Mending

Step after step, Frances and Legolas roamed the streets in a haze of happiness. The air seemed fresher, the colours more vivid, the sensations of her body sharper. Never before had she felt such life fuelling her every cell. It was an exhilarating feeling, to be close to him, to belong to him. She had no eyes for anything else but him, no ears for the street but the sound of his voice, for every little thing brought her back to him. There, attached to her arm, tall and solid like a small tree, lithe and supple like a reed, indestructible. And he was hers! She had trouble believing her luck; she would not have thought it possible but for his solid presence and discrete scent.

"I have meant to ask, but did not dare before."

His voice, low and smooth, called for her attention. And she gave it wholeheartedly, knowing that he would navigate through the cobbled streets her while she searched his face.

"The jewels at your ears, are they traditional in your culture?"

Frances nodded, understanding the unasked question.

"I was six years old when my ears were pierced. My mother told me I was the one who asked. I honestly cannot remember any of it… Maybe I was compelled to ask for my ears to be pierced to fit the mould."

"I have trouble understanding how one can consciously accept to harm one's own body."

Frances squeezed his arm slightly, eyebrows frowned in thought. She had never reflexioned on this tradition since it was part of her culture. In Mexico, many babies had their ears pierced at birth. Still, it made sense to question it. Where was the line between scarification, piercings and earrings? And how to explain it to a being who respected his needs and his body like the formidable tool it was?

The frown on her face had not eased, and Legolas replaced a lock of her hair behind her ear in a tender gesture.

"I'm sorry Frances, I did not mean to criticise."

"I know you didn't. And honestly, I do not know what to answer this. We human have a lot of weird habits, all of them to make us feel more … suitable. Some would go to lengths you cannot imagine for the sake of appearances. Painting one's face, plucking hairs, perfuming skin or wearing boned garments would be a few of those…"

Frances kept quiet about aesthetic surgery and other stratagems that the 21st-century ladies used, thinking that it might get a little difficult for the elf that already seemed deep in thoughts by her side.

"I have yet to be a witness of such extravagances," he stated smoothly.

"The noble ladies of Gondor will probably sate your curiosity. You have to understand that, unlike you first born, we are far from perfect. This knowledge, and the constant judgement from our peers tend to make us uneasy. Hence the make-up, and piercings, and anything that might make us look to our advantage."

A handsome eyebrow was lifted in mirth.

"Perfect? Is that what you think of elves?"

Frances did not dare looking at him, self-conscious of her own shortcomings compared to his dashing looks.

"Mmmm. And you will find that this sentiment is much shared among humans, especially to those who have lived the longest in their company. We sometimes suffer from the comparison."

He knew what she meant. Estel, his oldest human friends had complained more than once about his abilities. Even so, after a week's ride, the smell that emanated from him was nowhere as foul as the one coming from the ranger. He knew that, and so did Aragorn, subjected to the jokes of his foster brothers. And regarding all those horrendous things that Frances was talking about, he had to admit that he was curious to witness it. The slight twitch of her companion's fingers on his arm called his eyes to her face.

"I had never thought of it that way. But it does not matter, meleth. Know that you are perfect for me, without you having to perform such ointments and disguises. Surely you know of my admiration for you?"

The young lady stopped in her tracks, and Legolas turned fully to her. Eyes wide open, their depth catching the sunrays so brightly that they bordered on golden, Frances was gaping. Then, a slight flush crept on her cheeks, but it didn't prevent the elf from caressing her soft skin, accentuating the crimson tide. He leant over, breathing in her faint scent, and deposited a light kiss on her temple. Instead of pulling away though, he let his mouth linger at the top of her head, and surrounded her in his embrace.

"Haven't I ever told you?"

A nod from left to right answered him feebly.

"Then I shall endeavour to do so, since I have contemplated your features so very often and committed them to mind. Your eyes are so finely outlined, delicately shaped and lively. When they shine with mirth, they sparkle like the stars, their depth far beyond my reach with wisdom uncalled for in one so young. Your smile causes your mouth to curve slightly, never too ostentatious, but in such a way that a dimple is revealed. As for your lips, meleth…"

The elf sighed, pausing for a blessed moment, the reminder of her kisses so lively in his mind.

"The colour of your lips contrasts with your fair skin, their carmine alike to a fresh rosebud. There is much light in your expressions and beauty in your features as much as in the shape of your body."

She was hiding now, her face buried in the crook of his shoulder.

"Please, do not tease me so. I couldn't handle those compliments if you whispered them in the dead of the night, let alone in the middle of the street in broad daylight!"

The elf started, dumbfounded by her refusal to receive his praise. He lifted her chin to lock eyes with her, trying to ascertain if she was being modest – he didn't believe it at all – or if she was oblivious of her beauty.

"But why, Meleth, would you shy away? For I only state what is true! You are graceful, of mind and of features, and I surely am not the first one to tell you so. You walk like a noble woman, you talk with love and care, and move like a fairy. Have you not seen the looks you gather around you? They are many, those who eye you even now, walking at my arm."

Exasperated, Frances threw her arms in the air, gathering quite some attention from the passers by.

"That's because I am with you! It is you they contemplate, the fair face of the first born at last seen again within their walls!"

The elf rolled his eyes, something he had caught from Frances, and she tried to stifle a laugh.

"It is true that some of them are curious about my kin. But many of the men are instead watching you. They do not know who you are, I can see it in their eyes. Still, they are drawn to your form, for you are an enchanting creature. And should you not be mine, I might even be jealous."

"Surely you are jesting, Legolas? This curiosity probably revolves around the unusual colour of my hair, don't you think?"

"Nay, meleth. I would never joke at your expense, for I love you too much. This is not curiosity, but admiration. Have you not realised it in Rohan, how the men look at you?"

Frances nodded vigorously. No, she had not. And if her friends in high school at hinted at it, that she was, most of the time, the recipient of such looks, she had dismissed it with a laugh. There had always been too many things on her mind to remark on futile things such as this. In France, and in the 21st century, she was in no danger from the looks of men. Therefore, she ignored it vigorously.

A little sadness washed over Legolas's feature, very soon replaced with mischief as he bent and captured her lips in his. Frances' breath came short, her mouth more than happy to lock once more with the Prince of her dreams. His arms surrounded her fully, and he kept her close to him, moulded along the length of his body, sharing his warmth and sweet scent of pinewood. When he released her, his feature held such a dreamy expression that she lifted her eyebrow inquisitively.

"Satisfied, my lord?"

"Very much, my lady. For now, all those men watching you have decided to contemplate their feet instead. A jewel you may be to the people of Gondor, but they cannot have you. You are my princess to spoil and cherish."

Had she not been crimson already, Frances would have blushed furiously. Princess, he had called her. And it all dawned on her. The title, the position, the expectations. But also the lifelong engagement he had taken when declaring his undying love. As terrifying as it was exciting. Stunned, Frances floated down the latest levels of Minas Tirith by her fiancé's side.

The confrontation with Aragorn went much smoother than expected. Overjoyed by their blossoming relationship, the ranger accepted Frances' apology, and hugged her fiercely as she stumbled over her words. The lines of his face were more relaxed than the previous day, probably smoothed by a good night's sleep.

"I am glad that you have made your choice. Both of you," he said while holding their hands in of his. "As for now, let us see how the Steward fares."

And up they went to the sixth level, to the houses of healing. Their joy made Aragorn's heart thump with anticipation. Not once since he laid eyes on the couple had Legolas released Frances' hand. As the climb took its toll on the lady's leg, he even carried her for a short while, ignoring her protests dissolved into laughter.

If the Prince of Greenwood the Great could find happiness with Frances, it might bode well for his own relationship with Arwen. It was but a fool's hope, but one nonetheless. The hope that they might all survive, and live to be husbands to their beloved. Their bliss was infectious, and it brought him some solace to, at last, witness something cheerful in those difficult times.

Before they reached the houses of Healing, a set of familiar voices caught the ranger's attention. Two cheerful hobbits were sitting in the garden, eating cakes, a silent steward sitting on a bench nearby. His shoulders were still hunched, testimony of the weight that had settled over his father's death. Still, he kept a little conversation with his friends.

"There is nothing like a good cake to lift up one's spirit," whispered Aragorn to the lovebirds.

He hoped that the high spirits could permeate Faramir's mood as well. The steward, ever alert, saw them coming first. Before he could stand, Aragorn lifted his hand to stop the motion.

"Do not rise, Faramir. Those who dwell in the houses of healing should be relieved of tedious protocol."

The steward had no time to answer, for Pippin had sprung to his feet and exclaimed:

"Strider! Frances and Legolas! What joy it is to see you all. Come, there is cake enough for all of us."

His infectious mood caught up with the group. But even more than the joy of the reunion, the ear-splitting grin from Merry made Aragorn's eyes twinkle. It was a far cry from the state he had left him two days ago. The hobbit's gaze was glued on the new couple, his keen sense of observation at once intrigued by their joined hands. Several times, he elbowed his cousin. Pippin would not have it; he was in the middle of recounting a childhood tale. But at last, he launched an exasperated look to his fellow hobbit.

"What! Tell me what you must before you break all my ribs! Have you lost your tongue Merry?"

Then Faramir's lips lifted, his eyes still filled with sorrow, by finding the heart to share a little mirth. Frances smiled at him, thankful that he tried, at last, to get better. She knew how hard it would be to keep his promise. Yet, he had ventured outside with the hobbits. This was, she thought, a good effort.

A strangled cry broke the moment, and Frances was suddenly lifted on her feet for a merry dance by the little hobbit.

"Finally! You have told her! How wonderful!"

Merry stated to clap his hands, singing a hobbit's songs while laughing altogether, and Pippin joined him for the chorus. Frances, trying to follow Pippin's pattern, was having more and more trouble doing so. She wanted to slap him, for managing too nicely and being able to sing at the same time. But his joy was infectious. Then, to their surprise, Aragorn's voice joined them, almost indiscernible such was his low pitch.

"How wonderful, that you know this song! Come Strider, dance with us! Frances is having trouble following."

"Of course, this is a mad dance for God's sake!" exclaimed the young lady.

The ranger chuckled, amused at the hobbit's antics, while Legolas laughed openly. His musical voice filled the garden, bright and joyful. Beside him, Aragorn shook his head with dignity.

"Nay Pippin. I have heard this song before, and will help gladly. But dancing a hobbit's dance I never could."

After a few mad rounds, Pippin ended up dancing on his own as Frances reclaimed her seat beside Legolas. The hobbit's steps were impossible for her to follow with her injured leg and she understood Aragorn's reluctance to make a fool of himself, especially in front of his steward. Said Steward was quite abashed at the display happening before his very eyes.

Even more so by the familiarity between the hobbit and his King. There was such freshness in their relationship, hope and laughter that had long left the halls of Minas Tirith. He saw the elf slide his arm around the lady's waist, his touch light but reassuring.

Faramir offered some congratulations, as did Merry, lips smiling but brows a little feverish. For an agonising half hour, the only subject of conversation was the light teasing of the two hobbits, recounting the tale of the elf and the lady, two stubborn minds who could not accept their mutual love. Eventually, Aragorn chuckled and, seeing the high state of agitation on Frances' face, decided to escort the wounded back to their rooms. But not before adding his own tease into the fray.

"If you want my opinion, my lord Faramir, the elf has walked more steps turning around Frances than we have since we departed Rivendell."

"Estel!" came Frances' scandalised shriek.

The steward almost laughed, amused by her disguised display of affection. The King was well loved indeed. But then, the elf rose and bent over him, stone faced. His stature seemed to grow at he levelled a glare to Aragorn.

"This will be repaid, mellon nin. It might not be today, nor tomorrow, nor the day after tomorrow. But when you expect it the less, I will have my revenge. A princely revenge"

And then he offered his arm to the lady Frances, and left, his steps slow and noble. Faramir's eyebrows shot up, his pain forgotten for the time being as he turned to the King.

"I am starting to understand some rumours. The elf certainly knows how to issue a threat."

The amused features of the King greeted him.

"Should I be the recipient of his wrath, I might even sell myself short. But do not worry, I am quite safe until he decides to share his outrage with my foster brothers. Altogether, they are bound to do some mischief."

As they left the garden, Frances saw a smirk bloom on Legolas's face.