Feä Bond (Legolas x OC)

The gift of protection

Less than an hour later, or so she thought, having no watch to indicate the time, Frances made her way to the caves. Goodbyes had been swift, the elf and the dwarf being quite busy with the preparations of the Hornburg's defence. Yet she had seen relief in the eldar's blue eyes. She left knowing that the three of them would watch over each other. Even if Gimli seemed invincible with his sturdy stature, the elf was the deadliest of the two. Blades twirling, fast blows, precise hits and agile as a cat. Surely the enemy could be deceived by his slender built. But Legolas Greenleaf, prince of the Woodland realm, was the most incredible warrior she had ever met.

How could he maintain this gentle composure while being so deadly? She could not fathom. It was probably beyond the grasp of any human to be able to reconcile those two opposite natures. Frances would herself oscillate between hardness and kindness, but not to this extent. Each time her blade had connected with an orc, she had winced in sympathy at killing a living being. And she was not as sensitive as Legolas about plants, trees and animal life. How he must long for peace! To witness evil being drained from the land he was born, to see the darkness of Dol Guldur leaving its forest! He had spoken of it once, the pain still raw in his eyes. Many years had passed since Greenwood had been called Greenwood the Great. But Legolas remembered it. He had told her so in the depth of Moria, regret filling his entire countenance.

When Frances reached the caves, she was surprised at their vastness. Had this impending battle not dampened her spirits, she would have marvelled at their sheer size. Everywhere, the spikes of calcite sparkled in the torches' light, the pillars crawling to the top, connecting with stalactites. The glittering caves bore their name well. They were utterly magnificent. The young lady walked on to find a free spot, passing Eowyn on the way. She did not even bother answering her interrogation properly, only humming something as the white lady of Rohan asked if she had been ordered to lay low. It was no use calling her wrath by telling her the choice was hers. She knew Eowyn had not been shown the same courtesy, and would find her cowardly.

People were terrified. Yet, mothers sung and smiled at their youngest children. Blond heads, hair astray, clung to them fiercely. Their eyes wide with angst, some stared at her with some kind of recognition. Frances smiled, head held high, pushing her anguish back into the depth of her belly. The children needed reassurance, and so did their mothers and grandmothers whose husbands and sons were, at the very same moment, probably taking their positions on the fortifications. How many of them would survive to leave the next day? To take their children and wives in their arms and kiss them?

Frances found an empty spot and sat down. For a long time she stayed there, a stranger among strangers, wishing with all her might that she could do something for them. No one dared approaching her. She was after all, the companion to a future King, a dwarf lord and an elven prince. She recognised some faces, people she had seen on the road. Most nodded to her before turning their eyes on the ground. She made them uneasy. And so she kept to herself. It was no use adding fuel to the fire. Her thoughts wandered to the fellowship, to Frodo and Sam who had left by themselves and shown extraordinary courage. To her companions fighting up there, to Boromir. May he watch over them from the spirit world!

Suddenly, the cries rose in the air. Tears and anguished yells. Frances unsheathed her blade, running to the entry point of the caves. They were quite some distance away, and she cursed herself for walking so far. The young woman leapt on the rocks, her feet light as feathers and she did what she knew best; running light-footed was a second nature.

The cries intensified, yet she could see no struggle. In the end, she realised what was happening. The soldiers of Rohan were collecting more men to fight. The elderly and children were removed from their family, calling for tears and grief. Frances refused to cry, but her chest was close to bursting. Kids passed her, maybe thirteen to fifteen of age, their face set in a resolved frown. They were many, at least sixty or so, and most of them refused to turn back. They feared losing their strength if they saw their mother's tears.