Physical therapy

Frances nearly collapsed, her bad leg threatening to buckle under the assaults of King Elessar.

"Duck!" cried Elrohir from the sidelines.

She spared him a glance, surprised to find some audience. What had started as a training session between her and Aragorn had gathered many authority figures; both Eomer and Imrahil had joined the circle, as well as some of his swan knights and higher-ranking officers of the army. People probably wanted to know how good their King was with a blade.

A bead of sweat ran down Frances' temple, both from the exertion, and the sudden attention. The young woman ignored how gross she felt in favour of evasion; she allowed her body to fall backwards, only to roll and shift the weight to her good leg for a parry.

Clank!

Metal met metal, and she twisted her hips to block Estel's blade to the side. She pushed with the momentum, and soon found herself in another precarious equilibrium, facing his greater bulk. Her lungs hurt as she heaved, the exhaustion of the day threatening to take over.

Only four days left before the confrontation with the Dark Lord. She couldn't afford to be sloppy. The twins had drilled some exercises into her mind, some routines she performed every time the army stopped. Fortunately, the pace of said army – six thousand men – afforded for longer breaks since Legolas or the twins allowed her to ride ahead with them.

To her surprise, though, Aragorn's relentless blade stilled as he nodded.

"Good," he said, sheathing his sword without flourish.

Frances' eyebrow rose.

"Good?"

The former ranger actually smiled. It was but a faint quirk of his lips, but his grey eyes crinkled at the corner, pride shining through. Frances' heart grew warm; now that he was King, Aragorn was so burdened by the responsibility that his expression was mostly grim. Fortunately, the grey company and the last members of the fellowship kept him busy, at night, around a campfire.

Frances swayed on her feet, cursing her weakness. Estel was at her side in an instant, but it wasn't his arms that kept her aloft. Legolas, bright and sturdy, had circled her waist. She addressed him a relieved smile, and the elf's chuckle tinkled in her ear.

"Don't look so surprised, meleth. You evaded most attacks, and avoided spraining your leg. A few more days and the memory muscle will do the rest."

The elf's presence shone like a beacon, brightening her whole world with the simple contact of his hand through the linen tunic. His previous words echoed in her mind. I could never fight you, he's said. Hence the reason why Estel had agreed to push her limits. The ranger seemed satisfied enough.

"Legolas is right," he confirmed. "You've done well."

The impromptu pep talk caused Frances to beam at the two companions, and she allowed Legolas to lead her to the side when Eomer issued a challenge to his new King.

"I have brandied my blade by your side, my lord. Would you allow for a friendly spar?"

Aragorn accepted the offer graciously, and what had started as an impromptu training session turned into a friendly set of duels. Eomer yielded to Estel with grace – the ranger had the privilege of many years and elvish training. It showed in their different styles; where Eomer used more brute force – sorely needed when charging on a warhorse – Aragorn fought with the grace of his brothers. How he managed to match them, with his human body and heavier build, was a mystery.

As Frances and Legolas settled on a boulder so she could catch her breath, Gimli joined them with his pipe and commented on the style and skills of all those who entered the fray. His coments were hilarious, but always to the point.

Soon enough, the mischievous twins offered to compete. The circle of volunteers drastically diminished, fear of the unknown stalling people's swords as the mighty lords taunted their preys. Eventually, Prince Imrahil drew his head high and, like the leader he was, bowed to Elladan.

"I shall be your opponent, my lord."

Frances watched, fascinated, this man who looked in his late fifties square off with Elladan.

Good choice, she thought.

Where Elrohir would have toyed with him in his joyful youth, Elladan respected the leader of Dol Amroth, and the trust he'd just laid at his feet. The tournament – even though unplanned – was a balm to frightened soldiers' hearts. They, who had seen their city crushed, their captains die and families slain, needed the reassurance that all those mighty lords would lead them.

And by stepping in, the Lord of Dol Amroth sought to reassure his own swan knights that he wasn't taking them to slaughter, away from their beloved shores. Elladan knew this, and downplayed his speed to deliver a beautifully crafted duel. Of course, the elf won; he couldn't possibly yield to a swordsman, especially an aging one. But the performance displayed both his and Prince Imrahil's skill in such a way that the swan knights cheered for their lord.

Frances reclined happily against Legolas' solid frame, watching when both opponents bowed with grace, a smile upon their lips. Then, Elrohir cockily sauntered into the tight circle of soldiers, and the young woman chuckled.

Who would dare going against him, now that Elladan had vanquished Prince Imrahil?

Whispers flew around the circle of soldiers as the younger twin lifted an eyebrow at his adopted brother. Estel gazed back at him, his grey eyes intense. Would the King take on the challenge? If he lost, would it dampen the moral, or be considered good sport?

Legolas shifted by her side, and she sent him a puzzled look. The elf only kissed her cheek, leaving a trail of fire in the wake of his lips before he sprang upon the boulder. In the dimming lights, his glow only seemed to intensify as he challenged the dark-haired elf.

"Let us make the field even, Lord Elrohir. We should be of like speed, if not of even skill."

The perfect, dark eyebrow climbed even higher upon the twin's forehead. An arch that dipped into a challenge, fire burning in his grey eyes. Frances suddenly shuddered; was it the loss of Legolas's warmth by her side, or the dark swirls that danced in Elrohir's gaze?

"Very well, Prince of Greenwood," he drawled, his voice dragging like a blade upon a whetstone.

Gimli grumbled something in Khuzdûl beside her, and the young woman swore she would ask him to teach her the language. As she nudged him, the dwarf turned to her.

"Don't fuss, lass. Yer princeling is more than adequate with his blades."

She only nodded, well aware that Legolas' knives were a weapon of choice. He may look like an angel, but he was the deadliest warrior she'd ever encountered … aside from the twins.

"So is Elrohir."

"He's taking his role as an older brother very seriously," the dwarf mused.

Frances gaped; is that what it was about? Was Elrohir really challenging Legolas because of their relationship? Dread suddenly coiled in her stomach, and she would have jumped to her feet had Gimli's meaty hand not clamped around her forearm.

"Leave it," he grumbled as Legolas twirled his blade. "A little foolishness is sometimes needed for us males."

Aghast, Frances felt her eyebrows shoot up.

"What?"

Both elves were circling, now. Blond and dark mane, equally silky, like day and night dancing around each other. A smirk tugged at Elrohir's narrow lips; that sneaky bastard!

"That prissy son of Elrond posed himself as your protector," Gimli explained. "Given your family's not here…"

A loud clang called Frances' attention back to the field; Legolas' twin knives held Elrohir's curved sword in their hold. The familiar hiss of metal sliding against metal followed Elrohir's impossible twist as he freed his blade, and retaliated. But Legolas was quick on his feet, and light as a feather. A son of both Sylvan and Sindarin descend, elfling born in the trees. Even on a flat, plane terrain, his body slithered like water descending a mountain.

The duel became a fierce battle where light and night intertwined, both elves so swift, so supple that the blows exchanged became too fast for the human eye to follow. Their feet barely touched the ground as they danced, deadly blades following in their wake. The young woman missed a heartbeat when Elrohir's sword descended upon Legolas' neck. She gasped; the sword missed by an inch, and Legolas' tinkling laugher reached her as he sprang behind her, using the boulder to perform a somersault backwards.

Frances shook her head when he landed behind Elrohir, twin knives at the ready. But the sneaky elf was already on his six, taunting him.

Did they need to beat the crap out of each other? Elrohir, to relinquish his hold as her protector? Legolas, to prove himself worthy to whomever represented authority? The suitor, presenting his respect to a father figure? The idea seemed strangely archaic … and yet, incredibly romantic.

The scuffle went on for a while until King Elessar intervened and decided on a draw. Both elves stilled, barely winded, and bowed before sheating their blades in the clearing, as beautiful as the stars, not a hair out of place. As if this fight had never happened. Whispers and cheers broke out on the ranks; smiles, laughter and renewed hope shone in the eyes of the soldiers.

None, until then, had seen elves fight. It must have seemed otherworldly, their skill unmatched. Invincible, even. Too bad it wasn't the case. But this, only the grey company and the fellowship knew.

Frances lifted her eyes to sky and smiled at the duellist's antics. As she stood and reached for them, Legolas grabbed Elrohir's forearm. The twin grinned. In his grey eyes shone acceptance, one look that said it all.

You are worthy.

Legolas welcomed the compliment with a hand over his heart.

Dinner was a merry affair, and Pippin's chatter about the song he would write of the mighty duel caused all present to chuckle. The hobbit had never seen the twins fight, and his dazed look told Frances he would never forget it.

As night settled, and the royal campfire slowly cleared of its occupants, Legolas grabbed Frances' hand and tugged.

"Walk under the stars with me."

Cheeks heating, she searched Aragorn's face, only for him to nod with a wistful look. He probably missed Arwen. How he managed not to begrudge them for their bliss when they all marched to death was a mystery; it only denoted what a great man the King was.

But when her arm was tucked in Legolas' elbow, all thoughts or the star-crossed lovers fled her mind. Only remained the hum of the elf's body close to hers, his all-engulfing presence soothing her mind while she allowed her body to feel.

His feet didn't produce a sound as he led her under the trees of northern Ithilien. Sure-footed, the part sylvan elf reverted to the ways of his people, mingling between bushes and leaves as if he'd been born in their midsts. No words were needed; she knew him, as he knew her, and they found their peace amongst the slow breathing of the forest.

Trees and plants welcomed them under the moon, the stars distant companions that shone through their burgeoning branches. Legolas bowed his supple body to caress a white flower, but he did not pluck it out.

"Spring has come," he whispered, his voice a melody. "The land is ready to awaken."

Frances nodded, realising that nature, itself, counted on them. She had overlooked the needs of the lands in favour of the people. After travelling for so long, defending hobbits, Rohirrims and Gondorians, people of Dol Amroth or Dunlendings, she had failed at considering that the very soil needed their help just as much as the humans that lived off it.

Sheepish, she nibbled on her lower lip. Is that what it meant to be an elf? To see the bigger picture, the needs of humans, animals and plants alike? To feel the earth breathe, and help maintain its balance?

Legolas twisted aside to face her, his knuckles grazing her cheek. Soft skin and feather like touch caused her eyes to close. She felt him loom over her frame, the hum of his body more intense as he approached her like he would a skittish animal. His breath caressed her face; her heart stuttered when soft lips replaced his fingers over her cheekbone.

Would she ever get used to this? She doubted it … the whole of his presence was so overwhelming that she felt winded. Then, when she thought she was about to die altogether, he kissed her. His soft lips tentatively caressed hers, silky strands of his hair billowing around her face, settling over her naked collarbone. Frances sighed, her whole body melting into the kiss. His fingers crept over her nape, encasing it in a warm hold while his other arm snaked around her waist.

A warrior's touch, not unkind, but unwilling to relinquish its greatest treasure. The tension fled away and her body sagged. Pressed against his sturdy form, Frances allowed all worries to flee her busy mind. Legolas was in no hurry to break their kiss, and she suddenly found herself wishing for more.

Daringly, her tongue darted out of her mouth to caress his lips. The elf froze, and for a moment, she thought he was going to pull away and call her a wanton woman. His hold only tightened when he plunged with renewed vigour into the hot cavern of her mouth, a discreet moan rumbling at the back of her throat. He felt so good, it was like going home after travelling thousands of miles into the desert. His scent, pine trees and exotic spices surrounded her entirely, and she wondered if her heart would stop altogether.

Eventually, Legolas pulled away. And even though it was night, the glow his body emitted told her he was flustered. Slowly, cautious hand framed her cheeks, and he dipped his forehead against hers. Deep, blue eyes captured hers and for a moment, all was well in the world. Eventually, he released a stuttering sigh and smiled.

"Come, meleth. I haven't stolen you to ravish you."

Rouge crept up her cheeks in embarrassment.

"Sor…"

A finger sealed her lips.

"Do not apologise for being so deliriously delicious."

The blush only intensified, and she knew he could see it under the silver light of the moon.

"I came across hot springs as I scouted the area," he added, eyes twinkling. "I surmised you might enjoy a bath after such a strenuous session."

"Oh!" she only said, unable to express the joy the simple idea of hot water caused her.

I am a stammering fool.

The elf gave her a knowing smile, and gathered her in his arms as he took off running.

"It is some distance away," he explained as she clung to his supple body. The ride wasn't as uncomfortable as it should be; Legolas ran like the wind, unhindered by her weight, footsteps sure and even. She watched the shadows dance over his silvery hair, enthralled by the sharp line of his jaw as much as the depth of his deep blue eyes, the irises almost turning grey in the moonlight.

Eventually, the smell of water hit her nose and Legolas set her down, offering his hand to help her up onto a set of heavy boulders. The loss of his body heat created a pang of regret in her heart, soon replaced by awe as she took in the scenery.

Plumes of smoke rose from a hearty stream, its heated water kissing the landscape as it slithered in between rocky outcrops. Large trees secluded the place from the rest of the forest, creating an intimate space. The resurgence came from the Ephel duath – a volcanic mountain range – and ran freely along the slopes.

Frances smiled, the memory of building rocky dams in mountain streams vivid in her mind. Her elder brother always constructed the best ones, meticulous and relentless, until the river grew and went overboard. Here, a small pool had been conveniently created with large rocks. Better, even, than running water and a bathtub. This was a little piece of paradise.

The young woman grabbed Legolas' hand and kissed his knuckles.

"Thank you, Legolas. This place is wonderful."

"I thought this would please you. I'm glad."

Suddenly, Frances realised she had no change of clothes. Did he actually expect her to bathe naked.

"Legolas…", she started.

"Go ahead, meleth. Keep your shift, I shall lend you my tunic once you're done."

Pursing her lips, Frances debated on the matter. Never, in her life, had she crossed paths with a lake, a stream of any sea without diving in. The idea of hot springs simply seemed divine. And so she shed her amour, trusting the long tunic to hide her form. Jerkins and pants joined the pile of leather upon a rock, and she slid her hands into the braid to attempt to tame the mass of reddish curls.

Legolas watched the repetitive movement, his eyes taking her in. So beautiful, only caressed by the light of the moon, slender fingers sliding in and out of her mane. She was an enchantress, and his heart was full to bursting. His eyes didn't linger past the hem of her tunic; he was too respectful to even consider it. This place – this piece of paradise – was an offering to soothe her aches.

He'd be damned if he allowed his inner desires to spoil this moment. And, even though she had awakened a different need that pulsed in his veins, Legolas would not give in. He would bind his soul to her with awe and respect whenever she wished it. Now was not the time.