Did she have visions of the future that Estel would trust her opinion so much? Or was she, like she had proved to be until then, an anchor for the heir of Gondor?

He understood better now why Frances had downright refused to accept Aragorn's death. She was his most sturdy support on this crazy quest, the voice of reason, the woman who provided a little hope when Estel had none left. How queer, for a maiden so young, to inspire a great man like Aragorn. Perhaps because she understood the plight of being a second born?

With so many powerful friends at his side, he started to realise that Aragorn probably felt lonely. He was the shortest lived of their group, the oldest looking one already – apart from Gandalf. Who better than a mortal with a shorter lifespan and a blatant vulnerability to understand and ponder his decisions? Frances was, somehow, akin to the people he tried to protect.

Human, vulnerable to blade and disease, and short-lived. Not sturdy like a dwarf, nor indestructible like a wizard, nor light-footed and deadly like himself. And carrying all those weaknesses, she still followed. Through fire and death, through fear and coldness, through war and despair, she had not left their side. An extraordinary woman. No wonder she had a prophecy wrapped around her little finger!

Legolas, following roughly the count of men that each of the Kings and Princes should gather, though his heart would burst. How he loved her ! But they marched to their deaths. Seven thousand men only against the full wrath of Sauron !

And for sure, Prince Imrahil was scoffing now.

"Surely this is the greatest jest in all the history of Gondor: that we should ride with seven thousands, scarce as many as the vanguard of its army in the days of its power, to assail the mountains and the impenetrable gate of the Black Land! So might a child threaten a mail-clad knight with a bow of string and green willow !" (direct quote from the Return of the King.)

A moment later, he agreed to follow. Eomer nodded his own assent, and Legolas' respect only grew for the race of men. How could someone even hope to outlive this battle ? They would set forth to the Black Gate on the day after tomorrow. He felt his jaw tense but kept his posture relaxed for the sake of the others.

Yet, he couldn't help but steal a glance at Frances. The young lady stood, cane in hand, as proudly as an oak. She had not voiced any concern, but her face said it all. Her courage, once more, fed his admiration. He knew that nightmares plagued her dreams, he had witnessed it firsthand the previous night. War had left a scar on her soul, a deeper scar that the one that marred the skin of her thigh.

A sweet memory played in his mind, one he would cherish forever but could not share with anyone. In the little hours of the night, Legolas had climbed through the window. He meant to offer comfort, and make sure that she would want for nothing. But her steady breath and sweet scent had lulled his sense of danger. Climbing beside her upon the enormous bed, Legolas had rested his back upon the headboard and allowed a restorative meditation to overtake him.

Whimpers had awakened him; he's hesitated to reach out, until his hand had decided to lay upon her shoulder. A featherlike touch; her features had softened at once. For once, he had been at leisure to contemplate the silvery light of the moon over her lovely face. His long fingers had stroked her hair once, or maybe twice. A low hum of contentment, a purr almost, had escaped her lips. Seated beside her, his legs barely touching her arms through the coverlet, Legolas had fallen into elven slumber and taken his rest. Dawn had greeted him in all its glory. Before anyone could detect his presence, he had jumped into the trees below her window, and disappeared in the streets.

Frances' keen eyes were searching his, and he could not prevent from gazing at her. Did she know how delicate her features had been shaped, how intense her gaze when she wanted to? Yet, he could not acknowledge his feelings for her. Legolas sadly smiled, and dropped his head.

In two days' time, he would ride to meet his death. In a week, there would be nothing left of him to offer. He could not surrender control to his feelings, it would be too unfair for her. Better to leave now, before his feelings got the better of him, lest he binds himself to a maiden and leave her behind. The only memory of their relationship resting in the kiss they had shared, and the impervious emotions of his dying heart.

Once their war plans were complete, Legolas left swiftly, avoiding Frances' gaze. He needed some time to meditate, or to contemplate the stray gulls that sailed back up the Anduin. Better to dwell upon the sea longing that upon the ache within his chest, for the memory of their kiss still danced in his heart.